On miracles

I posted at the Young Adult Catholics blog today about the issue that has been dominating my personal life throughout the month of September; while I was at the book release party I mentioned in my previous post, my grandmother was busy accomplishing miracles. I wrote about it in One Miracle, One Thousand Lessons.

Why I Write: Because I’m Not Always Brave

Last night, I posted Ask Any Scientist! to Young Adult Catholics. The post argues against using “science” as a justification of homophobia. I knew as I was conceiving of, writing, and publishing the post that I was more likely to get flamed for it than to get support, as the commenters most active on that blog are those who like to pick it apart. My tone was a little more snarky than usual (homilies against same-sex marriage tend to bring out the snark in me), and even when I take the least offensive tone possible, my posts about women’s ordination and just treatment of GLBTQ individuals always get flamed.

For a moment, this made me wonder if making the post was worth it at all. Because I get weary of having people rail at me as if I’m a terrible person because I disagree with what my institution dictates that I believe. It always feels like a personal attack, as my Catholicism (and my feminism, and my bisexuality) are all core facets of my identity, so that attacking any one of these things feels like you’re attacking me and not an idea. I am Catholic. I am a feminist. I am bisexual. These are not ideas. These are the realities of living in my skin. I’m sorry if my reality is offensive to you (actually, I’m not. But I am sorry that I can’t live out my reality and speak my truth in peace, when doing so isn’t hurting anyone.)

Sure enough, the first comment I got on my post was one comparing my argument to the reasoning that eugenicists use. Often, I don’t even respond to these comments because it’s draining, and these people are never interested in dialogue. This time, I did respond. Whether I have the energy to continue the conversation remains to be seen.

Last night as I was deciding whether to go through with the post or not, two things pushed me forward. One was my deadline. I didn’t want to miss it, nor did I want to switch gears at the last minute when I’d struggled most of the day deciding on a topic to begin with. But the second reason was by far the more important one: I wondered, if we are not able to write about what we truly believe, if we are not able to write from our core, even when what’s at our core is pain or embarrassment or snarkiness or fear, then what good is writing at all? If I allow fear to start dominating my writing, then I lose a certain amount of integrity as a writer. And sometimes, my writing self is the one place where I feel my integrity remains intact.

Because here’s the truth: I let fear dominate my actions in real-life far too often. Although I write about being bisexual, there are still people I’m not “out” to in my real life. As my marriage to a man approaches, there are hundreds of people who I know now and will know in the future who will never see me as anything but straight, and I don’t go out of my way to correct them. Last week, I bit my tongue in response to two homophobic remarks. Both times, I rationalized my silence based on “professionalism” (since both happened within a work context.) Both times, I knew why I really remained silent: fear. Fear of being uncomfortable. Fear of having my professionalism compromised. Fear of “forcing” my ideas on others. Fear of many things, but ultimately, just plain old fear nonetheless.

Obviously, I don’t try to hide that hard. The Internet is not exactly a private place, and publishing is not exactly a private act. I know that a quick Google search could lay bare the many things I don’t always talk about in my day-to-day life. So I do consider this writing, knowing there could be offline repercussions, as an act of bravery. But sometimes, my writing feels like the only place in my life where I live up to the type of bravery and honesty I value. And that’s why it’s so important to keep doing it.

Writers: Top-Notch Daydreamers

In the February 2011 issue of Writers Digest (yes, I’m months and even years behind on my writing periodicals), David Morrell writes about paying attention to your daydreams for writing inspiration. He says:

Daydreams are our primal storytellers at work, sending us scenes and topics that our imagination or subconscious wants us to investigate.

I love this idea of daydreams being something of a “wiser force” that knows what topics we need to delve more deeply into. Like most writers, daydreams are as crucial to the life of my writing as water is to the life of my body. In fact, I was a top-notch daydreamer long before I became a dedicated writer. And it was a desire not to lose these daydreams that led me to scribbling random scenes in my journal; a desire to spend more time in these daydreams that made bedtime my favorite time of day, when I could go deeply, and uninterrupted, into those daydreams.

In my past, daydreams were far more than a “pre-writing” tool, though. They were a coping mechanism. I escaped into them when I was teased at school, when I was an insomniac teenager frustrated by too many hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling, when I was walking beans under the summer sun, when I was mowing lawns, and, later, driving the hundreds of miles between the cities where I lived and the country where my family lived. In many ways, my writing was a mere byproduct of these daydreams, perhaps even a justification for them. I don’t always love writing, but I’ve always welcomed daydreams with open arms.

Perhaps too open, at times. Because until about five years ago, I preferred all those daydreams to my waking life, and my waking life was quickly drifting away from me. When a personal cataclysm broke my daydreams wide open, I had to find ways to integrate myself back into the real world. This was terrifying for me, as I feared that fully embracing my real life would mean sacrificing my daydreams, and perhaps, in turn, my creativity and my writing. And without those traits, I wasn’t quite sure who I was. What in the world would my mind do, without all those daydreams?

I started listening to audiobooks to fill the void, and I started thinking about my own life. Daydreaming about my past, and my potential futures. When my daydreams centered around me and not imaginary people and events, I started to feel self-centered — but I let it happen, anyway. The daydreams about my life began to interweave with new ways of examining my experiences. The line between fiction and fact became blurred again, with one distinct difference: I was using imagination to integrate and make sense of my life, not to hide from it.

Back when I spent a significant amount of time and consciousness hiding from my own life, I was afraid that truly embracing said life would make all those beautiful, tantalizing daydreams disappear. Would the falling in love of my dreams ever shine as brightly after I’d fallen in love with a real person, and dealt with all the real-world complications that went with it? Could I really confine myself to living just one life?

I could, and I did, and I’m ever-grateful for it. Sometimes, I still drift off to imaginary places and spend hours in the company of imaginary people. But these daydreams no longer tempt me to shut out reality. Now, the daydreams feel like welcome, inspiring little vacations or retreats–after which it’s always comforting to come home, no matter how lovely it was to be away.

And as for my writing? I think it’s only better for having tethered it a little more tightly to reality. I love daydreams, and I love living my life, but what I love most of all is knowing I really can have both.

Where I’m Writing . . . and Where I’m not

Dialog and posts have unfortunately declined on the Young Adults Catholic blog in the past year or so. The blog is completely run by volunteer editors and writers, and it’s no surprise that all of us have pretty busy lives. I’ve been doing pretty well at keeping my posting commitments, and I uploaded a new post today about forgiveness (fitting, as Yom Kippur is right around the corner). Unfortunately, the last post uploaded was also by me, which makes it feel a bit like a “Lacey Blog” and also means it hasn’t seen any new material for two weeks.

Luckily, we do have a few new blog writers in the wings. BUT if you know anyone who is Catholic and progressive, or even vaguely Catholic (raised Catholic, considering conversion, Catholic-curious, etc.), send them over to nextgen-blog@cta-usa.org. Although CTA 20/30 is a progressive organization for Catholics in their 20s and 30s, it’s open to a pretty wide range of Catholic-esque perspectives, as long as said perspectives are respectful and open to dialog.

I’ve also recently finished writing a bit of a closeted blog I’d kept about my transition moving from Duluth to rural Minnesota. Because I wanted the opportunity to explore potentially personal topics, I never made the link very public, and I’m not doing so now, either. But it seemed appropriate to mark that blog’s passing here, too, as this is another topic-specific blog that I devoted myself to for a year and then eased up on. Although I’m keeping this blog’s doors open indefinitely, I’m going to try to take a break from opening any new “themed blogs” and keep my writing focus on my novels and existing journals — including my trusty, dusty Livejournal that I’ve kept since 2002.

Another Niche Opportunity

I just came across this Call for Essays for a book about being single and Catholic. The deadline is April 30, which is very close, but the essay length is 500 words or less. Something that could be whipped up in a hurry and still adequately revised in 6 weeks time. The call includes a list of provocative questions to get the juices flowing, too.

I’m not sure if I’m qualified to submit to this market right now, since I’m newly (and unexpectedly) in love and spending much more time pondering relationships than singlehood these days. Even so, I want to say THANK GOD that this book is being written. As someone who has been Catholic since they day I was born (or maybe baptized?) and single for most of my adult life, I’m all-too-aware of the invisibility singles experience in Church settings. I attended church alone for years, and never once did anyone approach me to learn who I was. All the “women’s” events at my parish were really events for wives and mothers. And despite living a very full and fulfilling life, I couldn’t always keep the insecurity of somehow being “less than” at bay (less pretty? less mature? less compassionate? or the big fear lurking at everyone’s core — less lovable?).

This book will be like water in a desert to Catholic, perhaps all, singles. And ultimately, that’s what’s most precious to me about books, and writing: the ability they have to make us feel less alone. When I speak to teenagers for my library job, I often assure them that, no matter what they’re experiencing and how alone it makes them feel, there’s probably a book written about it — proof that someone else has been there, has thought about it. When it comes to this issue, I have been there, and I’m so glad that someone is writing about it.

Step One, Intimacy; Step Two, Distance

I’d like to follow up on yesterday’s post about the vulnerability of putting a lot of “yourself” into your writing. I think that the blurred boundary between self and characters during the writing process is incredibly beneficial. Why would you keep returning to these characters again and again if you weren’t personally invested in them? If you think of them as extensions of yourself, or as your “children,” the thought of neglecting them is rather painful, immoral, even. This is all good. It also ties into my advocacy of honest writing. If you’re truly being honest, sharing your work is going to feel a little scary, whether it’s a first draft of a novel or a letter to the editor.

This kind of intimacy and blurred boundaries are less healthy when revising. That’s why part two of my advice is this: when the first draft’s been written, allow yourself distance. Accept the reality that those characters are NOT you, nor are they your children. When someone doesn’t like what you’ve written, or when a writing buddy does an honest critique — good, bad, and ugly — they are not disliking or criticizing you. Just as a child must “grow up” and learn to differentiate herself from her parents, your writing must “grow up” to exist without you.

So rather than get defensive when someone says something seems unbelievable (“What do you mean?!? That’s how it really happened!!”) or when someone points out that a character comes across as whiny (“What?!? I am NOT a whiner!!!”), take a step back. Don’t jump in to defend yourself or your character-extension-of-self. Let the critique settle with you–it will point you to the truths you might have been too close to the situation to see. Just as the “customer is always right,” the “reader is often right.” Sure, you’ll get readers here and there who clearly want something totally different than what you’ve written, and you have to take their feedback with a grain of salt. Yes, as the writer, you have the ultimate say over what you’ll change and what you won’t (I know I’ve certainly dug my heels in on certain points). But if the reader is telling you she doesn’t buy it, listen. And listen well.

At the end of the Mary Sue Litmus Test, there’s a question that asks, “Do you think of your characters more like tools than like friends/children?” This question has stuck with me since I first read it. Yes, think of your characters as friends and children to motivate you to spend SO much time with them. But after the initial draft, remember that they ultimately are tools, to be wielded and refined as you see fit, for that all-important task of telling your story.

Your Words, Your Soul

I was never  one of those writers who was shy about sharing my work. I knew I was a good writer, and I wanted other people to know it, too. Perhaps it was because fantasy was the first genre I wrote in seriously; you can write about yourself via fantasy as well as you can write about yourself in any genre, but it’s much easier to disguise. My first novel was completely about me not fitting in at school, although I didn’t consciously realize that at the time. I just thought I was writing a novel about a girl who was kidnapped and taken far from everything she loved. This subconscious use of metaphor has kept me from that vulnerable feeling a lot of writers get when they share their work, that feeling that they’re “putting their soul” out there.

But the more I wrote, the closer I got to exploring what was really close to my heart. Until last month, it finally happened: I ended up writing an “autobiographical” novel.

I used to always wonder about authors who did that. I could understand using your own life as material, but it had never seemed to work for me. Nothing in my life seemed interesting enough, and with your own life, you have SO much material that I didn’t know how you’d decide where the memories ended and the fiction began. When I first got the idea for the novel I just ‘finished’ in November, I didn’t know how much it would be about me. It’s still speculative fiction, so metaphor still figures prominently, and the parts of the story that came to me first were the parts that are not autobiographical. But as I continued to chip away at the story, looking for the proper catalyst for the events I wanted to write about, I realized that my memories were enough. I was going to go for it.

I meet with my writers’ group this Thursday, which means I sent the beginning of this draft to them last Thursday. There have been times in the past when I’ve felt nervous about whatever I was submitting for the month, but never have I felt the kind of fear I felt last Thursday. It’s a good thing I’ve been with this group for years, because when I hit ‘send’, I knew I wasn’t just trusting them with my words; I was trusting them with my soul. (But I still anticipate an honest critique — this will be the first, very necessary, chance for someone to take the crowbar and pry me away from the story, so that the REAL work can begin.)

Pay Attention to Your Dreams

Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid it made you question reality for a bit? Or one that lodged so deeply in your gut that you felt sure it was telling you SOMETHING, that maybe, just maybe, it might even be prophetic? And have you ever noticed that no one else seems to get what a big deal this dream was when you relate it?

I hate to break it to you, but most people only find their own dreams interesting. And why shouldn’t we? Not only are they all about us, but they can sometimes give us insight into things we didn’t know we knew. But I do advise refraining from relating your long, crazy dreams to your friends and coworkers; I think we’ve all had the experience of feeling our mind glaze over when someone begins a sentence with,  “Once I had this dream that . . .” (Exception to this rule: people like hearing about themselves. If you had a dream that your best friend shaved her head and moved to Madagascar, by all means, let her know!)

The funny thing is, the things people often find dull or boring in conversation can be endlessly fascinating on the page. So while you shouldn’t tell everyone your every dream, don’t let them go to waste, either.

I’m a strong proponent of writing vivid dreams down first thing in the morning; usually they’ve lost their impact by lunchtime. Writing them down not only allows you to hold onto that otherwordly experience, but it also helps you untangle the delightfully twisted symbolism of your psyche. AND writing down your dreams makes you more likely to remember your future dreams, and believe me, you want to keep those dreams coming. It’s not just that it’s darn interesting to be the star of your own art film every night — dreaming, even nightmares, are healthy for you. One study conducted on people who suffered from depression discovered that those who dreamed vividly and remembered those dreams were more likely to recover from depression, even without the help of therapy or medication. Some mental health professionals even believe that we would go crazy without the nightly unraveling of our unconscious.

But what does all this have to do with writing? Dreaming is a lot like reading: it can suck you in so deeply  that you don’t even think of coming up for air. And when it’s over, you can ache to go back or breathe a sigh of relief that you can return to your regularly scheduled life. And in both cases, you’re left with the uncanny feeling that you have definitely experienced something phenomenal and you’ve come away changed–even if the rest of the world doesn’t understand that it happened.

Because of this, your dreams can make an almost seamless transition into your writing. Although people don’t want to hear about your dreams every morning, they’ll be happy to read them disguised as poetry, fiction, or music — because if done right, these venues don’t just “relate” the experience. They make the receiver a participant in the experience.

One of my recent novels was inspired by a dream that later became a scene in it; the queer SF short story that finally began taking root in my mind was also inspired by a dream I had months ago (and I knew I should do SOMETHING with that dream, though I couldn’t imagine what at the time). Stephanie Meyer claims that a dream that later became Chapter 13 of Twilight inspired the whole series (love or hate the books — and I’ll refrain from telling you my stance on them — you can’t deny that she must feel pretty satisfied that she didn’t let that dream go to waste).

Whenever I write something inspired by a dream, I feel as if I’m “cheating,” because I didn’t “really” make that up. But if I didn’t make it up, who did? All art is really a connection to the subconscious anyway, and you might as well take advantage of the movies that play exclusively in your mind. So dream big.

Let’s Get Personal

The essay I wrote for Bi-Women, “Kids Keep me Kloseted,” will be published in the December newsletter and possibly online. The irony that I’m publishing a piece about being closeted is not lost on me. As I was polishing the article earlier this week, I had a quick moment of panic, in which I thought, I can’t submit this, followed by, I WILL submit it, and if it gets accepted, I’ll ask to use a pen name. (It’s not actually as juicy as all that. If it does go up online, I’ll link it here so you can be wildly disappointed).

I got an email yesterday from the editor asking how I’d like my name to appear in the print and online version. The moment of truth.

I just sent my response. I’m using my real name.

But this does bring up an issue that most writers — and I would say ALL writers who write from their deepest truth — face at some point. If your novel is based on your childhood, will you have to edit the characters your family and friends might recognize? If you’re writing a tell-all memoir, can you really tell-all? How “personal” should you get in a personal essay?

My answer? Don’t let anything keep you from your Truth, even if it doesn’t make other people look pretty. Even if it does air some dirty laundry. Even if it does express your opinions and secrets and passions in a way you’d never dare to do out loud.

But what if Aunt Ethel picks it up, and makes the connection that you think she smells like pickle juice, and never sends you a birthday card again?

That, my friends, is a very good problem to have. Because that means you’ve been published.

All writers deal with this a little differently. Annie Dillard shows her memoirs and essays to everyone mentioned before she publishes them (which some of my professors thought made her a “sell out” of sorts; I don’t agree). Some people use pen names. Others probably disguise or cut more than we could ever possibly know; most of what we see, after all, is on the other side of publication.

When you’re writing your first few drafts, don’t let anything interfere with your honesty. What you write doesn’t have to be accurate (did Mom really always favor Sis over you?), but it has to be true (why yes, it certainly felt that way). A writer’s truth is not a scientist’s truth. You know it when you feel it, and as hard as it is to put to paper (or screen), you wouldn’t be a writer if you weren’t willing to be that bold.

Right now, the novel I’m writing for NaNoWriMo (of which I wrote a whole big, fat, 0 words today!) is more heavily based on my own childhood than anything I’ve written before. It’s still fiction. I stretch the truth all over the place. But there are a lot of pieces in there my family and childhood friends would recognize. And letting them read this novel could get a little messy.

And that is a problem for another day. Now, my job is to write, and to write as boldly and truthfully as I can. Eventually, I’ll submit. And if publication ever becomes a real possibility, then I will re-examine the very hard question about whether I can dare to put a piece so heavy with my own truth out there. I am very much looking forward to facing that very hard question again and again. In the meantime, I’ll continue to practice being bold, in preparation.