Busted! Now the world knows who the real writer is.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Good vs Evil - Getting Unstuck
Sometimes you get stuck. You like the story. You know it's one you can write but every time you tackle it, you seem to get a little more stuck. It's as if the story is on the other side of a thick glass door – you can see it but you're not getting through.
What to do? Should you bail on the whole project? I say only as a last resort. For one thing, throwing out ideas is kind of like breaking promises to yourself. Do it enough and your creativity will become suspicious of your intentions. Stories come to those who welcome them. Turn too many away and they will know you can't be trusted.
Try this instead. If you really believe the story is there and you just can't get a handle on it, try writing out a list of Good and Evil.
On the Good side, list all of the things you want to see in the book. Don't censor yourself. Don't be afraid of being too specific, too general or too juvenile. For example, for my current work-in-progress, my list includes such mastermind desires as "cool con man tricks" and "a really nefarious plot for the bad guys." I know what you're thinking – that's probably exactly what Faulkner and Dostoevsky aimed for too. Hey, this isn't the finished product. It's what you would really love to see in your story. (I have a few things on the list about my main character's inner journey as well, don't worry. I'm not a total mental four year old.)
The wisdom of being broad and optimistic on the Good side reveals itself when you start writing the Evil side. The Evil list contains all the fears, concerns and dreads you worry are keeping your story in the shadows. Don't include any "real world" stuff, like your boss commandeering your time or the prohibitive price of printer ink. This is just story time. My Evil list includes fears that my main character won't prove she has the chops to fight the bad guys; that the aforementioned nefarious plot will be obvious or threadbare; that I won't adequately express the coolness of the con man tricks.
The end result? By specifically listing the desired elements, I could focus on the fun I want to have writing this story. The Evils were all just fears of "not doing," easily conquered by, well, doing. My story felt stuck because I was holding back on the Good things, doling them out with a stingy hand as if too much of a Good thing would be dangerous.
Good vs Evil – If you're stuck in your story, try breaking it down to the basics. What would be on your list?
What to do? Should you bail on the whole project? I say only as a last resort. For one thing, throwing out ideas is kind of like breaking promises to yourself. Do it enough and your creativity will become suspicious of your intentions. Stories come to those who welcome them. Turn too many away and they will know you can't be trusted.
Try this instead. If you really believe the story is there and you just can't get a handle on it, try writing out a list of Good and Evil.
On the Good side, list all of the things you want to see in the book. Don't censor yourself. Don't be afraid of being too specific, too general or too juvenile. For example, for my current work-in-progress, my list includes such mastermind desires as "cool con man tricks" and "a really nefarious plot for the bad guys." I know what you're thinking – that's probably exactly what Faulkner and Dostoevsky aimed for too. Hey, this isn't the finished product. It's what you would really love to see in your story. (I have a few things on the list about my main character's inner journey as well, don't worry. I'm not a total mental four year old.)
The wisdom of being broad and optimistic on the Good side reveals itself when you start writing the Evil side. The Evil list contains all the fears, concerns and dreads you worry are keeping your story in the shadows. Don't include any "real world" stuff, like your boss commandeering your time or the prohibitive price of printer ink. This is just story time. My Evil list includes fears that my main character won't prove she has the chops to fight the bad guys; that the aforementioned nefarious plot will be obvious or threadbare; that I won't adequately express the coolness of the con man tricks.
The end result? By specifically listing the desired elements, I could focus on the fun I want to have writing this story. The Evils were all just fears of "not doing," easily conquered by, well, doing. My story felt stuck because I was holding back on the Good things, doling them out with a stingy hand as if too much of a Good thing would be dangerous.
Good vs Evil – If you're stuck in your story, try breaking it down to the basics. What would be on your list?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
7 New Year Resolutions
Who am I to not make New Year's Resolutions?
1. Stay the course. Yeah, my first resolution is an affirmation of the path I have already blazed in my life. (Let's start with the positive, shall we?) If ever there was a year that I stuck to my plan and stuck to my guns, 2010 was it.
2. Remember the lessons learned. Really. Those plans I stuck with? It wasn't easy and it took more than one false start. Don't be afraid to refer back to the writing journal to see where those pitfalls lay. This life is an open-book test.
3. Go another step out. If I pushed myself in 2010 to write better, more often and with more courage, let me take it a step farther in 2011. Maybe I won't up my word count but I can up my daring. I can take bigger chances with my plots and characters.
4. Work on new story ideas. I love to lose myself in a story. Blessedly I'm not afflicted (yet) with the urge to start a new story when my current story gets tough. The other side of that coin, however, is that when one story is done, I don't immediately start my next one. Maybe it's just how I write. But this year, I'm keeping a story file, with clippings and notes and fragments of story ideas so that when my current WIP is completed, I at least have something to poke through.
5. Try at least one new writing outlet. Currently I write novels and a short column for a quarterly magazine. This year I'm going to write something new – short stories, poetry, longer non-fiction. And submit it. Repeatedly, if necessary.
6. Connect with more writers. I love my writing community on Twitter, Yahoo and Facebook, as well as the WV Writers. This year, I'm heading to Matera, Italy for some new brainstorming ground. More writers mean more ideas, more encouragement, more inspiration. Find ways to be helpful.
7. Dare to suck. I'm polishing my Italian, working on my pathetic chess skills, dusting off my paintbrushes. This is just the beginning. It's a big world out there and I don't have to be the best to have the best time. If we only do what we're good at, we'll never know what we're capable of.
There, seven is a good number. I can live with it. How about you? Anything on here ring a bell with you? What would you add?
1. Stay the course. Yeah, my first resolution is an affirmation of the path I have already blazed in my life. (Let's start with the positive, shall we?) If ever there was a year that I stuck to my plan and stuck to my guns, 2010 was it.
2. Remember the lessons learned. Really. Those plans I stuck with? It wasn't easy and it took more than one false start. Don't be afraid to refer back to the writing journal to see where those pitfalls lay. This life is an open-book test.
3. Go another step out. If I pushed myself in 2010 to write better, more often and with more courage, let me take it a step farther in 2011. Maybe I won't up my word count but I can up my daring. I can take bigger chances with my plots and characters.
4. Work on new story ideas. I love to lose myself in a story. Blessedly I'm not afflicted (yet) with the urge to start a new story when my current story gets tough. The other side of that coin, however, is that when one story is done, I don't immediately start my next one. Maybe it's just how I write. But this year, I'm keeping a story file, with clippings and notes and fragments of story ideas so that when my current WIP is completed, I at least have something to poke through.
5. Try at least one new writing outlet. Currently I write novels and a short column for a quarterly magazine. This year I'm going to write something new – short stories, poetry, longer non-fiction. And submit it. Repeatedly, if necessary.
6. Connect with more writers. I love my writing community on Twitter, Yahoo and Facebook, as well as the WV Writers. This year, I'm heading to Matera, Italy for some new brainstorming ground. More writers mean more ideas, more encouragement, more inspiration. Find ways to be helpful.
7. Dare to suck. I'm polishing my Italian, working on my pathetic chess skills, dusting off my paintbrushes. This is just the beginning. It's a big world out there and I don't have to be the best to have the best time. If we only do what we're good at, we'll never know what we're capable of.
There, seven is a good number. I can live with it. How about you? Anything on here ring a bell with you? What would you add?
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Mental Compost Heap
Okay so you might have noticed a slight gap in my posts. I'll give you the five cent tour of events: started a story, changed the story, changed it again, changed it back, started a new one, was told to go back to old one, banged head against wall and chucked it all. Started an entirely new project that roared to life like it was born in jet fuel and consumed three solid months of my life. A happy ending, yes?
Yes and no.
I'm thrilled with the finished manuscript, a thriller titled FLOWERTOWN. (More on that later.) When I had finished the edits, however, I noticed a distinct absence of words in my head. The writers among us know how unnerving that can be. There was no next story chattering, no characters nagging, no plot threads weaving through my now resting mind. The silence was only compounded by the diagnosis of nodules on my vocal cords that required me to stop talking, and therefore working, for two weeks. Now that, my friends, is silence.
What had happened? I looked back over the past months and saw how I had spent four solid months: working, writing, coughing, working, coughing, coughing, writing, working, writing, writing, coughing. And coughing some more.
Notice anything missing? READING.
Somehow amid all the creating and coughing and mundane work I had let the habit of reading slip away. As impossible as it seems, I had used up all my words.
And so, with two quiet uninterrupted weeks (and I won't lie, that didn't suck) I began to read. I read everything I could get my hands on: Steig Lawson, Robert Charles Wilson, Lawrence Block, Harlan Coben, Barbara Kingsolver, recipes for sour cherry chicken, Paris Review, a can of fried onions, CD liner notes. If it was printed I read it. As the stories, facts and delicious serving suggestions went in, I could feel the words, the styles, the phrases, the images, peeling off and piling up in that part of my mind that I mine for inspiration.
I've come to think of it as mental compost, the natural process of breaking down all the organic compounds of the world around us, especially those in the written word, into a thick, loamy fertile pile of goodness into which the next seed of an idea can burrow, sprout and become a living thing. I can already feel the heat and life returning to that overly tapped part of my brain, can feel it being replenished.
Have you ever run out of words? Or worked the words you have so hard that they become dry, sterile things? I've learned a valuable lesson. This garden I call my mind, as bizarre as it can be sometimes, needs a steady supply of mental compost. Now when I let my mind lay fallow for a month or two, I know all this reading is just replenishing the soil.
Yes and no.
I'm thrilled with the finished manuscript, a thriller titled FLOWERTOWN. (More on that later.) When I had finished the edits, however, I noticed a distinct absence of words in my head. The writers among us know how unnerving that can be. There was no next story chattering, no characters nagging, no plot threads weaving through my now resting mind. The silence was only compounded by the diagnosis of nodules on my vocal cords that required me to stop talking, and therefore working, for two weeks. Now that, my friends, is silence.
What had happened? I looked back over the past months and saw how I had spent four solid months: working, writing, coughing, working, coughing, coughing, writing, working, writing, writing, coughing. And coughing some more.
Notice anything missing? READING.
Somehow amid all the creating and coughing and mundane work I had let the habit of reading slip away. As impossible as it seems, I had used up all my words.
And so, with two quiet uninterrupted weeks (and I won't lie, that didn't suck) I began to read. I read everything I could get my hands on: Steig Lawson, Robert Charles Wilson, Lawrence Block, Harlan Coben, Barbara Kingsolver, recipes for sour cherry chicken, Paris Review, a can of fried onions, CD liner notes. If it was printed I read it. As the stories, facts and delicious serving suggestions went in, I could feel the words, the styles, the phrases, the images, peeling off and piling up in that part of my mind that I mine for inspiration.
I've come to think of it as mental compost, the natural process of breaking down all the organic compounds of the world around us, especially those in the written word, into a thick, loamy fertile pile of goodness into which the next seed of an idea can burrow, sprout and become a living thing. I can already feel the heat and life returning to that overly tapped part of my brain, can feel it being replenished.
Have you ever run out of words? Or worked the words you have so hard that they become dry, sterile things? I've learned a valuable lesson. This garden I call my mind, as bizarre as it can be sometimes, needs a steady supply of mental compost. Now when I let my mind lay fallow for a month or two, I know all this reading is just replenishing the soil.
Monday, July 5, 2010
3 Ways to Get Unstuck
We've all been at that point where you know, long term, where the story is going but between you and long-term, there is a vast wasteland of white page and you can't get word one written. What to do? Here are three things that might work.
1.Get to the action.
Right to it. Your current chapter ends with the action looming on the horizon and you're dying to get to it but there's all this other "stuff" that has to be explained and set-up and prepared before you get there. You know what? You're probably going to wind up cutting all that stuff anyway, so why not skip it now? Get to the part you're dying to write. Now, I'm not a fan of writing the action scenes and stitching them together because those winding paths between high points can take you in some interesting directions, but if you're itching for action, your reader probably is too.
2.Start a conversation.
When you're stuck in a plot line, your wheels tend to spin. You want forward motion but everywhere you look is nothing but mud and walls and plot-drop cliffs. Your characters are standing around looking nervous and/or bored wondering why you're not letting them do what they want to do. Ask them. Put two characters together and let them start talking. See what's on their mind. I once discovered the reason a scene was stalled out was because a secondary character was seriously pissed that his best friend had blown him off for a woman (and the plot) and was therefore refusing to do his part to continue the story. I set them down over a few beers and let the friend lose his cool and, lo and behold, my main character had the unhappy realization that he could be a self-absorbed prick. It was a nice touch of dimension that I wouldn't have really seen if I hadn't let them talk it out.
3.Write something completely insane.
True story: a friend was stuck deader than dead in the first third of her book. She could think of no logical way to jump start the next phase so she had a monkey fall out of tree onto her main character's head. In the middle of a city street, no previous mentions of monkeys, no apparent reason it happened. The character, understandably, screamed and swore and the monkey peed on her and ran off. After that, the character recovered and the story continued. Needless to say, the monkey scene was cut (after many hysterical readings of said passage) and the story continued. It may not work for you, but throwing in something nonsensical can take the pressure of deathless prose and breathless plotting off of your mortal shoulders.
We've all been there. I'd love any tips you could share.
1.Get to the action.
Right to it. Your current chapter ends with the action looming on the horizon and you're dying to get to it but there's all this other "stuff" that has to be explained and set-up and prepared before you get there. You know what? You're probably going to wind up cutting all that stuff anyway, so why not skip it now? Get to the part you're dying to write. Now, I'm not a fan of writing the action scenes and stitching them together because those winding paths between high points can take you in some interesting directions, but if you're itching for action, your reader probably is too.
2.Start a conversation.
When you're stuck in a plot line, your wheels tend to spin. You want forward motion but everywhere you look is nothing but mud and walls and plot-drop cliffs. Your characters are standing around looking nervous and/or bored wondering why you're not letting them do what they want to do. Ask them. Put two characters together and let them start talking. See what's on their mind. I once discovered the reason a scene was stalled out was because a secondary character was seriously pissed that his best friend had blown him off for a woman (and the plot) and was therefore refusing to do his part to continue the story. I set them down over a few beers and let the friend lose his cool and, lo and behold, my main character had the unhappy realization that he could be a self-absorbed prick. It was a nice touch of dimension that I wouldn't have really seen if I hadn't let them talk it out.
3.Write something completely insane.
True story: a friend was stuck deader than dead in the first third of her book. She could think of no logical way to jump start the next phase so she had a monkey fall out of tree onto her main character's head. In the middle of a city street, no previous mentions of monkeys, no apparent reason it happened. The character, understandably, screamed and swore and the monkey peed on her and ran off. After that, the character recovered and the story continued. Needless to say, the monkey scene was cut (after many hysterical readings of said passage) and the story continued. It may not work for you, but throwing in something nonsensical can take the pressure of deathless prose and breathless plotting off of your mortal shoulders.
We've all been there. I'd love any tips you could share.
Friday, June 25, 2010
In Praise of a Writing Journal
I've never been a journal keeper. Maybe it's because, as a leftie, I could never manage to get my hand into those tiny little books with the metal clasps. And even if I could, the lines in those things were so infinitesimally spaced…well, let's just say I'm still a wide-ruled girl. Plus my personal idea of hell is to think that anyone can read my mind and, for me, a journal just seemed a doorway to that netherworld.
During the writing of Storyteller, however, I had so many story ideas and worries and enthusiasms bouncing around at once, I decided to break down and carry a composition notebook around with me. Who knew I would love it? Having all my ideas in one place? What is this "organization" thing you speak of? Unfortunately, many of the pages have lines like "no words today - boo" or cryptic messages like "Don't forget the Cheerios under the seat!" I kept it through Storyteller, its sequel The Reaches, a nonsensical NaNoWriMo project and the ill-fated mystery endeavor. I'm into my third notebook now just as I'm starting my newest project and have discovered the real beauty of the journals.
"I've been here before." You know that feeling at the start of a new, exciting writing project when it feels just like someone drops you in the middle of Kansas and says "Now get to the Grand Canyon! Pronto!" You're psyched! You love the Grand Canyon and you have a pretty good idea where it is from here. You get ready to take that first step… and all you see is wheat. Miles and miles of wheat. And that voice pops up and says "You can't get there from here."
Pull out the old journals. Writing periods I remember as effortless or story arcs that seemed to me now to have grown out organic and smooth are remembered quite differently up close in the notebooks. Days and weeks of anxiety and despair and false starts and weird go-nowhere ideas take up pages and pages of the journal. I see a million tangents that got weeded out after they had helped bridge difficult passages; I see periods of frustration that were just hammered through with brute force. I see moments of elation when things finally picked up steam. Mostly, though, I see that I made it. Again and again, I wrote my way from start to finish, each time convinced this would be my last time.
Like the journals themselves, the stories were messy and flawed and full of missteps. Unlike the journals, however, they have been edited and tweaked and cleaned up so nobody has to know their ugly childhoods. Their beauty comes from their polish. The journals' beauty comes from their rough ugliness, from the crazy and sometimes pathetic desperation scrawled through their pages. "I've been here before" and my journals have the scars to prove it. Consider me converted to the world of the writing journal.
Now if you'll just point me in a west/southwesterly direction, I've got a Grand Canyon to see.
During the writing of Storyteller, however, I had so many story ideas and worries and enthusiasms bouncing around at once, I decided to break down and carry a composition notebook around with me. Who knew I would love it? Having all my ideas in one place? What is this "organization" thing you speak of? Unfortunately, many of the pages have lines like "no words today - boo" or cryptic messages like "Don't forget the Cheerios under the seat!" I kept it through Storyteller, its sequel The Reaches, a nonsensical NaNoWriMo project and the ill-fated mystery endeavor. I'm into my third notebook now just as I'm starting my newest project and have discovered the real beauty of the journals.
"I've been here before." You know that feeling at the start of a new, exciting writing project when it feels just like someone drops you in the middle of Kansas and says "Now get to the Grand Canyon! Pronto!" You're psyched! You love the Grand Canyon and you have a pretty good idea where it is from here. You get ready to take that first step… and all you see is wheat. Miles and miles of wheat. And that voice pops up and says "You can't get there from here."
Pull out the old journals. Writing periods I remember as effortless or story arcs that seemed to me now to have grown out organic and smooth are remembered quite differently up close in the notebooks. Days and weeks of anxiety and despair and false starts and weird go-nowhere ideas take up pages and pages of the journal. I see a million tangents that got weeded out after they had helped bridge difficult passages; I see periods of frustration that were just hammered through with brute force. I see moments of elation when things finally picked up steam. Mostly, though, I see that I made it. Again and again, I wrote my way from start to finish, each time convinced this would be my last time.
Like the journals themselves, the stories were messy and flawed and full of missteps. Unlike the journals, however, they have been edited and tweaked and cleaned up so nobody has to know their ugly childhoods. Their beauty comes from their polish. The journals' beauty comes from their rough ugliness, from the crazy and sometimes pathetic desperation scrawled through their pages. "I've been here before" and my journals have the scars to prove it. Consider me converted to the world of the writing journal.
Now if you'll just point me in a west/southwesterly direction, I've got a Grand Canyon to see.
Monday, June 14, 2010
FEAR
FEAR. There's a word for ya. Good fear, bad fear, deep fear, hidden fear. I am of the belief there are only two real emotions in the human heart – love and fear. Today I'm talking about fear.
It all started because a friend of a friend decided she needed to start a "bucket list." (May I nominate that phrase for most annoying phrase/concept since "cool beans" and "think outside the box?" In my humble opinion, writing out a bucket list gives unnecessary gravitas to ridiculous but fun things, like getting laid in Vegas, while trivializing difficult achievements, like becoming fluent in Hungarian. And, even worse, it gives people an excuse to put off doing the things they'd like to be doing if they would just conquer their own fear and inertia. "I can't do it now, my show's on, but it's on my bucket list!" Sorry, I should save this for another blog.)
Anyway, my friend's bucket list contained white water rafting on the New River in Fayette County, WV. I live in WV and have always felt a sort of secret shame that I had never partaken of one of my state's most famous and exciting activities, but to be honest, the thought of it scared the piss out of me. I don't really know why. I can swim; I'm not scared of water, but there are some serious Class Five rapids and, well, I like breathing. But the opportunity presented itself and I agreed to go, fear be damned. We also decided that, as a reward for bravely facing the lower New River in spring, we would treat ourselves to the newly opened zip line canopy tour that ranged across the gorge. A good plan, right?
Well…
I received two excellent pieces of advice before we left to raft. One, your paddle in the water will keep you in the boat. (Thanks, Melanie.) Two, listen to everything your guide tells you. I concentrated so hard on every word out of our guide's mouth I nearly set him on fire with my mind. I don't really know how or why it happened, but on that long, winding bus ride down the gorge to the launch site, my fear grew from anxiety to white-knuckle terror but part of my brain (probably the part that didn't want to be laughed at by the 11 year old kid in the raft with me) told me to stare down that fear, to fight through it. Or rather, paddle through it. We came upon the first real rapid of the day, a Class Three with a Class Five hole at the bottom, aptly named "Surprise" and what do you know? I did exactly what our guide told us, paddled like hell and came out on the other side laughing my head off and immediately in love with white water rafting. In every picture of me on that river, I am grinning like a baboon.
Fear of the unknown conquered by facing it head on. Check.
Skip ahead to the next day. Our adrenaline glands had gotten a well deserved rest. We suited up for the tree-top canopy zip-line. Three hours of gorgeous sailing over the beautiful New River Gorge. I had a few little butterflies but mostly I was pumped. After all, I had jumped out of an airplane the year before and I had just upped my bravery quotient by successfully rafting the Lower New River. I was ready! The fact that thunder clouds were rolling in over the mountains only gave me slight pause. The tour was rain or shine. I was in.
It started with a ground-school. These people take their customers' safety very seriously and they make sure everyone understands exactly how to do what they are going to spend the next three hours doing. We were clamped onto a pair of wires in a rather complicated series of carabineers, given instructions on breaking and steering and self-rescuing should we not complete the zips, one of which would be over 730 feet long. I watched my friends go first, zip lining over the perilous height of four feet. I learned from their mistakes. I felt confident in my ability to follow the directions. And then I felt this sick little worm of fear begin to twist inside of me. I thought maybe it was just a left over from the day before, or perhaps an unfortunate habit of fear that I might have picked up somewhere, like a cold sore. I took my turn on the ground-school line successfully and told that little evil worm of fear to buzz off. I had come to zip line and zip I would!
The first zip was 100 feet long heading right out into the gorge. The landing platform was easily thirty feet up in a sturdy hemlock and if you don't think that's high, well, think again. I could feel the adrenaline pumping as I watched friend after friend zip across the chasm with varying degrees of success, all laughing, all whooping it up. When I stood on the launch stump, harness hooked in, palms sweaty, heart pumping, I told myself I was going to face this new fear, this new shade of unknown, and I was going to zip my ass all the way across that gorge.
And I zipped. I kept my ankles crossed; I braked softly when instructed; I steered as true as an arrow and landed perfectly on the second platform. And do you know what I learned in that one jubilant instant? That I hate zip lining. The guide congratulated me, hooked me to the safety belt to prepare for the next zip and looked genuinely shocked when I said I wanted off the platform. There was one more zip to go before the rescue line and the guide assured me that once I did it again, I'd get over my nerves. After all, she told me, you're doing really well. And so we zipped again. Another 100 feet, another easy, straight, fast dead-on landing. And the transformation of my dislike of zip lining into outright loathing. The storm was blowing in. The hemlocks were swaying and I was fully prepared to scamper down that tree like a squirrel if need be. The guide told me to trust my equipment. I told the guide several words that rhyme with "duck" and the rescue line was prepared.
Did I regret bailing on my adventure after only two short zips, ignoring the guides promises that I would come to love the activity? Not for a heartbeat. The gentle man on the ground who plucked us from the rescue line (I was not alone in this defection) told me that I had made the right decision. He said "Honey, if you don't like it by now, you're gonna hate it in three hours." Truer words were never spoken. And when I saw the face of my best friend, who is perhaps the bravest, boldest, ballsiest woman I have ever known, when she returned from three hours zipping through the gorge in a driving rain storm – well, I congratulated myself on making the right decision.
What's the message here? One, don't invite me zip lining. But two, all fear is not bad fear but all fear must be faced. Some things you fear because they've become big boogey monsters in your head and when you right up to them, they're nothing more than ghosts. Some things you fear because when you get right up on them, they are indeed scarier than hell. But you won't know until you get right up on them and that is usually the scariest step of all. And whether you fight or flee, you can at least know you were brave enough to take that step in the first place.
It all started because a friend of a friend decided she needed to start a "bucket list." (May I nominate that phrase for most annoying phrase/concept since "cool beans" and "think outside the box?" In my humble opinion, writing out a bucket list gives unnecessary gravitas to ridiculous but fun things, like getting laid in Vegas, while trivializing difficult achievements, like becoming fluent in Hungarian. And, even worse, it gives people an excuse to put off doing the things they'd like to be doing if they would just conquer their own fear and inertia. "I can't do it now, my show's on, but it's on my bucket list!" Sorry, I should save this for another blog.)
Anyway, my friend's bucket list contained white water rafting on the New River in Fayette County, WV. I live in WV and have always felt a sort of secret shame that I had never partaken of one of my state's most famous and exciting activities, but to be honest, the thought of it scared the piss out of me. I don't really know why. I can swim; I'm not scared of water, but there are some serious Class Five rapids and, well, I like breathing. But the opportunity presented itself and I agreed to go, fear be damned. We also decided that, as a reward for bravely facing the lower New River in spring, we would treat ourselves to the newly opened zip line canopy tour that ranged across the gorge. A good plan, right?
Well…
I received two excellent pieces of advice before we left to raft. One, your paddle in the water will keep you in the boat. (Thanks, Melanie.) Two, listen to everything your guide tells you. I concentrated so hard on every word out of our guide's mouth I nearly set him on fire with my mind. I don't really know how or why it happened, but on that long, winding bus ride down the gorge to the launch site, my fear grew from anxiety to white-knuckle terror but part of my brain (probably the part that didn't want to be laughed at by the 11 year old kid in the raft with me) told me to stare down that fear, to fight through it. Or rather, paddle through it. We came upon the first real rapid of the day, a Class Three with a Class Five hole at the bottom, aptly named "Surprise" and what do you know? I did exactly what our guide told us, paddled like hell and came out on the other side laughing my head off and immediately in love with white water rafting. In every picture of me on that river, I am grinning like a baboon.
Fear of the unknown conquered by facing it head on. Check.
Skip ahead to the next day. Our adrenaline glands had gotten a well deserved rest. We suited up for the tree-top canopy zip-line. Three hours of gorgeous sailing over the beautiful New River Gorge. I had a few little butterflies but mostly I was pumped. After all, I had jumped out of an airplane the year before and I had just upped my bravery quotient by successfully rafting the Lower New River. I was ready! The fact that thunder clouds were rolling in over the mountains only gave me slight pause. The tour was rain or shine. I was in.
It started with a ground-school. These people take their customers' safety very seriously and they make sure everyone understands exactly how to do what they are going to spend the next three hours doing. We were clamped onto a pair of wires in a rather complicated series of carabineers, given instructions on breaking and steering and self-rescuing should we not complete the zips, one of which would be over 730 feet long. I watched my friends go first, zip lining over the perilous height of four feet. I learned from their mistakes. I felt confident in my ability to follow the directions. And then I felt this sick little worm of fear begin to twist inside of me. I thought maybe it was just a left over from the day before, or perhaps an unfortunate habit of fear that I might have picked up somewhere, like a cold sore. I took my turn on the ground-school line successfully and told that little evil worm of fear to buzz off. I had come to zip line and zip I would!
The first zip was 100 feet long heading right out into the gorge. The landing platform was easily thirty feet up in a sturdy hemlock and if you don't think that's high, well, think again. I could feel the adrenaline pumping as I watched friend after friend zip across the chasm with varying degrees of success, all laughing, all whooping it up. When I stood on the launch stump, harness hooked in, palms sweaty, heart pumping, I told myself I was going to face this new fear, this new shade of unknown, and I was going to zip my ass all the way across that gorge.
And I zipped. I kept my ankles crossed; I braked softly when instructed; I steered as true as an arrow and landed perfectly on the second platform. And do you know what I learned in that one jubilant instant? That I hate zip lining. The guide congratulated me, hooked me to the safety belt to prepare for the next zip and looked genuinely shocked when I said I wanted off the platform. There was one more zip to go before the rescue line and the guide assured me that once I did it again, I'd get over my nerves. After all, she told me, you're doing really well. And so we zipped again. Another 100 feet, another easy, straight, fast dead-on landing. And the transformation of my dislike of zip lining into outright loathing. The storm was blowing in. The hemlocks were swaying and I was fully prepared to scamper down that tree like a squirrel if need be. The guide told me to trust my equipment. I told the guide several words that rhyme with "duck" and the rescue line was prepared.
Did I regret bailing on my adventure after only two short zips, ignoring the guides promises that I would come to love the activity? Not for a heartbeat. The gentle man on the ground who plucked us from the rescue line (I was not alone in this defection) told me that I had made the right decision. He said "Honey, if you don't like it by now, you're gonna hate it in three hours." Truer words were never spoken. And when I saw the face of my best friend, who is perhaps the bravest, boldest, ballsiest woman I have ever known, when she returned from three hours zipping through the gorge in a driving rain storm – well, I congratulated myself on making the right decision.
What's the message here? One, don't invite me zip lining. But two, all fear is not bad fear but all fear must be faced. Some things you fear because they've become big boogey monsters in your head and when you right up to them, they're nothing more than ghosts. Some things you fear because when you get right up on them, they are indeed scarier than hell. But you won't know until you get right up on them and that is usually the scariest step of all. And whether you fight or flee, you can at least know you were brave enough to take that step in the first place.
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