The other day someone remarked that I was quite photogenic (after seeing one of my photos on Facebook). I thanked her and explained that, in fact, I am not photogenic. Decades passed before I managed to look decent in pictures. How did it finally happen? Because I found something I loved to do: writing.

Audrey Hepburn once said:

When I finally (after a loooooong, long time) published a novel, I was ecstatic. I was so very grateful. I’d found my happiness. I couldn’t look unhappy if I tried. Before that, I always avoided being photographed because my pictures turned out terrible. No matter how big or small I smiled, angled myself, did my makeup and hair, or wore snazzy clothes, I was highly unphotogenic. The few that turned out okay were because they were taken when I was in the midst of feeling happy: with my family, on trips…and that’s about it.

The camera was not my friend.

So am I now suddenly a photogenic person? No. What I am is a person who doesn’t care how she looks in front of the camera. Or whether the picture turns out okay. But I do care how I feel inside. And how I make those around me feel. I really enjoy creating a ripple effect that makes all I come in contact with feel good. If I’m enjoying what I’m doing when the photo is shot, whether I’m at a bookstore, behind my desk writing, at a writer’s conference, in the library, making dinner, with my dogs…you get my drift…chances are that’s going to translate in numerous, positive ways. Including, maybe, in a photo. I’ve learned that no matter what I am doing, it’s of vital importance to find a way to make myself feel happy and enthusiastic about it. Don’t we get a lot more accomplished when we’re feeling great?

Sometimes, especially when beginning a story, my fingers weigh about forty pounds. Each.

Sweat trickles down my forehead and I’m suddenly famished, even though I just ate a bag of chips ten minutes ago. Then there are the thoughts that pour through my head:

“This is terrible.”
“Where are you going with this?” – I get this even after planning the plot beforehand.
“Can’t you do any better?”

And writing feels terrible. My words are dull, plain, lacking pizazz. I get up from my seat behind the computer and, sometimes, I don’t come back. But I’ve come to realize the way I feel when I don’t return makes me feel more terrible than writing clunky. So I plod on, heavy fingered and creativity-free. Then a few things happen. I start to ask myself different questions. Better ones. Would the heroine say, “Let’s go”? And walk away? Or would she say, “Chop, chop.” And clap her hands to show she means business before marching down the sidewalk? Forcing myself to continue squeezes the snoozing creative buttons inside of me into operation. Not always as quickly as I’d like, but it does happen.

How to overcome the clunkiness? By pressing onward and pushing negative thoughts away. Far away. If we don’t move forward…oh, I can’t even contemplate that possibility. So I continue and switch direction. I consider what the character is wearing, smelling, feeling. What does she see on her right? Does her head hurt? Are her shoes too tight? I distract myself, for a moment or so, and then return my fingers to the keyboard. As I continue typing, I notice the fat dripping away. It’s like my own personal finger treadmill. We don’t expect to lose fat overnight, do we? (Well, maybe we do).

To get the juices flowing, we have to keep on. Soon, I type a little faster. My characters speak a little louder. And…progress happens. Isn’t that what we all want?

To become a published author, it takes a good amount, if not a ton, of perseverance, defined as: “…a continued effort to achieve something despite difficulties, failure, or opposition.” Oh dear. Who likes to deal with difficult situations, failures or opposition?

Let’s make things a little simpler by distilling the definition into three words: Never Give Up. That’s much better, isn’t it?

As writers, we may sometimes feel like a seedling that’s been planted and knocked around by the elements, without experiencing much growth. We may (or our projects may) eventually shrivel up and disappear. But what if growth is occurring without our (or the seedling) even knowing it?

Take the Chinese bamboo tree. It’s a challenge to grow. The farmer plants the seed, waters and nurtures it…and nothing happens the first year. Or the second year. Or the third. Why bother taking care of something that’s not growing? Because something miraculous does happen in the fifth year. The tree grows almost 90 feet in six weeks! How is that possible? Because during the early years, the plant is developing strong, unshakable roots.

What if the farmer had given up because he’d seen no results? Bye-bye bamboo tree.

Let’s say you needed to split a boulder in two. You grab a hammer (a large one) and strike the rock. Nothing happens. You strike it a few more times. Still nothing. Maybe a few chips, if you’re lucky, but no split. After about the tenth or maybe twentieth blow, the boulder breaks in half. During the previous nine or so times, something was happening. All those blows mattered. You just couldn’t see it.

Writing can be the same way. Sometimes the words flow, and sometimes they don’t. Progress can be slow and even unrewarding at times. We write a passage and wonder if it’s any good. Can we stay focused and nurture our writing by forging on? We must. How else will we know how tall we can grow?