When writer’s block sets up camp in your soul and refuses to leave, it’s only natural a writer find another way. My other way comes in the form of Letters to My Daughter. Mind you, they are housed in a black leather-bound journal, but they begin with a date and “Dear Lovey”  and end “with love from Mom.” To me, that constitutes letters and it’s letters I’ve been writing to her since December 5, 2011, 372 days after her dad, my ex-husband announced he was leaving. It was at that point I decided that I had to get some things off my chest, exorcise a few demons.

I must admit, not every day has been filled with love. In the beginning I poured out my heart in the only way I knew how, talking about the pain, the games, and how the torture just kept going. The clocks kept ticking. The sound that made me insane when my daughter was first born – tick tock tick tock – reminding me how quickly she was growing became the sound that my heart synced up to in order to keep beating. And with every heart beat life moved on, slowly. Lovey grew upward, up to 44 inches in March, and my heart grew a little stronger. I’m still waiting for wings to sprout, but for now, at least it can beat on its own.

It kept time with the world yesterday and granted me joy in experiencing the little things and the ability to write about them. Things like:

The color Moroccan red, which now artfully adorns our kitchen and makes me smile each time I glance in that direction; cats purring and mewing around my ankles as they seek out a snack, and a little Buddy who refuses to leave my side; the smell of roses and gardenia growing together; any blue bird God ever created followed closely by red, then yellow; the romantic trill of a cowbird; a bullfrog croaking along with the sound the water makes as it pours over the rocks; the smell of rain as storm clouds begin to loom; the sight of brightly colored leaves and flowers spreading out across our vegetable garden knowing tasty, fresh vegetables aren’t far behind; learning Lovey had written her very first stories in school yesterday and her confidence as she proudly read them to me; the sound of her sobs as she begged, “Mommy, please, please let me sleep in your bed tonight because I miss you and…I’m crying” – sweet, funny girl; the sound of her softly snoring as she lay on the pillow next to mine; the breeze rustling the leaves outside my window and the tinkling sound of rain drops bouncing off the window; the sound of friends laughing, especially Mickey who has the heartiest laugh ever to leave a man’s chest; my mom and aunt as they feed off of one another’s hysterical laughter until they both begin to cry and the priceless looks of confusion on my father’s and uncle’s faces; the sound doves make as they launch into the sky; and the moment I once again experienced true joy.

Every day I write a letter to my little girl. Each day is different, yet each one offers the promise that life really is getting better. MAybe someday she’ll accept it as my gift of wit and wisdom about how purely crazy our lives were way back when. Maybe someday the pain, the games , and the torture will stop. Maybe someday my heart will sprout wings and lift my soul whistling as doves do when they fly away.

What little things have you experienced that have brought you joy?

No, that’s not the B-word with that funky pronunciation some people give it. It’s an acronym I learned in a workshop some years ago. Most of you who are writers probably already know what it stands for:

Butt In Chair, Hands On Keyboard

You know. How novels get written?

Some people don’t believe in writer’s block. I used to be one of them — until it happened to me. I used to write nearly every day, pounding out at least a couple pages on a part-time schedule.

Then about a year ago, suddenly, I didn’t want to do it any more. I was burned out. Well that happens sometimes, I told myself, so I rested. But then a week off turned into a month off. Even after I realized this was getting ridiculous, I couldn’t get back to my old schedule. Instead of a novel writer, I had turned into a confirmed novel dabbler. I told myself I needed to plan my book thoroughly before I could write it and took several months to do so.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t writing at all. I did blog posts and group novel chapters and short stories. I also planned and started a couple more novels. But after awhile, it was time to face the music. This just couldn’t go on.

I looked for inspiration. I tried positive visualization. Read all kinds of helpful advice.

Then I found an article in Write Good or Die, a free online help for writers. In that piece, Kristine Kathryn Rusch admits all the reasons that keep her from writing.

For example, “I would always rather start a new project than work through the middle of another project.” Yeah, me too! She also says, “It’s not discipline. It’s figuring out how to get yourself to work.” Her theory is that if you can figure out what stops you from doing things and what gets you to do things, then you can use that knowledge to discipline yourself and get yourself to write (or do whatever else it is that needs to be done, like exercise). It’s a great article. It’s called “Discipline.” Go read it.

So I did some soul searching and tried to figure out why I want to be a novelist and what I really get out of it.

I realized I was avoiding pain. The pain of not being published. The pain of my own crummy first drafts. The pain of working out the details of the story. Of finding the internal conflict, as well as the external conflict. Of resolving plot and character inconsistencies. And on and on and on.

I had to ask myself. Was I willing to work through the pain? Was it worth it?

I decided yes.

And that’s when I remembered BICHOK.

Butt In Chair, Hands On Keyboard

I guess it was the right place at the right time. I just sat down and wrote. I didn’t care if this book would ever get published. I didn’t care if I wrote crap (well, up to a point). I just wanted to get it done. I pushed myself like I did in the old days. And when I was through, I had finally finished the (very) rough draft of my project for the year.
Hallelujah.

What did I learn? That, as with any tough project or goal in life, any dream you have, the real secret to getting what you want is HARD WORK. As Ringo said, “You’ve got to pay the dues if you want to sing the blues.”

So what keeps your butt in the chair? Are you as disciplined as you’d like to be? Tell me your discipline secrets.

By Marilyn Baron

If I were a Catholic I could seek reconciliation and do my penance with a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 30 days since I last worked on my novel. And when I did write I violated the rule of Show, Don’t Tell, not to mention indulging in too much backstory. I’ve head hopped and have created unsympathetic characters. For these and all my other writing sins, I am truly sorry.

I imagine there must be a tremendous feeling of relief that comes with a sense of forgiveness and starting with a clean slate, much like tackling a neglected novel and finally getting it put to rights.
If I were an alcoholic, I could stand up at an AA meeting [or a GRW chapter meeting] and admit:
Hi. My name is Marilyn Baron and I’m a blocked writer. It’s been 30 days since the start of my current dry spell. I’m parched and I really need a cool burst of inspiration.

But I’m neither Catholic nor an alcoholic. So what’s a Jewish writer to do? When in doubt, I can always call on that age-old standby, Jewish Guilt. Luckily, you don’t have to be Jewish to experience Jewish guilt.

What do you do when your novel starts talking back?

Here’s how it works. You start hallucinating to the point where your novel starts talking back to you.

Your novel: “You haven’t written a word in 30 days. You haven’t called. You haven’t come to see me. Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit over here in a dark, drafty corner. Go ahead, throw me out like a worn-out shoe. I’m not important. I’m just your novel.”

You: “Don’t give me a guilt trip. I carried you around for nine long months. I was in labor for days. I gave birth to you, so don’t tell me I don’t care about you.”

Then you just have to forgive yourself and move on. It reminds me of working with my personal trainer at the gym I just joined. I hate the gym. To me, exercise is a dirty word, but my daughter convinced me to join with her so I’m slogging it out. That personal trainer really puts me through my paces. I don’t like going, but I’ve run out of excuses. I’m just going to have to buckle down and work out. And buckle down and write.

Guilt is a great motivator. Guilt can really get you going. It can help you get back in the game. It can help you finish a page, a chapter, and then a complete manuscript. So don’t feel bad about feeling guilty. Embrace your guilt. Don’t throw your manuscript out like a worn-out shoe. Listen to your novel when it starts talking back to you. Start writing again.