“The best advice I can give is not to have a plan B.” – Amanda Palmer’s advice on becoming a successful working artist (via UStream webcast 1/19/10).

When Elisa asked me to write about love, I was immediately overcome with panic and fear. I cannot possibly write about love. I asked if I could write about the socio-political climate in Dubai. I can’t write about that either, but it still seemed easier than love. In the end, however, she convinced me that I would do it. So, I sat down to write, and imagine my surprise when I finished an entire post about love, just for her.

Except it isn’t really about love. It’s about learning to love again (and, basically, about me). So, I still managed to get around it.

Neener.

I used to love to write. But life and reality and fear set in, and I grew to despise it. How easy to become wrapped up in the minutiae of daily life. Or to lose oneself in the major events or crises that threaten to swallow us whole if we let them. In both the large and small of life, it becomes so easy to forget or to ignore love.

I certainly did.

I had to teach myself to love again. Sure it was easy (well, easier) to love others, to love objects, to love food, to love anything outside of myself. But to love myself and what I could do was nearly impossible. It was so much easier to be complacent. To hate. To forget.

I began to write poems and stories almost as soon as I learned how to write my letters. My first epic poems were about my cats. Each stanza had four lines, with the second and fourth rhyming. You see, there are rules for these sorts of things. Serious writers follow rules. And I was a serious writer, especially at the age of six. Later, when my third grade teacher made books out of our stories (complete with a construction paper cover), I knew I was going to be a writer. The simple joy of holding that book, of seeing my name on the cover, was overwhelming.

Through high school and even the start of college, I had brief delusions of theater. I thought for sure that I wanted to be a soap star (who would, of course, dabble in legitimate theater). A couple of failed auditions brought me back to reality: I am not cut out for this work.

But, I never stopped writing. And after a few false starts, I found my way. I focused my attention on writing poetry. By now, I’m quite sure that you can see where this is going. I even went so far as to get a Master of Arts degree. In English. In writing poetry. I was doomed.

Post-college reality set in very quickly. There were no help wanted ads for infamous poets. Finding anything in the writing and publishing field was difficult, so I ended up in a bookstore. I had more time, but I was writing less frequently. Nothing can prepare you for the mental exhaustion that comes with retail.

Shortly after I began working there, depression set in and refused to let go. I was trapped in a job that was making me miserable. I was stuck in a town I didn’t love. Being surrounded by books was turning me against them. I began to loathe writing. I felt like a failure and like I had made a huge mistake.

I know what you’re thinking. This is supposed to be about love. I’m getting there, trust me.

In high school, I started to write a novel, but stalled at 70 pages. Every few years, I’d dig out my files, revise what I had written, and put it away. It was nagging me. Haunting me. I needed to finish it. Even if this book is never published, simply finishing the story will be a huge accomplishment.

But I had grown to hate writing so much, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to it. I let life and circumstances stand in my way instead of propel me forward. After college, I barely wrote for almost four years. I missed it and I wanted to love it–but holding that pen was paralyzing.

When Elisa started blogging, she tried to encourage me to do the same–to force myself to write again. After much prodding, I agreed and started using my blog again. I wrote about my process and inspirations in writing, the doomed novel, and the poetry projects I couldn’t finish.

As much as I cursed her, I enjoyed that challenge. It prompted me to go back to that failed novel and try to pick it up once again. I even planned to take on NaNoWriMo, just to get back into the habit of writing regularly. Instead, I took on a variation of that challenge and wrote a poem a day–my first true love in writing. This in turn inspired a resolution to: 1. Post more writing on the blog (This is huge for me. I can’t exactly watermark that like I do with pictures.) and 2. Try, Try, TRY to finish that novel.

Even though I was getting back into the groove, I was still feeling insecure about my writing and was not feeling the love. I stumbled and struggled thanks to a lot of fear and very little confidence. I couldn’t move past certain scenes in the novel because I was afraid that they weren’t realistic or believable.

I didn’t love my story and I didn’t love–or trust–myself. But, it was a quote from Audrey Niffenegger that helped me overcome those frustrations and fears. In an interview with Poets & Writers she says, “You can do anything in fiction. There’s no ethical thing holding you to accuracy in reporting. So why can’t monkeys fly? Why can’t we live in a world where everybody eats blood oranges?” (Nov/Dec 2009, p. 58)

It was completely liberating to feel that for the first time, I could write without limitations and without worry. I stopped going back to old scenes for rewrites. I just kept going. I wrote scenes that surprised me—things I didn’t know until the pen hit the page. I’m excited about writing again. I love writing again. I can finally see the end and it feels amazing.

After years of agony and frustration and doubt, I’m trying to let go. I’ve finally accepted that I need to put myself first, to set aside time for putting myself in the right frame of mind and to write. I still have a job that makes me miserable (in fact, the due date for this entry fell exactly on my five year anniversary). I still live in a town that I dislike. The economy is even worse, and I still can’t find a better job. But I’ve learned to love again, in spite of my circumstances. I believe in myself and my abilities (thanks in part to someone else believing in and pushing me). It may just be the new year afterglow, but for the first time in a long time, I’m sure that this is my year and that I will succeed. I love writing.

I love myself.

I love.

All You Need Blogger: Tender Buttons

Tender_Buttons lives in the wrong end of Massachusetts (or, perhaps, the wrong state) with one man, one cat, and an obscene number of books, cds, and records. She writes bad poetry, worse fiction, and sometimes takes a decent picture. She also believes that sarcasm is more than an art; it is a way of life. You can read her relatively frequent and completely reluctant blog posts. For brief updates and pointless banter, you can follow her Tweets. Or, if you just like looking at pretty things and people you may or may not know, she is also on flickr. She hopes that she is writing the next Twilight so she can retire and write poetry all day (or, you know, eat bon bons and party with rock stars).

Song: Leon Russell – A Song For You