So, how good ARE you?

A dear friend of mine told me yesterday that we writers are terrible judges of our own work.

In other words, many who think they are God's gift to literature in reality suck, while some who truly doubt their abilities are in fact quite talented.

Basically, I think she's right. To a certain degree, anyway.

I struggle each and every day with self doubt. It's always there in my mind, lurking, waiting to grip my heart with its icy hands until I voluntarily stop querying because I just know I suck.

I honestly don't know why. I was a professional journalist for more than two decades. I have won several (more than 20) national, regional and state writing awards. I know I can write. I do. That's not ego. It's a fact.

But writing fiction is not journalism. I've learned that the hard way. I would put my newspaper and magazine articles up against anyone's (and have, many times), but this fiction thing is new to me.

And so I struggle with doubt.

But I have a confession to make. Sometimes, I'm more confident than I let on. I know. Who would have guessed? It's not an act. Seriously. But sometimes I feel more honest and less of an egotistical bastard when I let my self doubts out on this blog and with other writer friends.

Why? Because it bothers me to listen to people brag about how good they are. Trust me, people. If we were all as good as we secretly think we are, we'd all be published and resting atop the NYT Bestsellers List.

Still, there's nothing wrong with self confidence. It's healthy and normal. It's what keeps us going every time another form rejection pops into our e-mail box.

But how do we, being both confident and neurotic, judge our work objectively? How do we know if we really and truly are any good? I mean, I can read two paragraphs of someone else's work and know whether they are good or not. But I read my stuff and sometimes, it seems pretty good. And other times, well, it sucks.

So, how good do you think you are? I mean seriously, truly, honestly. Are you good enough to be published? Be honest. We won't hold it against you.

Are you good enough to be published?

(I think I am. There. I said it.)

When is being alone unhealthy?

It's been eye-opening these past few months, getting to know a variety of writers online. Writers who are just beginning their journey and those who have already been published. And all the rest of us in between.

It didn't take long for me to discover that we writers seem to have much in common. Well, not all of us. But many of us.

We don't seem to have a lot of confidence in our abilities and talents. We can be very sensitive to criticism, even when it's constructive and delivered oh-so gently. We're not very good judges of our own work and talent. And we're all about 15 degrees off center, as my friend Josin says. (I'd say closer to 25 degrees off, but what do I know?)

But the one trait I've noticed over and over among us writer-types is this: We all seem to relish being alone. I know I do. Most of the time, anyway.

But it can be a bit of a conundrum. For me, anyway. In order for me to properly conjure the real world, I need to actually get out and experience it. I mean, Google is great and all, but it's a poor substitute for getting out and watching and observing real people. It's amazing how many ideas I get, how many characters my mind creates, all while sitting having a latte at Starbucks. Or shopping at Kroger. Or eating lunch with a buddy in the city.

But if I get out too much, I'm not sitting here, butt in seat, writing. And that seems to take up an awful lot of my time these days. My wife jokingly (I think) refers to me as a hermit. And she's not far from the truth, to be honest with you. If I didn't force myself to go to the gym and take my son to Little League, I'm not sure when I would get out.

This is a big change for me. I spent many years as a working journalist, which is as much about socializing and schmoozing as it is about writing and reporting. I spent years cultivating sources, working them on the phone and over lunches and coffee (and early on in my career, over drinks). The newsroom I worked in was always full; loud and chaotic. Our desks sat next to one another, no cubicles for us. It was people, people, people.

It drove me nuts.

I mean, I like people. I do. I really do. But man, do I relish my solitude. And now that I am a "writer," I have a built-in excuse to be a full-time recluse. I spend my days alone, writing and researching and editing. When my phone rings, I grumble. I hate to be interrupted when I'm working, even if it's my lovely wife calling just to chat.

I suspect this isn't healthy.

So my questions to you, dear blog buddies, are these: When is alone too alone? Are you a hermit? By design or by necessity? Do you consider yourself a loner? Antisocial? Is it healthy?

Let me know. Have a great Wednesday night. I know I will, if these damned Cubs can come back and beat the Pirates! :)

On (quitting) writing

This being an author thing is harder than I thought it would be. Let me explain. See, for years I could barely function in society -- with one rather big exception:

I was always a good writer. Always.

Even as a young cub newspaper reporter (and in the grip of drug and alcohol addiction), I could write one kick-ass story. I know, because even the editors who hated me always told me I was a good writer. They'd say it through clenched teeth, but they said it.

Consequently, I started to believe my own press clippings, so to speak. I made plans early on to become a published fiction writer whenever journalism's magic wore off.

In 2007, the magic wore off. So I put on my comfy pajamas and fired up the computer and ... started to write. A book. A big, complex book.

And I learned fairly soon (about two hours into it, as I recall) that I had no freaking clue what I was doing. None. This was not journalism. I mean, where the hell were my notes?

So I started scouring the Internet and began stumbling across blogs and websites by other writers and agents and publishers. I bought books on fiction writing. I started learning the craft of fiction writing. Of novel writing. It's not easy.

Of course, by then, I was already halfway through my big, complex book. But hey, better late than never, right? Right.

Once I figured out what the hell a story arc was, I went back and tried to put one into my book. And when I learned how crucial the first few pages were, I went back and re-did them. Over and over and over again. Each time I learned something new about the craft, I went back and tried to incorporate it into my work.

The damned thing started to look like a patchwork quilt. And not in a good way, I'm afraid.

But I finished it. And had a book editor go through it and made the changes she suggested and sent it out to beta readers.

And waited. And waited. A couple checked in and said they were liking it. And then one finished. And he said he liked it. Then two more finished it and they liked it, with a couple of minor suggestions.

It was all good. I was pumped.

And then one more weighed in. And he hated it. Just didn't like it. At all.

And I was crushed. No one had ever told me they hated something I had written. Let me repeat that: No one had ever told me they hated something I had written. Never. I know that sounds arrogant and egotistical, but it's true.

I. Was. Crushed.

And so I decided to hang it up. Get a real job. Screw this writing crap. Clearly, I am not a fiction writer and will never be a fiction writer. I mean, my first attempt at writing a novel and here was someone not liking it!

Now I realize this sounds ludicrous, but I really did decide yesterday to give it up. I told the wife I would shop this one because, well, because I've wasted three years of my life on it, so I might as well try to get it published. Right?

My lovely wife rolled her eyes and told me to shut up and go to sleep. (She knows me pretty well.) So I did. Finally. And tossed and turned all night. At 1 this morning, I awoke in the second-most horrible way imaginable. I suffered a severe case of acid reflux, something I hadn't had happen to me in a decade or so. There's not much worse than jerking awake with a mouthful of bile.

Except there is one thing worse, as I was to learn a few hours later. I woke up at 5 a.m. and my left eyelid felt as though it was crusted shut. What the hell? I wondered. I figured I must have pink eye or something. But I couldn't get the crusty little knot off my eyelid. So I got up and went into the bathroom and turned the light on.

And there was a huge wood tick stuck on my left eyelid! OMG! I looked at it, reached into the drawer, pulled out the tweezers and plucked the little bastard off. And it was on there TIGHT.

Oh Christ, was that nasty. It actually made a little POP sound when it finally gave up the ghost. I flushed that sucker and went back to bed. But there was to be no more sleep for me.

Later, I went for my run through the countryside. It was a beautiful day and I put on the iPod and cranked it up. I planned to brainstorm ideas for a job. You know, something easy that pays a ton. No big deal.

But a funny thing happened instead. The entire plot for the political novel I started a few months ago fell into place with an audible THUD. And then the ending came to me so perfectly finished that I turned around, ran home and typed it out.

I can't wait to get back to it. I guess a real job is just going to have to wait a while.

Apparently, I'm a writer. Whether I like it or not. I mean, there's no way in hell I'm messing with the writing gods again. ;)

On the road to somewhere

Perhaps I'm feeling philosophical and somewhat bleak because I'm in the middle of reading Cormac McCarthy's brutally brilliant novel, The Road. Its searing, post-apocalyptic images of a world not just dead but hellish isn't exactly something that stirs up good humor on a gray Sunday evening.

And no, this isn't yet another woe is me post about how I can't seem to find the motivation to finish revising my novel. No. It's not. It's deeper than that. Really.

And yet ...

And yet, it starts there, doesn't it? I can't seem to find the motivation to finish.

And I don't know why. I've spent more than three years of my life working on The Devil You Don't Know. Years that could have been spent building a second career, a career based on something more solid, more substantial, than just a dream and the seemingly baseless hope of success in a highly competitive field where far more fall behind and die than reach the publishing promised land.

And so, each day I fire up the computer and piss around reading blogs and Facebook and Twitter. I love to read about how others are writing and working hard to reach their dream. And yet mine languishes on my hard drive.

Since the day I walked out of the newsroom -- Jan. 16, 2007 -- I've been on a journey unlike any I've been on before. My future is solely in my hands. That, I can handle. But the futures of my wife and young child are also in my hands, to a certain degree. And that's where I freeze.

No matter the successes I've enjoyed in life -- and there have been a few -- I somehow feel as though I am programmed to ultimately fail. And I don't know why.

I want to finish this book. I want to see it published. I want to become rich and famous. I do. Honestly. And yet, I seem to be rooted to this spot of uncertainty, where I am neither there nor not there.

It is, I've decided, a crippling case of being more afraid of succeeding than of failing. And I don't know why. I'm no stranger to counseling and therapy, and I know enough about my past, my childhood, to see how it affects everything I do. And there's something there, some dark malignancy, that will not allow me to move forward.

And here's the real kicker: I know, deep in my heart, that the book is pretty good. And with the major revisions I'm doing, it may even be better than pretty good. It might be damned good.

I know that. And still I feel like I'm fooling everyone, including myself, by thinking, by acting, as though I can actually get it published. I feel like a fucking fraud. The literary equivalent of Bernie Madoff.

Why?

I know this: If I don't get off the dime and do my very best -- my absolute best -- to get this novel done and out the door, the journey will come to an end. Soon. The money isn't endless, and I've run through a good portion of it living this fantasy, this dream of becoming a published author.

And then what? What of my family? My home? My bills? My future? What of me?

These are the things that keep me up at night, tossing and turning and occasionally lapsing into a nightmare that's so transparently metaphorical that it even makes me laugh upon waking.

I daydream of succeeding beyond my wildest dreams, of sitting down on Oprah or The Tonight Show or someplace like that and talking about how frightening it was, laying it all on the line like this. It sounds so romantic when it's in the past tense.

But what of now?

Now, it just seems terrifying.


I pray I have the strength to see this through. I have always believed I am destined for something more in life. I can't really put it in words, but there it is. That's what keeps me going.

What keeps you going, in the face of insurmountable odds? What keeps you awake at night, when the world sleeps? I'd like to know I'm not alone in this.

What's really important in life?

What a tough week. Bear with me here, folks, because I'm about to open up a big can of the crazies. Here we go:

Within hours of returning from Mexico, I began to feel tired and worn out. Exhausted. I chalked it up to some kind of jungle bug. And it most likely was. But along with the exhaustion, headache and aching muscles was something else.

An old enemy of mine. Self-doubt. Insecurity. A feeling of not being good enough.

I tried to get back to my novel and found that it didn't seem important. In fact, it seemed silly that I actually thought I could write a book and get it published. What the hell was I thinking? Who was I fooling?

I felt like a phony. A fake.

Now these feelings knocked me for a loop, since I'm generally a confident person. Sure, I get a bit insecure at times. Who doesn't? But deep down, I've always thought I could make it as an author. That I could succeed.

But this week, my confidence fled like a wronged lover. Add the fact that my old newspaper is laying people off right and left (my wife still works there! For now), and you have the recipe for a crappy week. I've almost felt depressed, in a literal sense. I can't seem to get excited about anything. Writing seems pointless and stupid. Or, at least, it did until today.

Ah, today. I woke up feeling just as lousy as every other day this week. But I got myself up early and showered and went to church, because our mission team was making a presentation about Mexico and my presence was required. Otherwise, I might still be in bed. Seriously.

And as the day wore on, through a very good Sunday brunch with the family and several hours of video gaming, I began to feel better. Not great. But better. I still haven't figured out why I sank so low this past week.

But I have a theory.

I spent last week in a very poor Mayan village with my son and a dozen close friends. We were doing good work. Important, life-changing work with some of the sweetest people (especially the children) in the world.

It was awesome. And there, in a nutshell, is the crux of my problems this week. My little life felt, well, pathetic. Useless. Pointless. Who the fuck cares if I write a book and sell it? Well, besides my family, of course. But does it mean anything in the grand scheme of things?

No. It doesn't.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm as big a material boy as the next. I love me some stuff, if you know what I mean. Cars. Nice clothes. Games. Electronics. Gym memberships. Expensive cigars.

So what the hell is going on here? I mean, am I turning into some kind of bleeding heart dufus who thinks he can save the world all by himself? Sure, I was a journalist because it always felt like a deeper calling rather than just a professional career. I mean, I could have made a hell of a lot more money doing something else. But what I did felt important to me, and that was always good enough.

I guess I wanted to write and sell this book now to do something nice for me and my family. Because it's been my lifelong dream. And now this whole altruistic crap rears its ugly head. What's a man to do?

Well. I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to finish editing the book and do my damnedest to sell it. And I'm going to keep on writing books and trying to sell them. I'm going to make all the freaking money I can.

And then I'm going to use a big chunk of it to help others. Maybe a certain group of little Mayan kids.

And then I'm taking the wife on a cruise. To Europe.

Ah. Back to normal. :)

When fear strikes

Yawn. Sorry. I'm not feeling real blog-ish tonight.

It could be that I've got one eye on the football playoffs and the other on the keyboard. Or it could be that I still feel a little punky and probably ought to be curled up in bed (watching football, of course).

Most likely, however, it's fear. That's right. Fear.

See, fear has been my constant companion my entire life. It was there in third grade when that big Holloway kid knocked me on my ass during a pick-up football game and then wanted to fight. I ran. Although I suppose, looking back, that it might have been more intelligence than fear on my part -- seeing as how the kid was in eighth grade and bigger than my old man.

It was there when my parents divorced (violently). It was there in junior high, when the class bullies realized that my stepfather was a cop and decided to make my life as miserable as they possibly could. And boy, could they. To this day, when I see a locker room I break out in a cold sweat.

It was there when I left for the Air Force. Big time. And when I got out. And when I went to college, and got married, and went to rehab. And started my career, and had a kid, then another, then yet another. It was there when I got divorced (non-violently; some lessons can be learned). It was there when I went to South America treasure hunting and lived in fear of being kidnapped by Colombian rebels like my boss had been a few years earlier.

It was there when I quit my job, when I started my novel, when I finished it, and when I started the first round of revisions.

And it's still here. Big time.

It isn't nearly as frightening an opponent as it was in the past, however. Age does bring wisdom. And I often find myself sitting and wondering what I fear most -- success or failure?

Fear feeds on my insecurities. Fear requires that inner voice that tells me I'm not good enough in order to thrive. Fear never takes a holiday. And it's patient. Damned patient. It's always there, sometimes just under the surface, other times deeper than that. But it's always there.

So each time I sit down to this latest (and probably last) round of revisions before I start shopping the manuscript for real, the fear comes. Hard. And so I surf the Internet. I read a book. I watch television. I do anything and everything, except what I'm supposed to be doing -- revising the damned manuscript.

Because, see, I'm afraid.

But at least I can recognize it these days. That wasn't always the case. And fear no longer paralyzes me like it used to. I can get through it.

I can.

FAMILY MOVIE UPDATE: Our 12-year-old son has developed a massive crush on Molly Ringwald and now sighs wistfully as he stares at her picture on the CD case. He also is angry that he didn't get to live through the 1980s! I'm so proud of him.

I don't like Mondays - or do I?

I'm writing this in a kind of stream-of-conciousness fog, so hang with me. Okay? Coolio.

As of today at 5 p.m., I'm 1,796 words into the new novel and, so far, I'm very happy with it! This baby starts out big and bad and then it gets -- bigger and badder.

(I hope.)

Anyway, I wrote about 1,400 words today. That's about 400 words over my usual pace. And this despite one Monday-ism after another.

Listen to this:

First, we had to take our 12-year-old in to the orthopedic doc first thing this morning, where he was fitted with a "boot" to protect what the doc called a "displaced fracture" of the lower tibia. It's the ankle bone, essentially. Ouch. And, the kid was a little miffed since he wasn't getting a real cast, because real casts are cooler.

Then, I noticed I had two almost flat tires, both on the driver's side. Yeah. I wondered how that could happen, too. Especially since the car sits in a locked garage. Anyway, I limped the wounded puppy to a convenience store/gas station near where I live. And noticed that it cost seventy-five cents for air. Air! What is this world coming to? So I went in, and there's a line a mile long at the counter because some woman is cashing in a gazillion of those scratch-off Lottery cards! Dear God. Finally, after about ten minutes, I get to the counter.

Me: Hi. I need change for this dollar so I can put some air in my tires.

Lady: Sorry, we don't give change. You gotta buy something.

Me: I'm trying to. But I don't have any quarters and I have two flat tires. What am I supposed to do?

Lady: (Shrugs).

Me: So I've stood in this $#@&Y line for ten minutes for nothing?

Lady: Yep. And the air machine doesn't work anyway. Next!

I should say at at this point that there was some profanity involved on my part. Sorry.

So I limped the car up the road to a Mobil station (a real gas station!) and not only did the woman let me have air, but after I told her my story, she let me have it for free! Yay.

And then when I got home, I noticed the milk in the fridge was warm. And everything in the freezer was thawed and floppy. So I called the repairman, who had just repaired it a couple of weeks ago. He was, like, really busy. But he he talked me through getting the fan back on. (It was bad, folks. It even involved, like, turning the power off! It's a wonder I didn't electrocute myself.)

And then the glass sliding door on the shower came off. And it's a bitch to get back on, but I finally got it. Of course, I also cut the hell out of one of my fingers.

So I tromp downstairs to my writing area, angry at the whole world. And I wrote more than I have in weeks. Good stuff, too.

Maybe, if I'm really lucky, the cat will claw my eyes out tomorrow and the roof will cave in. Hell, I should have the book finished by 5 p.m.!

I mean, think of the possibilities here! Maybe if I break my own leg on Wednesday, and then the well goes dry and the furnace goes belly up ... well, watch out Pulitizer committee!

Bad weather equals good writing?

The weather here in central Illinois is nasty -- bitterly cold and snowy with wind gusts of more than 50 mph.

So what do I do? I hunker down in front of the computer screen for five-plus hours and bang out more than 2,000 words on my work-in-progress (hereafter referred to as WIP).

I would have done more, but my hands are aching. Seriously.

Now usually I'm good for between 500 and 750 words per day. I tend to spend the first hour or two editing and revising what I've written the day before. Then, once I am fully immersed in the story, I plunge forward.

It's going to take more than an hour tomorrow to wade through what I got down today.

How do you handle the bad weather?