Optimism is essential for a healthy life, healthy vision in particular…sort of like Vitamin A. In fact, for the purposes of today’s post, optimism IS Vitamin A for AWESOME. Yet, especially since the pandemic made landfall we ALL know things have been far from awesome.

A lot has downright sucked.

I’m still teaching and fast-drafting and working because that is what professionals and—sigh, adults—do. But admittedly? It’s been a struggle. I’ve not left my house in 2.5 years because of the pandemic, multiple illnesses, and back in the spring we had to put my FIL in hospice.

Every day I have a husband or a son who might randomly start crying because everything is in the air. They feel powerless. Because they feel powerless, I want to cry because I want to make it all better and I can’t make it all better but also suck at this ‘crying thing.’

And there is always that inner voice saying, “Why are you so upset? What do YOU have to cry about? You could be a refugee starving in Africa and your children dying of dysentery while you’re running from warlords….WHEN YOU HAVE NO LEGS! You terrible awful person! For you, life is amazing and you are ungrateful.”

Maybe it is just me?

Call Me, Ms. Optimism

In 2009, when my grandmother (who reared me, so essentially my mom) was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s, I kept a good attitude. There were new medications, new treatments to slow down how quickly the disease could progress.

I’d bring Spawn (then a baby) to see her and they’d play Bubble Guppy games on my—okay, his—iPad. Brain games to combat the Alzheimer’s.

Then, my favorite aunt’s heath began failing, the woman who still did her own yard work even though she was ninety-four. Often, she’d be in the hospital at the same time as my grandmother, sometimes in the next room.

Optimism to the rescue. Hey, I can visit them at the same time. Read to them, bring flowers, bring the baby, and save time and gas.

In 2010, when my husband received orders to deploy to fight in Afghanistan, I maintained my optimism. We could do this! Sure, I was a new mom with a baby and a once-solid family that suddenly was crumbling and now my husband was heading for a war-zone, but I could do this.

Maybe I’d write a book about it.

On and on, death after death, loss after loss, through hurts, illnesses, and betrayals so deep I wondered if I might die…I maintained my optimism. Granted, I didn’t shine nearly as brightly, but the world had enough darkness. I didn’t need to add to it.

Nobody cared about my sob story.

Feeling Fixation

When it comes to being a writer, I’ve been on both sides of the fence. I’ve been the newbie who wrote when I felt like it, when I was ‘in the mood.’ I let everyone and everything get in the way of sitting down and putting words on the page.

Then, I learned that amateurs listen to their feelings and professionals get to work and get $#!@ done anyway.

I blogged no matter what. Someone died the night before? I’d cry after I posted and made word count. Deadlines gave no figs about feelings. If I wanted to be the best of the best, I needed to adopt habits of excellence.

This is very true.

I’ve been blessed to meet and know many of my author heroes (mega authors, names y’all would KNOW), and I’ve seen them make deadlines and keep writing when their world was literally falling apart.

Writing through pain, through parents dying and children passing and health crises and on and on. Putting words on a page in hospital rooms, during dialysis, right before and after major surgeries.

Granted, I want to point out these incredible authors did this for more reasons than simply being professionals. Writing was also a way of easing their pain.

But, still…pretty inspiring.

Suffice to say, when I’d meet a new ‘aspiring’ writer who told me they couldn’t write or even think of building a platform because they were SO BUSY. Because of the day job, kids, and family they simply ‘couldn’t find the time’ (as if time was laying around in the couch cushions).

My response? Pick another profession.

I didn’t have a lot of sympathy.

To be blunt, I still don’t.

We’ve become a culture driven by moods and that isn’t healthy. I can’t count how many writers I’ve encountered who claimed they wanted my help to be to be the next J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, Stephen King, Sue Grafton, etc. etc. but after we talked? They lost all their enthusiasm because being a mega-author was just so much…WORK.

Yeah…it is.

Or they’d write the next great novel—because it is so EASY—if only they had the TIME. Well, we were in lockdowns for how long? And maybe I missed the new dark horse Nora Roberts, but…

No, success, like in anything, takes years of work. Life doesn’t stop in the meantime just because we have a dream.

Granted, optimism sometimes is the lone lifeline we will have to keep hold of that dream. Optimism in the face of loss, suffering, pain, and betrayal can often be the only thing that keeps us putting one foot in front of the other.

It’s been that way for me.

When people I loved, whom I believed also loved me did the unthinkable? Hurt me in ways I still can’t wrap my head around? I HAD to believe something good would come out of it or risk coming apart at the seams.

Light Through the Cracks

There’s a meme/story I’ve seen passed around Facebook, particularly in spiritual circles. The idea of a broken vessel fashioned back together and how the light can shine through the cracks. Thus, the vessel is all the more beautiful for being broken, blah, blah, blah.

That is a lovely story, one full of optimism. It’s a story that I wanted to punch in the face…provided a story could be punched in the face.

Optimism Overdose

I come from a rough background and Viking stock. Was taught to have a pretty high tolerance for pain physical and emotional which can be good…but there is a fine line between being dependable and just plain being an idiot.

Getting up, getting to work, willing myself through even when I am mentally all over the place.

Back in my last major season of serious struggle, I defaulted to the methods that have gotten me through more tragedies than I care to relay, namely listening to positive books and willing myself to focus on what I am thankful for.

Surprise, surprise, it didn’t work. When the books that normally perked me up only sent me into depression or a rage, I downloaded a new book.

I $#@! you NOT, the first five minutes were full of that SAME STUPID ADVICE. Optimism is the answer. Focus on your blessings, on gratitude. Be thankful. Choose your attitude.

I lost it. Furious, I returned the book. I’d had enough. So help me, if anyone ‘sent in the clowns,’ I might have set them on fire. A daisy? I would have stabbed it. Our culture is dying because of a sugar addiction literally and metaphorically. Not only that but…

We are ALL TURNING ORANGE from too much Vitamin Awesome. And here we thought it was a bad spray-tan….

And I get it. We are a society out of whack. One side is all doom and gloom and manufacturing reasons to be in perpetual despair/hysteria. Our social media feeds are filled with people enraged over some fresh drama de jour.

Rage porn is the new social addiction.

Humans are addicted to being outraged. They ‘spread awareness’ all over our feeds so much that our every nerve-ending is exposed and raw. We can’t bear to open Facebook, let alone consider using it to ‘build a platform.’ Twitter? It’s basically MORDOR.

And, since everything hurts, we shut down.

To combat the rage porn, the sugar junkies post happy thoughts of the day and inspirational quotes on Instagram. Filtered images and cropped lives and tips for better this and better that, and how to enjoy the most from soup and laugh at salad.

I can’t help but look at my piles of laundry, the floor covered in grit because Nelson—albeit the fluffy adorable love of my life—flings kitty litter like friggin’ fairy dust.

I can’t stop staring the stacks of mail I have to sort through, the closets I need to organize, the…the…the…and all I can think is…

Did I FAIL Adulting 101?

You know that dream where you showed up to a class you didn’t know you were taking and it was the day of the final? And you hadn’t studied because you didn’t even have the book because you didn’t even KNOW YOU WERE TAKING THE CLASS?

THAT was the class that taught you how to be a functional adult, Kristen.

#ItAllMakesSenseNow

But don’t worry, these folks write scads of books giving advice on how to ‘turn that frown upside down’…and I want to burn it all down.

ALL OF IT.

Great People Sometimes Break Down

I’m like all of you guys. We’re all wonderfully different, and we all view life through our own unique lens. My lens is as a Texan reared in the Bible Belt. I frequently joke to fellow Christians that 1 Kings 19:5-15 is the first documentation of an angelic visitation with a Snickers bar.

Angel: Elija, so want you to know He DID receive your message. ‘You want to die.’ Yeah, so, request denied. Also, The Big Guy sent me to tell you that you’re a great prophet…but a total diva when you don’t eat. 

My POV? We don’t need another coffee mug, screensaver or mouse track pad with inspirational quotes. I adore Ghandi as much as the next person, but some days…just stop.

For my fellow faith folks, sometimes we don’t need any more uplifting scriptures..though maybe we could modify them?

Oh the plans I have for you, plans to cry your eyes out, eat all the nachos and finally admit you miss that person who stabbed you in the back and that it is okay to miss them even if it is NOT okay to let them come back in and wreck your life again…Amen.

Book of Lambentations …

#OhTheIrreverence

Lighten up. We’re all friends here.

Again, BALANCE the Optimism

It has been hotter than the hammered hinges of hell in Texas. I’m going through growing pains as a professional writer because publishing in the digital age is more slippery than eels in baby oil.

The point of all of this is, do not feel the need to always look on the bright side or for the silver lining. Embrace the darkness, move through it and give yourself permission to not be okay. Because, if I have learned anything through MANY seasons of being ‘not okay’ it’s that the more we avoid it, the worse it will be when the dam breaks.

Or is it the damn?

And ironically, I get that I am being somewhat of a hypocrite. Writing a post to make you feel better about not being okay. It is a mind-bender, so yeah just roll with it.

Life is a lot of things, a learning curve being one of them. I am still striving to balance the line between TOTAL FLAKE and WORK NAZI. If I locate it? Y’all will be the first to know.

What Are Your Thoughts on Optimism O.D.?

Do you wonder if you missed the Adulting 101 classes too? Is it hard to look at social media sometimes? Either the whole world is crap and burning down or we have to learn how ten ways to fit yoga and green juice into our lives?

Do you miss being unreachable? I take time regularly off social media because I’m already aware I’m a nut…but STILL.

Is it hard to see what you do well, what you have accomplished? Do you have a hard time being negative, too? It’s hard for me to cry, to be angry, to confess that I don’t want to look at my blessings. I want to scream and eat tacos but that’s a good way to choke #DontDoThat.

Am I off base? I firmly believe in gratitude and optimism and how we do have a choice in where we focus, but the all-sugar-all-the-time seems just as toxic as the rage channel.

Sometimes I just want to be in pain, to feel it and be allowed to feel it. I don’t WANT another blog about how to fix it. And yes, again, I admit that is COMPLETELY hypocritical but whatever. I love life tips, but also believe a good day of ranting and ax-throwing might make me feel better.

What are your thoughts…other than I’ve finally gone off the deep end?

Hint: Been here all along

I love hearing from you!

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The post Optimism Overdose: Sometimes Life STINKS appeared first on Kristen Lamb.

WHY do you want to write? Have you ever asked that question? If you have, did you stop to ask it more than once? With all the sacrifice that goes into writing and writing well, finding our WHY is critical if we hope to be successful.

I get it. It’s easy to get so caught up in the zillions of other factors that go into this ‘writing thing.’

In the digital age, there’s so much more authors are responsible for knowing, understanding, doing, and doing well. Things other than ‘the writing’…though the writing should be paramount.

Why do I care about us finding our WHY? Our why is what will keep us going even when we believe we have nothing left to give.

It’s what will keep us pressing when everyone else calls us a fool, and when even WE believe we’re a fool.

Without a WHY, being an author long-term is next to impossible.

Our WHY is the beating heart that keeps our muse ALIVE.

The burning reason, our WHY, is what separates writers from ‘normal people.’ Just so y’all know, it is NOT normal to sit alone and sit still and write hundreds of thousands of words.

***Just FYI, for all the writers. Forget about normal. The Normal Ship sailed long ago without you .

In all seriousness, though. Recently, I saw someone post a question on Facebook, ‘What motivates you to write?’ Now, I am being VERY careful here. I know the intent behind the question, but we’ll circle back to motivation in a moment.

What we do is largely amorphous. Until we’ve done enough to PRINT something substantial or make it into a book, writing is very much ‘in our heads.’

This means, since we don’t have a lot of tangible benchmarks (especially now), it is more important than ever to articulate WHY we are doing what we are doing.

Also, as a quick note, finding our WHY is something we’ll need to do repeatedly. Life changes, we change, and our WHY can/will change as well.

But WHYYYYY?

I returned home from speaking in Houston late Sunday. Since I put out a lot of energy when I speak, I had to slip into something more comfortable when I got home…like a COMA.

But, while I was in Houston, I had time to whine and moan have a heart-to-heart discussion with one of my dearest friends Maria Grace.

For many authors, finding our WHY has drastically changed in the past fifteen years.

Last post, I asked a touchy question. Do some people simply lack the talent to become successful authors?

This, inevitably brings up an existential discussion about ‘success’ and how ‘success’ is different for every writer. Yes, fair point. This is part of what we’re going to discuss today in regards to finding our why.

HOWEVER, when I’m discussing talent and skill, we’re covering entirely different territory. Granted, fiction is subjective. There is a bit a lot of wiggle room for what might be considered ‘good.’

And yet…

Even books agents turned down that later became a raging success via indie or self-pub still hold some commonalities.

We can still can see that the author a) actually told a coherent story b) roughly understood the rules of storytelling well enough that the average person didn’t need a GPS and a Dungeon Master to get WTH was happening and c) took the time for basic editing and proofreading.

When EVERYONE Can Be Published

I’ve been a content/developmental editor for going on twenty years. Before self-publishing, the WORST samples I received were better than some of the BEST samples I see now.

What’s changed? The WHY. Before self-publishing, the vast majority of writers would have chosen death over self-publishing.

The only way to publish—and be a REAL author—was to publish traditionally via legacy press.

In other posts, I’ve explicated the ads and disads and the changing business model, so no need to go through that again here.

Point is, publishing has changed.

When I used to tell people I was an author, their first question was, ‘Can I get your book in a bookstore?’ Now, the first question they ask, other than ‘Who are you and why are you in my house wearing my comfy PJs?’ is ‘Can I get your book on Amazon?’

Suffice to say, when I began my journey, craft was paramount…to the point writers didn’t want to learn ANY of the business of their business.

THEN, the pendulum swung and suddenly it seemed every writer out there was far more interested in becoming an advertising and marketing expert than learning how to write.

Ergo why we now have over a million NEW self-published books added to the market every year (and climbing).

How Do We KNOW?

Alas, what was I whining about discussing with a peer? Finding our WHY is much more tricky. When I was a n00b, this publishing success thing seemed so much simpler.

Write the book, finish, edit, land an agent, get a sweet contract, see your books in bookstores, and YAY! Then, have launch parties and book signings and strive for certain awards and titles.

I remember times I was so broke I was living on eggs and saltine crackers praying the power company didn’t shut my lights off.

Yet, in spite of all the people who openly made fun of me, who were even cruel to me, and through the weeks and months and years of work…I had a VISION.

I inhaled craft books, took every class, worked, sacrificed and grew rhino skin because ONE DAY I KNEW I’d have a giant display of my HARDBACK books in the front of every Barnes & Noble so na-na-na-na-boo-boo-stick-your-head in favorable Amazon algorithms and genre rankings.

*record screeching*

Critical Conversations

Anyway, so I relay all this to my BFF Maria Grace. How it’s so tough to define what ‘success’ is because the roadmap that existed for over a HUNDRED years is gone (or so different from what it once was we hardly recognize it).

I groused about not seeing my books in a bookstore where I could have a real bookstore signing and MG threw my own blogs back at me. Like how marketing, book signings, and ads don’t sell books and never have.

How (according to Book Expo of America statistics) as of 2004 (before self-publishing) authors had a 93% failure rate. As in of all published authors, 93% (almost all traditionally published) failed to sell more than a thousand copies.

And, of that 93%, over 50% sold fewer than 500 copies.

*weeping noises*

Only 1 out of 9 traditionally published authors ever saw a second book in print. MG reminds me of all these things and how, even though indie and self-publishing are far from perfect, they are still in a state of flux.

From all indications, authors can actually do better in the emerging publishing model. We just need to get through a CRAP TON some birthing pains. Changing an industry that hasn’t changed in over a century in a little over a decade?

Serious suckage, people.

Friends & Finding Our Why

Did I want to hear my own blogs used against me? NO. Even though I KNOW the old big-box model was a terrible system for authors, DANG IT!

I wanted MY BOOK DISPLAY…at least before Barnes & Noble completely buggered it all up. Ergo this is how the following conversation took place:

Me: Is it WRONG to want a hardback? To see my books in airport bookstores or on displays? Whiiiiiiiiiiiine….

MG: Not per se. But Kristen, why are these things important to you?

Me: Um, because.

MG: *patient saint face* Kristen, ‘because’ isn’t an answer.

Me: *fidgeting* Cuz.

MG: *stern face* ‘Cuz’ is abbreviation of ‘because‘ and still NOT a real answer.

Don’t you just hate love friends that make you own up to your own drama? Long story short, this discussion made me ask hard questions. Without the traditional benchmarks of ‘success,’how and when did I know when to celebrate?’

I needed a good friend I could trust to be blunt (in a loving way) to make me ask then answer the correct questions.

Sticking to old benchmarks that no longer exist or even serve us anymore is one of many reasons we need to find our WHY more than ONCE.

Finding Our Why the Hard Way

Today is October 9, 2019 and marks exactly twenty years since my father VERY unexpectedly passed away. For those who don’t know, my father’s death was particularly devastating.

First, no one had ANY idea he was even sick. He was an avid cyclist and he rode a bicycle literally forty miles a day. My dad worked in a high performance bike store and rode to and from work six days a week from Fort Worth, TX to Arlington, TX.

Seriously Google Maps that.

We spent weekends rollerblading and mountain biking together. My father and I were an extremely active duo.

My dad had never once called in sick to work in…decades.

Long Story Short

My dad had always longed to be a writer. He had notebooks full of poems and short stories all over the place. But, back then, computers cost about as much as a really nice compact car, so he wrote everything on legal pads and in composition notebooks.

It was about to be his 50th birthday, and I arranged a surprise birthday party. I’d managed to buy him a computer so he could finally live his dream.

Friends had the cake and food set up, and I’d fooled my father into believing I was coming to take him out to a nice dinner (which was pretty much what we always did for his birthday, so not a tough sell).

I’d NEVER been so excited for a birthday.

I was going to pick him up, take him to a party (he’d never had an actual birthday party in all my years growing up) and I was going to hand him the keys to his dreams. A PERSONAL COMPUTER.

Anyway, at the time, I lived about an hour away. I called his work and the guy there tells me my dad had called in sick (first red flag).

So I kept calling his cell phone and paging him to call me. I was desperate to know how sick he was, if I could help, and if I needed to move the party (or bring the party/his new computer to him).

Finally, I got him on the phone and his voice was very strange. I went from agitated about a party to scared that my dad was far sicker than I realized.

Dad, however, joked with me as was rabidly triaging him. Every time he spoke, however, his voice sounded stranger and weaker.

Then I heard the phone hit the tile floor. I yelled and screamed for my dad to pick up and nothing.

I hung up and tried calling back but the phone gave a busy tone. He also wasn’t answering my 987 pages.

My at-the-time-fiance walked in the door minutes later, and, shellshocked, I told him, ‘I was just on the phone with Dad, and I think he…I think he died.’

Denial

Since DENIAL is the first stage fo grieving, and people don’t actually DIE on their BIRTHDAYS, do they? I called my grandparents who lived only a few minutes away.

SURELY he was just super sick and I was being a drama queen.

I was too far away, so I begged my grandparents to go check on my dad and force him to go to the ER even if he refused. Call an ambulance if need-be, and I’d pay for it.

The next call back was from my grandfather to let me know that my happy, joking-literally-ALL-THE-TIME father was dead and nothing could be done. He was gone before they’d even arrived.

So I, of course, felt like the world’s BIGGEST JERK because I’d never even realized he was SICK. Not only THAT, but did I call 911? Nope. I sent his parents to find their eldest son deceased…on his birthday.

***Yes, this has required a lot of therapy and probably will require more.

Finding Our Why When There Isn’t One

Suffice to say, a surprise birthday turned into a surprise funeral. What I didn’t know until after the autopsy was that my father had esophageal cancer, which was one of the hardest cancers to detect (like you LITERALLY had to be deliberately looking for it).

There’s nothing inherently OBVIOUS about this kind of cancer, and it’s commonly misdiagnosed.

Usually, by the time doctors find it, the cancer has spread everywhere, so esophageal cancer has an extremely high fatality rate.

The reason my dad’s voice sounded so strange was his esophagus was closing off his air, and he was slowly suffocating (while talking to me…INSTEAD OF TALKING TO 911! *takes calming breaths*).

Anyway, I take some comfort knowing that I really couldn’t have known he was sick. As I mentioned, esophageal cancer masquerades as a lot of other common/benign ailments (sinusitis, acid reflux, etc).

It alleviates my guilt that, due to his advanced stage of cancer, there would have been no way to save him even IF I’d called emergency services.

I find some solace that our last conversation involved us cracking jokes, me telling him I loved him, and him being able to tell me the same.

This makes it a bit better.

Maybe I took his mind off his fear, because he HAD to know something was horribly wrong and chose, instead, to spend those final moments with me.

No way to know.

Finding Our WHY: Re-Gifting the Gifting

The strange thing is that, because of my father, I had always wanted to become a writer. We dreamed together from the time I was old enough to hold a pencil. How we would both be famous writers one day.

To be painfully honest, I really didn’t take the dream seriously. Instead, I went into corporate sales. Writing was something relegated to a back burner of ‘later.’ Finding my why had nothing to do with my life.

All that mattered was proving myself with a paycheck (which is likely why I was sick every day on my commute to work).

Then my father passed away. This taught me a brutal lesson: Tomorrow is promised to NO ONE.

And I took up the torch. My dad not being able to fulfill HIS dream was a huge impetus to pursue MY dream. In a strange way, his death gave me permission to step up and dare to dream big. Why me? Well, why NOT me?

This said, sometimes the WHY that’s meant to get us started isn’t designed to be our WHY forever.

I’ve accomplished most of the goals my dad never got a chance to even attempt. I started with finishing the book. Okay so it was 187,000 words long and an unreadable, unsalvageable mess….

But I FINISHED. That was/is still a HUGE deal.

Finding our why is critical because it helps clarify our goals and define our benchmarks for success.

If our idea of success is making money, then we’ll approach this business very differently than if success is writing simply to have fun WRITING (or something in between).

Just so you know, not every hobby requires monetization to be valid.

Finding Our Why Involves Change

Seasons change and so do we. Finding our why is something we should do regularly, because, if we’re operating off a motivation that’s older than our favorite yoga pants? It might be the reason we’re burned out and hate turning on our computers.

ESPECIALLY THESE DAYS.

In the digital age publishing world, we can easily become SO overwhelmed by all we should be doing (social media, platform, SEO, branding, tweeting, blogging, vlogging, clogging….) that we lose our WHY.

WHY did we start this writing thing to begin with?

Because we wanted to tell incredible stories. We LOVED books.

Start THERE and THEN everything else can fall into place. Most of us didn’t become authors because we dreamed we’d one day have b$#&in’ SEO, favorable rankings, or so many clicks on an ad.

Are those things GREAT? Sure! But only if in their proper place. Otherwise? Welcome to Burnout Land.

Life is short. And, since I’m speaking primarily to writers…

What’s Our Legacy? Check Our WHY

Our children won’t remember our Google rankings, but they CAN read and reread our stories. Friends can’t pass on or share our ‘favorable newsletter open rates,’ but they can enjoy our ‘imperfect’ novels long after we’re gone.

My father left me an amazing legacy—a powerful WHY. I’ve had the privilege of passing part of this legacy on to you guys. Not only through my books, but through every one of these blogs.

Twenty years later, it still hurts that I lost my father. But, I know if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here posting today. I wouldn’t have been through enough to tell you we NEED to find our WHY.

I’d likely still be in sales, because I never would have had a strong enough WHY to even dare to become a writer in the first place.

I’m pretty sure I never would have lasted as long as I have had I not been carrying my father’s torch. I wouldn’t have been able to push and grow and learn and reevaluate and come back time and time again….

…no matter how many bumps, bruises, failures and black eyes.

I cannot count how many times I’ve had comments or emails from authors who nearly gave up, who’d lost their way, or gotten so bogged down they nearly gave up.

Then they read one of my posts.

My father may have passed one torch on to ME, but I’ve made it my mission to use the torch I picked up off that lonely tile floor to and use that flame that nearly flickered out to help keep each of your lights burning.

So much light they can see us from SPACE, BAYBEE!

And it has been the greatest honor of my life.

I might not be able to measure success with my book in hardback (apparently those phased out with Jeggings *rolling eyes*). OR a fancy title (other than ‘Benevolent Overlordess of the Red Pen Society’???? Still working on that one).

Don’t yet have a the worldwide tour or the paparazzi….though when you’re stuck in Houston traffic you can pretend, right?

Like that ALL those people behind me were blaring their horns because they wanted a picture with me and NOT because they somehow think honking makes us…GO FASTER?

Whatevs…

Alas—five successful published books aside—I CAN say I can say a little bit about finding our why.

I’ve been posting on THIS blog since June 11th, 2009 and Y’ALL ARE WORTH EVERY SECOND OF HARD WORK. I have the most fabulous, intelligent and strangely good-looking fan base.

Almost 2,000 blog posts and 77,000 comments and hundreds of millions of unique visits later? Fair to say I think I’ve got a few wins.

If nothing else?

I’m still here. Which, in the digital age ,says A LOT.

Still HERE, in your corner. Here to give you tough love, more love, hard truths, more laughs and let you know that you matter. Your writing matters—regardless the reason you do it—so do yourself a huge favor and take time finding your WHY.

Then once you find it, always keep searching. The world needs more dreamers, more storytellers and more stories.

Happy 70th birthday, Dad.

What Are Your Thoughts on Finding Our WHY?

*cues Mom’s NY accent* Aside from I am a horrible, horrible person for making you wreck your mascara.

Did you start writing because of something BIG that made you rethink what you wanted to do? Was it something smaller?

What are the day to day things that keep you going? The benchmarks you celebrate? Was finding your why easy? Or are you STILL finding your WHY?

***Mine might be in the unfolded laundry *hangs head in shame.*

I love hearing from you!

And to prove it and show my love, for the month of OCTOBER, everyone who leaves a comment I will put your name in a hat. If you comment and link back to my blog on your blog, you get your name in the hat twice. What do you win? The unvarnished truth from yours truly.

I will pick a winner once a month and it will be a critique of the first 20 pages of your novel, or your query letter, or your synopsis (5 pages or less).

In the meantime, treat yourself to a class! Since I am on the road speaking, I will be loading the upcoming LIVE classes in a few days but take advantage of these sweet discount codes.

The Art of Character: Writing Characters for a SERIES ON DEMAND

Use Binge10 for $10 off.

How do we create characters that readers will fall in love with, characters strong enough to go the distance? Find out in this THREE-HOUR class that also comes with detailed notes and a character-building template. Again, use Binge10 for $10 off.

This class dovetails with my previous class:

Bring on the Binge: How to Plot and Write a Series (ON DEMAND). Use Binge10 for $10 off.

Need some help with platform and branding?

Branding: WHEN YOUR NAME ALONE Can Sell (ON DEMAND)

Use brand10 for $10 off.

Come join all the nerdy fun! See y’all in class!

THIS WEEKEND! Ever wonder if I am THIS weird IN PERSON? Spoiler alert! I’m weirder. Come see for yourself. I am keynoting in the Permian Basin so come join the fun!

***Bail money for getting kicked out of Home Depot not included in conference fee.

The post Finding Our WHY: The Beating Heart That Keeps Our Muse ALIVE appeared first on Kristen Lamb.

I think there’s one thing we can all agree about: it’s pretty awful that life doesn’t have a pause button when it comes to things like death and grief.

One of the things that Kristen always says (I call them Lamb’s Laws) is that real writers don’t wait for all the stars to align, perfect barometric pressure, and a good hair day in order to ‘feel the muse’ and write. That means that I’ve written parts of this blog on a plane from Boston to Indianapolis to grieve for a man who was like a father to me. I’ve written other parts in between condolence visits, remembrance services, and private moments of comforting.

Dr. Shahid Athar was a good man—a very good man, one of the few who truly lived the spirit of compassion, love, and charity that is central to all religions. He was an internationally-renowned doctor who would quietly slip away to volunteer his services in shelters. He was both deeply observant and an open-minded philosopher scholar who sought to bring faiths and communities together. He also had a wicked, sly sense of humor—I remember how he used to make my dad laugh until he cried, or the way I’d do a double-take when I realized he had just deadpanned a gentle burn on me. Oh, and his Fourth of July tandoori chicken barbecues for a hundred people were some of my best childhood memories.

Reverend Jerry Zehr, Dr. Shahid Athar, Rabbi Dennis Sasso – Carmel Interfaith Alliance

I got the news on Saturday afternoon that he was slipping away. I reacted as I usually do in a crisis: I made a to-do list. Flights, hotel, car, packing, last-minute work stuff…it was only late that night when I was done that I allowed myself twenty minutes to drink half-a-glass of whiskey and cry. Then my timer went off, and I blew my nose, drank some water, and went to bed.

Yeah, I’ve got a timeshare by a river in Egypt.

Vulnerable Author, Visceral Prose

Let’s be clear. I know very well that I am putting off dealing with all of this. I give it about two weeks before I randomly burst into tears in the middle of CVS on a Tuesday. I get it. But, I also know that every time I grieve, I learn something different about grief itself. And like all good writers with vaguely sociopathic and dissociative tendencies, part of my brain is busy observing and cataloguing all this and figuring out how to use it to gut readers with my words.

The thing is, though, in order to do that, I will have to do the thing I hate most in the world (aside from picking up the dry-cleaning—don’t ask, I don’t understand it either). I will have to allow myself to feel and express emotion.

While there are certain limits to the ‘write-what-you-know’ philosophy like committing serial murder to get the ‘feel’ for it, imbuing characters with genuine reactions requires us to draw on a very personal well of feelings and life experiences.

If we want a truly visceral reaction from our readers, we have to be truly vulnerable. The honesty of deep emotion is what brings us all together, whether we like it or not. *side-eye at Sarah McLaughlin*

Echoes of the Present

One of the unexpected things I’ve experienced with this death is what I’m going to call ‘reverb.’

It’s the unexpected way a death can echo other deaths. Losing a man who was like a father to me is not exactly like losing my father. But, there are enough similarities that the great bell of memory rings in the space in my chest, its dark resonance vibrating deep in my bones.

It’s not déjà vu because in a sense, it has happened before. The call. The flight. The last-minute arrangements. The feeling of racing against time to get there for a goodbye. The sense that life turned another corner while you weren’t looking, and there’s no going back.

But, it’s not actually my father. It’s another daughter who has lost her anchor. It’s another son who suddenly discovers just how much business death involves. It’s another mother we are reminded is also a wife as she grieves for a marriage that at its heart began and ended with two people in love. It’s another home where we keep looking up expecting to see a father stroll into the room with a joke and smile for everyone.

When a character is confronted by death, it’s worth taking a moment to ask ourselves who is it that they have actually lost, beyond the labels of friend and family. Was that person a trusted confidant? An enemy who should have been a friend? Even a complete stranger’s death can go beyond the label when we realize that person had a full life of experiences that we would never know.

A person only truly dies once, but memory is thousand mirrors that reflect it back to us a thousand times a day.

Living Death

Death is experienced in its entirety by the living.

I know, but bear with me. Death spans the dying process and the moment of stoppage, but also the moments, minutes, days, and weeks after. It is the living who feel the aftermath.

There is a physicality to death—even a peaceful one—that shocks us and rocks reality down to its foundations. It splits time into before and after, and yet if we think about the paradox of infinitely divisible time, the moment of death exists for its own little eternity. It’s counted in beats per minute, oxygen levels, complex chemical reactions, and the half-life of cellular decay. It’s a creeping cold and a moment of absolute stillness that nothing but death can create.

I was at my father’s side when he drew his last breath. We had turned off the monitors. There was no point in taunting us with its cruelly absolute measurements. Instead, I watched the fluttering pulse in my father’s neck. It was so strange to see that little vein gently jumping beneath his skin. Even stranger still was how it faded and stopped. His expression changed, from the soft half-smile of sedation to a more solemn and severe mien as the muscles in his face went slack without the spark of a living brain and the impetus of a manifested will.

When characters behold death, what is it they actually see? Do they smell the crisp, bitter antiseptic cleaner of a hospital room? Do they hear an annoying sniffle of someone who just won’t blow their nose? Do they feel the chilly weight of a hand that will never hold them back?

Death is the end of a single story, but death lives on as a grim rule of punctuation for those whose survive.

There is no Cure for the Ugly Crying Hangover

One of the reasons I hate crying is because I always end up with gritty eyes, a snot-induced sinus headache, and an overall sense of being slightly puffy.

It’s not that I don’t cry. I can and do. *once more, throws shade at Sarah McLaughlin*

I know people who don’t really ugly cry. They won’t exactly win any beauty contests, but they don’t do the hiccupping-while-dripping-snot-that-ends-up-choking-you thing that makes people hesitate a fraction of a second before going in for the hug.

I hate those people.

Another thing I hate? When people recite to me the five stages of grieving. I want to take that linear progression and beat them with it. In reality, the five stages of grief are really most like a pinball machine.

We ricochet from anger to denial. Acceptance bounces back and forth between bargaining and depression. The first year alone after a death is a grief-stricken jackpot of shock, bad life choices, acting out, and fractured relationships.

I couldn’t wait to be done with all the ‘firsts’ – the first birthday, Fourth of July, Halloween (yeah, that holiday had me sobbing as I watched trick-or-treaters because he loved greeting them and giving out candy). I don’t remember much about the first Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year’s because frankly, I was either half-in-the-bag or fully in-the-bag. Not my proudest moments, but I have yet to be judged for grieving in a very imperfect but very human way.

The same goes for characters. Sometimes, we struggle to have characters make the bad decisions that give them depth and create the conflict necessary for good stories. Death and grief give characters a way to be irrational and make bad decisions without making them unsympathetic.

Death is a Party

Go to any wake or at-home receiving time, and you will see the same tableau play out. The food might be different, the language might be strange, the gods foreign, but I will bet you two bits* (one of my father’s favorite phrases) that you will see the following cast of characters:

• The Organizer: Kind, busy, slightly harassed, slightly put-upon-but-secretly-enjoying-the-sympathy-of-being-the-hard-working-one…in other words, the Munchausen by Proxy griever;
• The Drama Queen: Usually centrally seated in living room, and also usually the prettiest crier in the family…willingly recites the account of how the defunct passed on over and over again for each visitor, basking in the spotlight of their sympathy;
• The Sh!tface Drunk: Can usually be found brooding out on the back porch because he/she hates people in general and doesn’t have the words to express the depth of their sorrow…also liable to engage the Drama Queen in World War III after the guests have left;
• The Angry One: A sober version of the Sh!tface Drunk…liable to engage the Drama Queen in World War III while the guests are still there, and also prone to snapping at the Organizer;
• The Inappropriately Cheerfully Spiritual One: Voted most likely to inadvertently trigger the Sh!tface Drunk and the Angry One into lashing out…also shunned by the Drama Queen because optimism and acceptance totally ruin her grief game.

I know this is pure snark, but death often brings out personality traits that usually lie dormant. And, as much as death brings families and friends together, it is also an occasion littered with the landmines of conflict, misunderstandings, and miscommunication.

And, like I said earlier, if you’re like me and have those vaguely sociopathic and dissociative tendencies to always be observing and analyzing, death’s mix of irrevocability, emotion, money, and words is a volatile, combustible substance that practically guarantees good drama.

Like Fathers, Like Daughter

My father was unwavering in his faith that I would someday be a writer. Yes, he was encouraging and supportive when I had other jobs or got promotions, but he would always say at the end, “Just remember, Caity, you were meant to be a writer.” (And just so people don’t get any ideas, only my father, my Uncle Shahid, and his family are allowed to call me Caity.)

I made a deathbed promise to my father to become that writer. I’d like to think he heard me in his sedated state. More importantly, I know he would be happy that I accomplished this goal for my own sake and my own future.

Father and Daughter

Uncle Shahid was also an author. He published numerous books about Islam, both for the Muslim community and for the general public in his relentlessly optimistic drive to bring people of all faiths together. He believed people could be better. He believed in the power of words and communication to build bridges over the chasms of fear, ignorance and prejudice. He fearlessly tackled subjects like balancing the advances of modern medicine with the ethical concerns of contemporary Islam, healing the wounds of September 11^th, and how to communicate healthy attitudes about sexuality to Muslim youth.

He wrote books of poetry and reflections on prayer. He was a newspaper guest columnist. And, let’s not forget, he wrote scientific and medical research papers for his work as an endocrinologist.

He did all of that while speaking English as a fourth language after Urdu, Arabic, and Hindi. He could also tell jokes in all four languages. As I sit in his study writing this, I am looking at the wall-to-wall bookshelves filled to overflowing with books on everything from the history of medicine, to classic literature, to Native American art. I will miss his passion for the written word.

Nine languages, four religions, four immigrants, two citizens born, three life-threatening chronic illnesses, countless heated discussions about cooking…and a lifetime of memories with my family.

Shahid Athar was the father who stood by me as my dad drew his final breaths, and who—from memory—began to recite one of the poems both he and my dad loved:

UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you ‘grave for me:
Here he lies where he long’d to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

– Robert Louis Stevenson

I’d like to think that they are laughing together somewhere, arguing about some outrageously academic, esoteric, political, religious, literary, technological topic…or maybe they are just comparing notes on the daughter who is writing this and missing them.

 

Left-Right: my father Dr. K.C. Khemka, my other father Dr. Shahid Athar. Friends and brothers once more together.

Whether it’s grief, love, anger, commitment, or loss, what emotion that scares you the most to put down paper? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Upcoming Classes for August & September

Brand Boss: When Your Name Alone Can Sell

Instructor: Kristen Lamb
Price: General Admission $55.00 USD/ GOLD Level $175
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Thursday, September 13th, 2018. 7:00-9:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

Building Planet X: Out-of-This-World-Building for Speculative Fiction

Instructor: Cait Reynolds
Price: $55.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Saturday, September 8th, 2018. 10:00 a.m.—12:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

Populating Planet X: Creating Realistic, Relatable Characters in Speculative Fiction

Instructors: Cait Reynolds & Kristen Lamb
Price: $55.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Saturday, September 8th, 2018. 1:00—3:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

Beyond Planet X: Mastering Speculative Fiction

Instructor: Kristen Lamb
Price: $55.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Saturday, September 8th, 2018. 4:00—6:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

The XXX Files: The Planet X Speculative Fiction 3-Class Bundle

Instructors: Cait Reynolds & Kristen Lamb
Price: $110.00 USD (It’s LITERALLY one class FREE!)
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Saturday, September 8th, 2018. 10:00 a.m.—6:00 p.m. EST.

REGISTER HERE

Recordings of all three classes is also included with purchase.

Go Fish: Finding the Right Beta Readers

Instructor: Cait Reynolds
Price: $55.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Friday, August 24, 2018. 7:00-9:00 p.m.

REGISTER HERE

More Than Gore: How to Write Horror

Instructor: Kristen Lamb
Price: $40.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: THURSDAY, August 30th, 2018. 7:00-9:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

Keywordpalooza: Tune in, mellow out, and learn to love keywords for Amazon

Instructor: Cait Reynolds
Price: $55.00 USD
Where: W.A.N.A. Digital Classroom
When: Friday, September 7, 2018. 7:00—9:00 p.m. EST

REGISTER HERE

The post Death Becomes Them: How Characters Come Alive in Death appeared first on Kristen Lamb.