Savvy 16: Be my Mosquito?

I've started writing a book. After a brief period of self-destructive behavior (no I really don't want to talk about it, and yes I do, actually, think that chocolate causes zits)...

I hired myself to write a book. I hired a friend to monitor my progress. We're both making the same amount: zilch. notta. zip. nothing. not a bit. I emailed her. I said, "Friend, would you be willing to accept writing product from me every Friday and if you don't receive it, would you be willing to give me hell?"

She responded yes, but only if she had an outline of the entire book by the end of the day.

And that's how I knew I'd faux-hired the right person.

And I want all the credit, every bit of it, because I knew enough to know that I needed her. The greatest writing teacher on earth, or one of them, (along with Jack Driscoll), John McPhee wrote a letter of recommendation for me when I applied for my MFA. He sent me a copy. It said..... and ..... and, "Peggy is disciplined, and she isn't."

Those are the only words I remember from that letter, which means that the rest of it must have resembled praise, which I am genetically predisposed to discount and forget. I don't really actually have discipline (witness the highly periodic nature of my blog, for example). So I have artfully, skillfully, compensated by leaning on my good friends, who are willing to make discipline for me. (Soon it will be become clear how I intend to rope you into this process).

I started writing three weeks ago. It's going to be like a travel journal, memoir, anxiety disorder, parenting book. (In addition to my gift for discipline, I am blessed with powerful focus). It will be targeted to women... and men... who... read. Which I recently learned isn't exactly what publishers are looking for. (who knew? Platforms? An existing base of keen readers?)

I started writing this book, and I am going to keep writing and I am going to give myself 3 months to churn it out and I am not going to stop until it's done, and then I am going to take two more weeks to rip it up and start over again and then I am going to give it to my writer's group.

I just wanted you to know that.

Well, actually, I want you to come along for the ride. In fact, I am asking you to be the momentum. I've told you that I'm writing a book which feels rather like standing naked at the end of the dock after convincing every one that it was the best night ever to go skinny dipping. There are times when, cold as that silky black water looks, diving in is better than standing on the dock, shivering and feeding mosquitoes. And once you're in.... it's always better. It really is. Well, for a while, anyway, until your calves start to ache from the cold and twitch and spasm, and someone standing on the dock in a warm towel yells, "snapping turtle." But we don't really actually need to go there.

For the first time, I told someone this weekend that I was writing a book and she said she wanted to read it because she wanted to know:
1. What would cause a (as far as she could tell from our first 30 minutes of contact, sane) person to take her children to Sri Lanka? and
2. What kind of a person would write 1200 pages of notes while she was there?

At first I panicked. I mean, really, I'm not sure i have the answer to that first question, and the second question is a little alarming on a whole different level. But then I realized it's all okay. I mean, she actually asked. Which means, she's a tiny little bit curious. Which means, hey baby, wanna be my platform?

I'm just guessing that a few times during these next three months I will try to climb out of the water. I will tell you that this story is not worth writing and nobody cares and it hurts too much to tread back through all this stuff and it just isn't worth the cold and the cramps.

All I'm asking is that when I do that, you make it unpleasant to stand back up on the dock. And if acting like mosquitoes doesn't work, just grab my ankles and wrists and heave me back in.

Are you game?