Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

One of my lit star heroes is Ariel Gore. As a social work­er, I pressed Atlas of a Human Heart into the hands of the young women I worked with, one after anoth­er. And a ragged copy of her guide, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead, has staked a firm claim on our boat’s tiny book­shelf, going on its fifth sea­son aboard the Ner­ka. (Extra points of awe­some: an inter­view with Fish­er Poet/‘zine  Moe Bow­stern appears p140-147!)

Before You’re Dead begins, “Every­body knows it because Vir­ginia Woolf said it: You need mon­ey and a room of your own if you’re going to write. But I’ve writ­ten five books, edit­ed three antholo­gies, pub­lished hun­dreds of arti­cles and short sto­ries, and put out 35 issues of my zine with­out either one. If I’d wait­ed for mon­ey and a room of my own, I’d still be an unpub­lished wel­fare mom – except they would’ve cut my wel­fare off by now. It might be nice to have mon­ey and a room (or it might be sui­ci­dal­ly depress­ing – who knows?) but all you real­ly need is a blank page, a pen, and a lit­tle bit of time.”

Giv­en that Ms. Gore’s words are near-holy to me, I’m embar­rassed to admit my recent strug­gles. Our return to Sit­ka has been balm for my soul, but hell on my writ­ing. Find­ing a place to work has been tough. I haven’t made a sin­gle sen­tence of progress on my mem­oir. The chal­lenge of writ­ing A Whole Book – even one page, one freak­ing word at a time – feels ago­niz­ing­ly impos­si­ble, like rid­ing a uni­cy­cle with a flat tire up Ever­est. Blog­ging, so seduc­tive with its short sto­ry cap­sules and imme­di­ate­ly grat­i­fy­ing writer/reader exchanges, wins my atten­tion every time.

Some days I think Bear should be my ghostwriter.

I chewed on dis­cour­age­ment for weeks, before final­ly ‘fes­s­ing up to my writ­ing bud­dies. Of course I should’ve turned to them soon­er. Beyond gen­er­ous encour­age­ment and sup­port, they deft­ly flipped my frus­tra­tion into a fun writ­ing prompt.

Kari wrote, “Hear­ing about the places you’ve been forced to write kind of cracks me up. (The laun­dry room, the pay­phone room.) Maybe you should use that as a warm-up for your writ­ing ses­sions. Spend five min­utes describ­ing your writ­ing space of the moment. Then post to your blog!”

Pam sec­ond­ed that idea. “A blog about where you find your­self writ­ing these days is sure to be humor­ous and uplift­ing. Your read­ers will empathize, you’ll get good feed­back and have a good warm up, and the pos­i­tive feed­back will car­ry you through start­ing what seems to be impos­si­ble now.”

These are seri­ous­ly good friends – as well as excel­lent mem­oirists and blog­gers. Check out Kari’s blog, Rhymes with Safari, and Pam’s, Putting on my Big Girl Panties.

Their sug­ges­tion was well-timed. Just hours ear­li­er, I’d com­mit­ted to give some­one four chap­ters by the end of May. Break­ing my word to this per­son isn’t an option. So I’m going to step back from all oth­er projects for the com­ing weeks, ful­ly sur­ren­der­ing to hal­ibut fish­ing and chap­ter writ­ing, chap­ter writ­ing and hal­ibut fish­ing. For the most part, this hia­tus will include Hooked. Nec­es­sary dis­ci­pline for dis­tractible me, but bit­ter­sweet all the same. More than read­ers, you’re friends. I’ll miss our fre­quent conversations.

But a quick warm-up to get the words flow­ing, occa­sion­al­ly shar­ing my often-ridicu­lous sur­round­ings with you before div­ing into the chap­ters, after sur­fac­ing from hal­ibut bel­lies… That might be man­age­able. We’ll see. Apolo­gies for the radio silence, friends, and many thanks for your under­stand­ing and patience. I hope to see you on the oth­er side of the mountain.

Armpit deep in halibut.

Writer friends… Does this sound famil­iar? What are your favorite writ­ing prompts? Any per­son­al tricks you use for break­ing your projects down into man­age­able pieces? How have you got­ten through these funks?