Deep Thoughts, Bruises and All.

First of all, Happy Holidays. No matter your outlook or what you celebrate, I wish you renewed joy and well-being.

Okay. Now. To the pressing matter at hand: keeping on in a time when the world rages and each headline is more bizarre than the next.

Every morning, I tune into the national news. I’d rather ostrich myself. Truly. But I do live in this jumbled period of history and construct stories, so I must, if not understand, at least observe.

I wear deep frown lines. Yes I do.

But I also own deep smile lines. Thank the heavens.

I used to be a blind optimist, the kid who found the pony beneath the pile of poop, the woman who trusted in ultimate peace and universal benevolence.

I’d love to say I am still that person. Alas.

My mother once told me I was a new breed, what she called “a bruised optimist.”  This is true. I still hold to the belief goodness and kindness exist, because they do. I bump into strangers in the grocery store, at the gas pumps, in line at some eatery: those who smile and pass a few moments, who seem to long for gentle interaction as much as I do. No social media post can rival the connection between people, no matter how brief.

In this season where hope and hatred bash against the glass in equal measure, I vow to bring bruised optimism to my work, to my interactions, to my world.

My very best to all of you. Should we meet in line for soup, or in some internet media queue, may we all offer balms for bruises.

A Writer's Come Undone--Some Words of Wisdom from a Survivor.

A Writer's Come Undone

A come undone.

If you're from the Deep South, you've heard the slang. If not, stick with me and I will drag you into the light.

Unraveled. Hit the wall. Stumped your toe on the block. 

Come undone.

If you write, you will have at least one come undone during your career. If I call it a career instead of a hobby, I force myself to take it seriously and hunker down to the work.

I do love an analogy, so here goes.

Compare a come undone to a plateau in a weight-loss diet. You've bumped along nicely for a bit, started to view the bathroom scales as a tool instead of a fiend. You've walked every day and avoided the bakery aisle. Then, it happens. You skid onto the plateau. 

Days pass without so much as an ounce slipping away. If you eat one more salad, you threaten to run naked, screaming, to Georgia. (Insert the state line nearest to you here. Mine is Georgia, and thankfully, not too far to run. If I was a runner. Which I am not.)

You rage. Consider giving up and wolfing down the cheesecake bars in the back of the freezer--left over from some long ago occasion, but why quibble.

You don't. You hang in there. Finally, the scale shows meager success. 

Until you hit yet another plateau.

A literary come undone follows the same spastic samba. I clip through the rough first draft, thinking myself somewhat clever. Days pass, months. 

One day, I sit down to the laptop and come undone.

Why am I doing this? Is it a huge waste of time?

I consider pitching the laptop to the curb, watching it arc high, then crash. Brush off my hands and go inside and, I dunno, take up dental floss crochet or clean the baseboards.

But I don't.

I persist. Write pure crap I wouldn't read to a rabid raccoon. Work through it. And guess what? My writing improves. A novel emerges on the other side (in this case, Secondhand Sister.) It is my favorite child, to date.

I did not major in creative writing. I grew up at the feet of master storytellers. Everything I've learned has been by trial and error, heavy on the error. Critique groups, beta readers, trusted author friends and editors: all have helped me limp my way along. 

None of us perform this art in a vacuum, though it seems very lonely at times.

And we all will stall at some point. If not, we're not digging in hard.

Breathe. Embrace your come undone. It will pass. The writer that emerges on the other side will gain a seasoned patina she, or he, didn't have before.

One more thing: come undones and chocolate mix well, for me. Find your crutch and lean on it. For a beat or two.

Then get back to that manuscript.

It's only a come undone, honey.

Rhett DeVane

Southern Fiction Author

www.rhettdevane.com