Writing Through the Bad Times

by Margie Carroll

I have vivid memories of my first job. Fresh out of college, I landed a position as assistant to the editor in chief with the bond-rating agency of record for the NYSE. I took the subway to Wall Street, sat in a dusty cubicle far from the nearest window and reported to a pipe-smoking, three-martini lunching, blue-streak swearing boss. He told me my surname (I was born Vodopia) was too difficult to use in bylines and assigned me a new one that was easier to spell. He had the proverbial heart of gold when you got to know him, but I thought he was a fire-breathing dragon.

I was hired to rewrite press releases in our corporate format for a daily newsletter that, in those days, had to be typeset by hand and mailed to corporate subscribers. We tracked all Fortune 500 companies. We had hourly deadlines. We wrote our stories on triplicate carbons and typed them on vintage WWII manual typewriters. Correction fluid was of no use, so if we made too many typos we had to start over with a new sheet or risk the editor’s wrath.

I felt like “Bartleby the Scrivener,” trapped in a corporate world of navy blue suits, when deep inside I imagined myself to be Colette, smoking clove cigarettes and sipping absinthe, perhaps, while writing works of heart wrenching literary achievement somewhere in Montmartre. I persevered. The curmudgeon kept me on, thereby proving he wasn’t so bad after all. And I learned to pound out copy on deadline.

My next job was aviation editor for the nation’s largest travel industry newspaper. We published twice weekly. The airlines were in the throes of deregulation, with old classics like Pan Am and Eastern going under, and new ones like People’s Express rising up to take their place. My new editor had a different style of management, but everything else was the same, especially the vintage WWII manual typewriters and tight deadlines. At least this time I got to use my real name.

I learned to write around a gaping hole in a story, plugging in as much as I could while I waited for a return call from a key source. I learned to juggle several features at the same time, putting them on the back burner and focusing instead on my spot news item once that phone call finally came through. I learned to type as fast as most people speak. I learned there was no such thing as a muse. I wrote as fast and accurately as I could, whether I had PMS, a hangover or jet lag. I sat next to the managing editor (don’t ever, ever accept a desk near the managing editor), and wrote even when people shouted or pounded on my desk for emphasis (nobody dared pound on his), even when fire alarms went off (this was way, way before 9/11, when reporters on deadline had to stay at their desk unless the editor smelled smoke) and even, once, when a mouse ran across my feet.

I churned out copy every hour of every working day, whether I felt like it or not. When the copy editors said they needed three hundred or five hundred or one-hundred fifty more words, I wrote to their specs. I got a reputation for being a good writer to work with. This meant a lot to me.

I loved my job, but I still felt like I should be writing fiction.

Fast forward twenty years. I was newly married, living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and had just given birth (by c-section) to our precious baby girl. My plan was to work from home, and I had started a new business. It was the middle of winter, with plenty of snow up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains where we lived. I was housebreaking our puppy (a Scottie - - they don’t take to it well even though they’re worth it).

I had three delicious weeks off before I had to work again.

I started writing a novel. I bundled that precious baby up when she was seven days old and shuffled (ouch!) down the path my husband had shoveled to our garage where my office was. I wrote a short mystery novella with an ensemble cast (curmudgeonly journalists and all). For once, my attempt at fiction paid off! The characters moved and spoke and did what I told them to! I didn’t have writer’s block! I still remember telling them they’d better do as I said - - I was a working mom now and I had no time to mess around.

I gave thanks to the slave-driving bosses I’d worked for in New York. They had taught me well. I sat in the chair and hit the keyboard. I made some sketches at night in longhand so I had some plan when I reached my desk. Once there, I wrote as hard and fast as I could to translate the pictures in my mind onto the page. My three weeks were up before I got to finish that novella, but I stowed it away in a special place to remind myself of my dream of writing fiction.

Months passed. We moved to Michigan for my husband’s job. Three weeks after we bought (another) seventy-year old house we planned to renovate, I got the phone call nobody wants. My husband had been involved in a terrible motor vehicle accident. He died at the scene. I was in a strange place, all our stuff was still packed in boxes in a new (old) house with our baby girl (now 14 months) and the Scottie (now fully housebroken – luckily!).

I was backed into a corner as completely as any heroine in any of our books. What to do? What would you do?

I sat on the couch and shook. For six months. One day I came to and decided I couldn’t look at that couch ever again. I hated it. I got rid of it and bought a new one. As everyone knows, shopping is the first sign a woman is on the mend!

I got busy writing. Not a feelings journal (gag). Not a memoir (barf). I wrote fiction, like I always said I would. I began another murder mystery. It became too dark and I had to set it aside. I found my way to GDRWA, thanks to Marianne Shock a founding member and past president who is also a neighbor. I took her advice and wrote a love story. About two people I made up. My own life was a smoldering ruin, but in my mind it was always springtime in Manhattan. Kit and Mark were falling in love, saying witty things to each other over candlelight dinners. They even got to shop at Saks Fifth Avenue.

I get up as early as I can every day and write till my daughter wakes up. That first year of writing I woke up most days at 4 a.m. I raced to my desk and sat in that chair whether I knew what I would write or not. It was the only quiet time I had. I wrote as fast as I could whether I felt inspired or not. If I was really stuck I went back and revised a scene I had already written. I joined a critique group of other GDRWA members (you know who you are) and Monday nights gave me a reason to put on makeup, eat pizza, laugh and read my work out loud. It helped me keep my sanity.

April marked three years since my husband’s tragic death. We’ve healed a lot and we continue to heal. My daughter is joyous and wonderful. The Scottie is, too. They remind me that life is a precious gift to be treasured.

My writing has grown by leaps and bounds, with no formal education other than the tremendous wealth of resources provided by RWA through list serves, online courses, the magazine and my local GDRWA chapter meetings (when I can get a sitter!).

My writing habits haven’t changed. I try to write every day. It works out to every other day, realistically, because life gets in the way. I write whether I’m in the mood or not. Whether I’ve had enough sleep (hah!) or not. Whether the house is clean (hah!) or not. I still love that new couch enough to vacuum between the cushions once in a while. I set a page count and don’t stop till I’ve achieved it. If I finish by noon, that’s great. I feel like I’m on vacation the rest of the day, or I try to increase it. If I don’t hit my page count, I try to get back to it at night after my daughter goes to bed. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I think about my characters a lot during the day. They must be thinking about me, too, because they know instinctively I am a busy single mom now with no time to waste – they need to do as I say! I love the feel of my fingers flying across the keys when I’m in the midst of a scene and I know exactly what needs to happen next.

I finished writing my romance. I achieved PRO status. A major publisher in New York is considering whether to buy my manuscript at this writing. I am thrilled to have come this far.

I am busy at work on the next. This is a longer, more ambitious story with more plot twists, more characters. I have doubled my page output per session (with less time in the chair). I am two-thirds of the way through the first draft in just three months’ time. It is amazing. Writing is like working any other muscle: the more you do it, the more efficient you become.

I am thankful for all the training I got as a journalist. But anybody can teach themselves the habits of productive writing! You don’t need a muse. You just need to sit in the chair and start telling a story. Write the part you’re scared to write. Within five minutes, you’ll be concentrating so hard you’ll forget all about cleaning your house or pulling weeds or whatever. This is the most important thing to me. Write the part you’re scared to write. Just dive in and do it. Personally, it’s why I don’t journal. For me, anything but crafting my scenes is just another way to dilly-dally around the hard stuff. Namely, writing the tough scenes. And once you do write the part you’re scared to write, you’ll learn something. Something you needed to learn. Anything. The next scene will be easier to write. That’s how we grow as writers. Not by worrying. By writing through the scary parts.

I have discovered that writing is not one more hardship in hard times. It is a mental vacation from my problems. It is a form of meditation for me because it focuses my energy on something positive and gives my weary earthbound brain a rest. It is an achievement I can feel good about at the end of every day. Writing refreshes my mind, energizes my body, renews my spirit and restores the sense of hope I lost during my darkest days. Namely, hope that I might be blessed to have another one of my dreams come true.

How many people dare to hold out any hope that their childhood dreams will come true, even when their youth is long past? We writers can. Our dreams will come true at any time if we work for them. We are blessed.

(Margie Carroll is a member of GDRWA. She is a former journalist and travel industry professional whose credits include 10 years as Director of Public Relations USA for British Airways, and two years as Director of Marketing & Advertising, St. Regis & The Luxury Collection, for Starwood Hotels. She is currently at work on her second novel, a thriller, Final Analysis. She lives with her daughter, Kathleen, and a Scottish terrier named Buddy.)

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