- What felt good this month? This has been a strange-feeling month. I’ve been writing a lot, living in other times and places, and inside other bodies. And honestly, that’s what feels good: writing. It’s my safety net, my therapy, the thing that I do when I’m feeling low (or high! or in-between!), the work that brings me courage and hope. Taking this question in a different direction, it also felt really good when both of my parents got their first dose of vaccine. The relief was overwhelming.
- What did you struggle with? I struggled with confidence in my leadership abilities. But I struggled on through that struggle and kept doing the work I’ve signed up for: and tonight is the Open House for The X Page workshop! We’ll be meeting and greeting the women who’ve applied to join this season, and while I’m feeling a bit nervous and hoping it all goes smoothly (online tech adds an extra layer of eep!!), we’re well-prepared, and excited, and ready to roll. On a different subject, I’m also struggling with increased anxiety over the current pandemic situation… it feels like we / our province might fumble the ball in the end zone.
- Where are you now compared to the beginning of the month? I’m okay; same response as last month. I’ve been doing a shit-ton of meditation (I like Tara Brach), kundalini yoga, hatha yoga, trying to attune my awareness to my emotions, in order to take a breath before responding. Is it working? Actually, there have been stressful situations in the past month when I was able to be kinder and more understanding to myself, when debriefing afterward. The instinct for kindness arrives much sooner than it once did.
- How did you take care of yourself? See above. Meditation, yoga, writing. But I could be making more of an effort to go for walks with friends. I could be making more of an effort, period. My self-care waxes and wanes. Seems to be on a bit of a wane, as I take my temperature today. Maybe it’s the sweatpants: comfort and self-care, or sloth and utterly giving up? Hard to tell the difference, some days.
- What would you most like to remember? My baby turned 13 a few days ago. I would like to remember that. Not sure what exactly I’ll remember about it, but it felt momentous, like we’d officially graduated to a new plane of parenthood. We have the diploma. You know when your kids are babies and everyone is always telling you: it goes so fast! And you’re like, okay, but I’ve changed ten diapers today and my hands are chapped and cracked and I haven’t slept more than three hours at a stretch for several years — could it go a little faster, maybe? Well, it does, and then it’s over. And the truth is that now I harbour the exact same urge to run around warning everyone with babies: It goes so fast! Enjoy this time! You’ll miss it!
- What do you need to let go of? Outcomes. Process is so much more valuable than outcomes. Or maybe it’s that most of the things I value are unquantifiable: connection, moments of peace, learning something new, gaining a new perspective, experiencing generosity, awe, appreciation. And while I love creating the structure necessary to achieve a project, it’s all the little bits of living that happen within that structure that matter most. The work happens on the ground: grassroots work, civic engagement, trying to live the change you want to see in the world. I love putting my beliefs into motion, into action; but peace comes from understanding that it’s the work that counts, not some perfect outcome. When I know that, in my bones, there’s energy to continue: renewable energy! It’s not on my shoulders to fix the world or save anybody (that’s where boundaries come in); but it’s in me to participate, listen, engage, and let my heart lead.
A good writing day is like manna, like heaven on earth, like a happy dream. You feel purposeful, adventurous, inspired. You’re carried along, you’re surprised and delighted by what you find.
But that’s not today.
Today’s revelation comes from a different place: Today was a slog.
You weren’t very happy with the bones of the story you’d laid out yesterday, and it felt insurmountable — the problems to overcome, the incoherent structure, the didactic tone, the clumsiness, the exposition. But you went ahead and tried, anyway, to dig into the story. To write.
And guess what! Note to self!: Even a writing day that feels like a slog is a glorious accomplishment. Maybe even more than the day that felt easy. Because you didn’t give up. Because you were kind to yourself. When you read over the ragged sentences, you didn’t say: this is crap! (Even if it was.) You said: this is a very rough draft. All drafts start out rough.
This is what a rough draft looks like.
This is a start. You start by telling the story to yourself.
Then you dig in, you get your hands dirty, you notice what’s alive and you go there and pay attention, and gradually these piles of bones begin to fit together, to fill out into a story that you can do something with.
Revise, play, revise, play.
It’s play, this process. Like playing imaginary games as a child, where there were rules but you were making them up as you went, and there were always more possibilities, depending on who or what drifted into the scene, and you got to get dressed up and be someone else, a changeable someone depending on what was needed, and you packed a snack, and you climbed a tree, and you sat up there, pretending till it seemed the world was yours to make and make up.
The slog is all of this. So don’t fear it, jump in.
Last week I attended live webinar sessions on publicity and marketing, hosted by Penguin Random House, and open to any PRH author. (Please don’t stop reading just because I said “webinar”!) My only expectation was that this would be outside my comfort zone; and that I needed to attempt to engage on this subject, and at least acknowledge the truth that to publish a book is to be called to champion that book. And let’s be frank: the call to personally champion and publicize one’s own book feels overwhelming. (A stat dropped during one of the sessions: over 200 books are published each week — that may be a US-specific stat, but the point remains. It’s a crowded marketplace. What’s a writer to do?)
First, I want to confess that I enjoyed the webinars a lot. (This may be a sign that a) I’m starved of peer-to-peer contact and b) must start inviting friends over again to the back yard shack — it’s been a long, cold winter!)
Second, the most practical advice I gleaned is to tailor your approach to your own interests, abilities, affinities. Also useful: if you’re using social media for publicity purposes do it like this: get on, post, get off. At one point, someone said “You’re looking at branding yourself for a clear trajectory long-term,” and I wrote in my notes (oh god, I have not done this well at all!), by which I meant having “a clear trajectory.” I won’t even touch the subject of branding, but the question that kept humming around my brain was: Is anyone going to ask what happens when you make yourself into a brand? (No one did, me included; honestly, it wasn’t the right forum for that question, if there is a right forum.)
Third, the sessions made clear that most successful writers get good at a bunch of things (podcasting, publishing a newsletter, posting videos on TikTok or streaming on Instagram Live, or teaching, speaking, etc.), and the books they publish are just one thread in a web of activities, built around their interests and expertise. Okay. But does this apply more aptly to writers of non-fiction: academics, public figures, chefs or doctors? Maybe; I observed that most of the best-selling authors profiled in these sessions were writing non-fiction. However, I think this approach can make sense for fiction writers too — if it builds and develops naturally.
Confession: I’m resistant to the idea of self-promotion. It feels self-serving, and I’m uncomfortable with that; further, it’s the part of the job that in the past drained my energy and ambition, filled me with dread and fear. Even writing this post is giving me twitches of shame. I sense myself needing to explain: everyone does it, it has to be done, they’re telling me I need to be good at this, I’m just trying to figure out how. Please forgive me, please don’t hate me.
That desire to be liked goes deep, but it’s not just that; I’ve been conditioned to believe, way down deep, that women who stand up and demand an audience aren’t just unlikeable, they’re vulnerable. These are deep fears. Drawing attention to myself, becoming a target, getting mired in ego, serving self not others, making claims that maybe can’t be met, over-stepping, saying the wrong thing, getting too comfortable and getting knocked down … so many fears. But here’s what I know: anytime I approach a problem or a goal from a place of fear, I get knotted up, confused, entangled, and overwhelmed.
There is another way, a different approach: to come from a place of clarity, grounded, focused on the goal, attuned to changing contexts, curious, open to learning, and connected to the source of my own values and purpose. Picture a tree with deep roots, branches moving, changing with the seasons. (There’s my vision for a clear long-term trajectory!)
Here’s what I’ve decided to do. I’m going to accept my own challenge, and begin this marketing/publicity exploration from a place of curiosity, by asking:
What resources are already available to me? What am I already practiced at doing? What do I already know?
What would I like to learn or try out? What am I curious about?
Who is with me on this path? Who are my collaborators, mentors, friends and peers? Where do we meet?
What compelled me to write this book, and why does it matter so much to me? What themes and interests are woven into this book that connect with my world and perhaps also with yours?
Answers (musings, reflections, wonderings, and likely more questions), coming soon.
PS I’ve been signing up for more live online events, and I’ve noticed that it’s the live part that works. Has anyone else found this too? Even with my microphone and camera off, it feels like I’m part of something — an audience member, a participant, engaged, ever so slightly necessary to the proceedings; pre-recorded doesn’t compare. (Then again, neither does live in-person, but we take what we can get right now!)
A year, a year, it’s been a year. We’re all thinking about this, aren’t we. Where we were a year ago when we knew. When we knew that something big was happening to us, out of our control — something that was shifting the ground under our feet, cancelling our plans, sending us indoors to scrub all the surfaces, separating us from friends and loved ones, making the world go quiet.
A year ago, I was so busy, so squeezed for time, so exhausted, stretched so thin, that when everything got cancelled — the X Page workshop, soccer, school and kids’ activities, the gym — what I felt in the immediate aftermath was simple relief. I was so tired, it seemed I’d been operating on the verge of collapse. Suddenly, I could sleep, and sleep is what I did, sleeping, then staggering around in a blur, checking twitter a million times a day as if I could discover an accurate prediction of the future, or figure out how to assess risk. I suppose we’ve been trying to figure that out all year. A year on, we know more, collectively, about the risks and about what mitigates risk, including wearing masks, which we didn’t understand in those early months when instead we were bleaching the countertops and sanitizing the doorhandles and washing our hands till the skin cracked.
It wasn’t until just now, as the anniversary has come upon us, that I’ve recognized my own feelings of grief and loss. It’s been a year of pause. We’ve experimented, yes, we’ve tried new ways to interacting, we’ve baked sourdough bread, and gone for hundreds of walks, and helped each other out. Some of this is working quite well: I love doing yoga online in my own little studio; I love chatting with Grandma on Zoom. And I’ve loved having this extra year with all my children still living at home.
But … but … for me, as for many of us, I’ve lost some part of my identity, I’ve lost work and volunteer opportunities, my kids have lost much of their spontaneous social interactions with peers, and I have too.
Many of us have been more alone. Or, we’ve seen people we love struggle, being more alone, and we’ve been unable to help in the ways we ordinarily would and could.
And while I’ve learned a lot that I want to keep from this past year, I’ve learned, too, that it’s important to acknowledge what I’m carrying. And the truth is that this year has felt strangely empty, like lost time. I don’t know how to explain it. But there it is. Looking back across this year is like looking at a scene in which almost nothing moves. It’s quiet. I can hear the wind and the birds. It’s eerie, too. There’s something on the edges of this quiet that is unsettling; uncertainty; a continual unfolding in all directions toward an unknown horizon. That’s what I see when I visualize this past year.
Others will have a very different picture in their minds.
I haven’t been anywhere near the front lines. Those stories of this year would be completely different in tone and energy, learning, loss and grief.
Here’s the thing. I don’t know what I want to do next.
Part of me wants to burst with the coming hope of spring and vaccines and reopenings. Part of me waits, wary and cautious, unwilling to venture any guesses, or name any desires.
And part of me floats above all this, and says, hey, this day, this hour, this moment is what you’ve got, and you are safe, you are loved, you are not alone. Let yourself be here, unfolding out toward unseen horizons.
- What felt good this month? This month passed in a flash! I won’t say it’s been easy, but a few things that felt good involved small actions that directed my energies outside of myself. Being a fiction writer doesn’t offer many opportunities to directly serve or (even interact with!) others, which is something I struggle with, but these actions made sense for me, right now: I donated blood (first-time), and will donate again, because I can—(At the clinic, I kept thinking of that slogan “It’s in you to give”; it felt like an uncomplicated way to be helpful); I’m in the midst of helping organize season three of The X Page: applications are open now to refugee and immigrant women in Waterloo Region, who are interested in storytelling—please spread the word!; I enjoyed Tuesday morning conversations with my grandma, who lives in Indiana; I got more involved at church; and I had fun sending out daily messages for two weeks to my word of the year group, as we did a “tea cleanse” together. My days are spent mostly inside the same rooms of the same house with the same people; reaching out felt really really good.
- What did you struggle with? Apparently, I struggled to remember this question existed! Somehow, it got lost while writing the original draft for this post; I’m answering it today, March 2. I struggled to figure out how to support my children, all living under this same roof, while also offering them independence, autonomy, and the “right” amount of responsibility. Are my expectations too low, too high; do they have enough opportunities to separate from me and be with their peers? Teenagers need their peers, a lot. The pandemic has made these important years for developing independence very challenging to navigate (and it wasn’t easy in the first place). So, parenting. That’s been a struggle, and these micro-decisions, made daily, weigh on me.
- Where are you now compared to the beginning of the month? I’m okay. It feels like spring is in the air … but not quite near enough. I’ve been working steadily on a writing project, and have heard from my editor with a revised timeline for my new novel: all good! Within the waiting, I can still be productive and find focus and hope.
- How did you take care of yourself? This one’s a bit tricky, at least this past month. I’ve got solid habits and routines: I practice those daily; sometimes they bring me joy, but sometimes they’re just plain shoring me up, which is often what they felt like this month. Self-care has looked like this: Rarely drink alcohol. Exercise most days. Stretch often. Eat homemade food. Give myself permission to veg. Tell my body how awesome it is (this is more important for women raised in the 1980s and 90s than you might realize!). Play the piano: I’ve been doing this almost every day, and it’s freeing and fun.
- What would you most like to remember? That I like reading novels all in one gulp! Take a Saturday, Carrie, and just lay on the couch and read a novel from start to finish. It’s the best escape imaginable. (Just finished Lily King’s Writers and Lovers; and before that, Jess Walter’s The Cold Millions.)
- What do you need to let go of? Shame. The fear of doing things wrong and offending people. The fear of being unworthy, or embarrassing, or flaky, or foolish. It would be so lovely to give myself the gift of trust. I’d love to enter the world freely, messily, making mistakes and owning up to them, and learning from them; getting back on the horse, again and again. I need to let go of my craving for acknowledgement and permission. And just get on with doing the work.
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My name is Carrie Snyder. I'm a writer of fiction and non-, reader, planner, dreamer, arts organizer, workshop leader, mentor/coach, forever curious. I'm interested in the intersection between art and spirituality. What if the purpose of life is to seek beauty? What if everyone could make art?