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Thursday, July 02, 2009

GUEST BLOGGER: VICKI HINZE




IS WRITING WORTH IT? Yes, When You Write from the Heart






As writers, we often ask ourselves if writing is worth the sacrifices it takes. We often wonder if we should keep writing or stop. We often wonder if we’re going to get to the end of our life and look back with regret that we spent it as we did.






If you’re like most writers, you’ve wondered these things and more. And if you’re a people person you’ve no doubt asked yourself this type of thing even more because writing requires you to spend so much time alone.





For many writers, it’s a dilemma. But it’s one I’d like to solve for writers today through two examples.






A few years ago, a close online friend was dying. I was one of many writers called on to send messages to her. And I’m telling you, that was the toughest writing I ever did. So tough that right after her passing, I wrote an article about it. I’m sharing it here so that you get the full grasp of my thinking on this dilemma.










The article is the first example, and it follows:






There are times of uncertainty and doubt in every writer's life. Times when all the hard work, the frustrations, the efforts, and the isolation inherent to executing the craft seem to narrow to one question in the writer's mind: Is it worth it?

Is it?

We give up our hobbies, or limit our time investment in them, to focus more intently on developing our skills. We lower our standards in areas of our lives that we once had adhered to fastidiously. Now, we consider it far more noble to ignore chores in our homes to study, so that we might get past that psychic distance challenge we're facing in Chapter Three of our current Manuscript-in-Progress. By necessity, we isolate ourselves from those whose company we enjoy--during deadlines, even from our families. We're confident that our dedication will propel us to success. Our investment is worth it. We will reach our goals.

And then something traumatic happens (our publisher ceases operations, our line at the house folds, our editor leaves) and we're tossed into a pit of despair where investment doubts return with unrelenting vengeance to assault us with that confrontational: Is it worth it?

We debate, mull, and consider. Discuss our uncertainties with our families, our peers, our mentors. We weigh and measure and, somehow, we adjust to our new circumstance, then focus on alternatives, on solutions, on new paths to explore. We endure. Our creative selves survive. And we again convince ourselves that we are spending our time wisely--and exactly as we must spend it. We are writers. Writing is worth the physical effort, the emotional investment, the sacrifices it demands. We go on, pursuing our dreams and working toward our goals.

As if being rewarded for our persistence, some small success (which seems large to us, due to our need) comes our way and we feel vindicated. The investment was wise, the struggle worth everything it took, and more. Confirmation smells so sweet and brings us such contentment.

Until the next time we're dumped into the pit and doubt assaults us.

Then we suffer a focus shift because Is it worth it? now has company. A new question lands on the scene to torment us: When will these doubts stop?

Obviously, I can't answer for everyone. But I can answer for me. My doubts ended on January 8, 1995 at 12:50 p.m. CST: the moment a beautiful writer named Suzanna died.

Suzanna exemplified my vision of a heroine. She was clever and courageous and beautiful, inside and out. Her battle with death was a long, hard one that she fought admirably. She inspired smiles, and she radiated strength.

In excruciating pain, two days before her death, Suzanna reached out to friends, saying she needed their strength. These friends were a group of writers on GEnie's Romance Exchange. I was one of them.

Most people are uncomfortable with death, and shun it. Writers are not immune to this discomfort, yet we rallied and wrote individual letters to Suzanna. I was very worried about writing this letter. Suzanna had been such a tower of strength throughout her illness. A person who reached out to help others, but rarely asked for anything herself. Now, she desperately needed support, and I didn't want to fail her. When I sat down at my desk, I knew I would be composing the most important writing of my life, and I wasn't at all sure I was up to the challenge.

I prayed for the right words, for the ability to link them cohesively and clearly, to say precisely what needed saying in the right tone and style to give Suzanna what she hoped to find on the page—strength. I prayed for competence, for the skill to convey a message of sincere support, but not of pity. Suzanna was far too remarkable a person to pity. And I remember being comforted because I wasn't alone. I knew all my GEnie sisters were composing their letters, suffering these same fears and doubts, praying these same prayers.

The decade's worth of studies and struggles, of time and effort, the wisdom gleaned from my many mistakes, my every trial—all merged inside me, and I wrote the letter. I did not use the word heal nor death—the time was near, we both knew it, and I would never insult Suzanna's intelligence or the courage she'd displayed by pretending otherwise. Yet I somehow was blessed with not being reduced to falling back on time worn clich├ęs. I reminded Suzanna of all the kindnesses she'd shown others. Told her that she had made a difference. And I wished her peace.

Along with those of my GEnie sisters, my letter was read via phone to Suzanna. Within moments, I plunged into the pit of doubt. Had I said the right things? Said them the right way? Was the tone comforting? Would the strength she said she needed be there for her in what I'd written on the page? Again, I feared, but I wasn't alone. I knew that all my writing sisters were suffering these same doubts about their letters.

The next afternoon, I got that most dreaded call. In her husband's arms, at 12:50 p.m. Central Standard Time, Suzanna had passed away peacefully.

Peacefully.

My doubt died.

While I'll never know for certain if my letter had any part in bringing about Suzanna's peaceful passing, I do know that writers rallied and showered her with heartfelt support when she needed it most. And I know that she knew her life had value, that she mattered. I know because I told her. Many of us told her. There's a great deal of comfort in that.

And if I should never write another word, then every moment I've spent studying, struggling, and sacrificing to develop my skills still has been time well-spent.

In the length of one letter, I received indisputable proof that, yes, it is all worth it.

The day Suzanna died peacefully.






The second example happened many years later. Actually, this past October—the 15th, in fact. That’s the day my mother-in-law found out she had three months to live.






After getting the news and leaving the doctor’s office, on the way home she saw the most beautiful rainbow she’d ever seen. And she wondered if it was for her—God’s way of letting her know that he was aware of what was happening to her.






I asked if she knew about the Rainbow Covenant. She’d been a Christian all her life, so I thought she probably did, but she didn’t relate it to her specific situation. I sat down and wrote The Rainbow Covenant and made it into a card and sent it to her.






She kept it close those last three months. This writing that I had done relaying promises made to all believers brought her comfort during the most difficult and challenging time of her life.






When she passed, the card was with her personal things, and now I keep it close and remember her. Her courage, her faith. I read the words I wrote and remember her, and each time I see a rainbow, she and faith flood my mind.






The wounds are raw now from her passing. But to think that words relaying the promise brought comfort . . . well, it’s worth it.
As I discovered years ago, and rediscovered recently, writing can be worth whatever it takes. Like so much else, it depends on purpose and what is done with it.






I’m fortunate. Twice I have seen firsthand. And now, so have you. I ask myself, is writing worth the sacrifices it requires? I answer. Yes. When you write from the heart, yes, it is. For me that resolves the issue and it troubles me no more.






And so I share with you the reasons why it is no longer an issue, and I hope when the question arises in your mind, you’ll remember Suzanna. You’ll remember the Rainbow. And I hope you’ll write from the heart and feel the worth of your work, too.






Blessings,
Vicki
Vicki Hinze
www.vickihinze.com

12 comments:

Thia said...

That brought tears to my eyes, Vicki! Very moving and sweet. As a fledgling writer myself, advice and thoughts like yours are always meaningful. Thank you for your wonderful words.

Cheryl Norman said...

You said it, Vicki, better than I could have. My best writing has come from my heart. What a wonderful post.

WK said...

Ohhh Vicki, your post is wonderful and brought tears to my eyes. I often remember my own MIL who passed a little over a year ago. I will be writing or reading and something she said about my writing/reading or just in general will enter my mind. She didn't understand my need to read or write but she did honor it. She asked me at the end to give her books to read and I did. And I'd read to her or her sisters would from time to time. So even if the writing isn't my own the authors who wrote really should know it's worth it in ways they may never know.

Thank you for writing the things you do and for being you.

many hugs,
WendyK

Carol Bruce Collett said...

Wow. I should not have read this at work, for I sit here crying. Thank you, Vicki, for sharing. I struggle with this question. But you've offered me a new perspective to consider.
Blessings,
Carol

Peggy Webb said...

Vicki, what a beautiful and moving tribute - not only to your loved ones who died, but to the writing muse. Writing is a gift, and those of use who receive it should feel blessed. My own skills were put the test when my sisters asked me to write the eulogy for Daddy, then thirty years later, for Mama. I even delivered Mama's eulogy - with the great, good humor she would have appreciated. You are correct. Knowing that our words can comfort, inspire, teach, and move to laughter as well as tears makes every sacrifice for the craft worthwhile.

Carolyn Haines said...

Vicki, what a beautiful essay on the challenges of writing. Self-doubt nibbles at all of us, but the written word has great power for good or bad.

Vicki Hinze said...

Thank you all so much for the kind words and your comments on this post. Know that you were a blessing today!

Vicki

Livia said...

Oh Vicki!!!!

How moving!! Your post is very very lovely and poignant. I've had several new reader friends email me this morning asking me who you were and after told them, they commented that you got it just right and I agree!

Thank you for a wonderful post.

Livia

geri said...

Vicki: Many thanks for this moving piece on writing, especially as it pertains to sharing and loss. Sometimes, when I'm writing a paper, I feel like I'm beating it into submission, word by word, creating, structuring, developing something that others would want to read. Your piece captures this so beautifully! geri

Angela S. said...

What a beautiful and heartfelt essay. Thanks so much for touching my heart today.

Lori said...

Very touching! As an avid reader, I would have to say writing is definetly worth it. Thanks to you and all authors who give us readers an escape.

Beth Gray said...

Thank you for this. I write around 12 hours a day and know exactly how you feel. But it only takes a few comments from readers to make it all worth while.
Beth Gray