Process is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately–because I’ve realized in the past three weeks that I have no process. Well, not yet.
And this terrifies me.
Before you dredge up any sympathy for me, I’ll admit up front that it is my own fault. For twelve years, I bobbled quite un/happily in the warm and familiar waters of literary fiction. I had my thing and my go-to moves and, in a sense, I was quite comfortable with my thing and my go-to moves. Comfortable, but kind of freaking miserable.
Yeah, I produced some books and some work, much of which I’m proud of, and have managed to keep myself just published enough that I could call myself a writer without giggling or eye rolling. But I never nudged out of obscurity or, more importantly, produced more than one piece a year (or thereabouts).
A few things fell into place for me last year, and I began reading more and more speculative fiction. I re-fell in love with SF (I was weaned on Asimov and Heinlein and Poul Anderson), and decided to be an unrepentant genre-switcher. And, as often happens when you make a wish or a public declaration, the wild opportunity to attend Clarion West came barreling at me. I jumped on that bull, and rode it, sometimes barely holding on, for six weeks.
Best thing I’ve ever done for my writing. Ever.
But now, as the dust clears and my bruised ass heals, I realize I’m now solely responsible (again) for making anything happen again.
Well, duh, you say, and I concur. Duh.
Clarion West is six weeks of intense writing in a wondrous bubble where everyone wants you to succeed, ultimately, and all you have to worry about is producing a story a week, critting your classmates’ stories, and maybe, getting around to washing those yoga pants you’d been wearing all week long.
Out of the bubble, for what–almost a month?–I’ve been flipping around like a fish. A non-writing fish. A non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing (and especially since this counter is still.at.zero ).
I finally sat myself down for a long. Honest conversation, and the consensus my flipping fish self and I came to was that I swore a solemn oath to myself pre-Clarion West to set ablaze all my pre-existing blocks, habits, opinions, comfort zones, and ego about writing. I did that. And while I was there, I filled that now-void with all kinds of good and useful knowledge about all the things that had been wrong with my thing, my go-to moves, and only producing one thing a year. And I used the Clarion process of insulation + panic to produce a story (sometimes, they were really more “stories”) a week.
But now, back in real life, I have to find my real life process because the Clarion process, when competing with job(s), husband, family, friends, the information overload of my beloved internet, cats, sleeping, cooking my own damn food; t goes over like a pregnant polevaulter.
Terrifying.
So, this is a documentation of the process of finding a process. Step one is admitting you have no process. Step two is to quit flipping like non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing.
I’m at step two.five: conquering the fear (remembering that the fear is always step two.five no matter what).
I can see step three in the distance, but I’m not there yet. It’s both freeing and humiliating to admit that I can *see* step three but am clinging to this whole process about process. I can see step three; I hope I’ll get there this week.
What’s step three (you may ask)?
It’s to jump back into the messiness, the uncertainty, the demented but irresistible cacophony of voices…and you can’t see the bottom. It’s just to show up and do it. It’s to quit caring whether it’s good or bad or if anyone will care. Step three–just jump. And yell, Wheee! when you do it.

Oh, abyss. I’ll be there soon. Pinky swear.

(whee.)