A Kinder Gentler Attitude

by Shannon Baker

Author of the Nora Abbott Mystery Series

“You’re an idiot!”

Those terrible words slam over my six foot backyard fence. The irate holler is followed by a tone so filled with disgust it singes my skin. “Get your ass over here. Put that down.”

I am paralyzed. The scene I was working on vanishes from my mind’s eye and my breath catches.

“You stupid moron!”

A young voice, that of Aiden, my eight year-old neighbor, whines back in argument and what follows is five minutes of the grandfather and grandson sniping at each other with the “adult” flinging out more name-calling.

This scene plays out roughly once a week. I’ve only lived here for eight months and I’m sure this has been going on for a long time. The conflict isn’t confined to this one relationship. Three generations living next door wage frequent battle where I may not be able to overhear words but the tone is evident.

It stops me dead every time. I have a visceral reaction. My breath stutters, my heart races, my skin grows clammy. I’ve always hated conflict. Even as a kid, while my brother and sister clashed over any number of childhood problems, I’d be in the corner crying.

Why can’t my neighbors be nice to each other? Speak with kindness, encourage each other, especially Aiden?

I won’t guarantee Aiden isn’t an idiot. He might or might not be—he’s climbed our fence and done malicious mischief in our backyard, he dug a hole under a tree in the front, he threw rocks through our neighbor’s garage windows, and flung a case of empty jars against the fence in the alley shattering glass outside our yard. Obviously, he’s a troubled kid with needs I can only guess at. But I can’t imagine telling him that’s he’s a moron or an idiot will improve his IQ or his behavioral problems. I might even go so far as to say that kind of verbal battering might actually be at the root of the problem.

As disturbing as that situation is, and believe me, I am not making light of it, it brought home a powerful personal message to me.

While I was clenching my fists and teeth during one such episode, and thinking that some kindness and gentleness might bring about more cooperation and greater potential, a realization struck me. How often do I treat myself with that same impatience and contempt?

I know, we’re writers and a certain amount of that self-deprecating attitude with a dollop of insecurity goes with the job description. But I’ve been particularly abusive of my fragile ego lately. Whatever the details of my shortcomings, it all amounts to me calling myself a stupid moron and telling me to get my ass to my desk and write decent stuff.

Maybe it’s time I treat myself with the same encouragement and pride I wish for Aiden. Instead of tossing aside the colorful crayon picture and focusing on the failing report card, I ought to pin the picture to the refrigerator and shrug over the F, promising that failure isn’t permanent and I will succeed if I keep trying.

Nothing good comes of negative talk, even if it’s only going on between my ears. 

So I’m making a pledge to start speaking nicer to myself. I’m going to treat me with the same courtesy and respect I try to give to others. It couldn’t hurt. It might help.

What kind of encouraging things do you do for yourself?

If you’ve got a moment, send a special thought into the universe for Aiden. And even if it’s only for today, be kind to yourself.   

Oh, The Pain, The Pain

Thinking is hard work. Much too difficult for this dried legume I call my brain. And yet, I find myself painfully hashing out a new plot. I have a general story. I know how it’s going to end. I know the premise, the characters, and some of the twists. In fact, I thought I had enough basic information that plotting this one would be like drift diving along a scenic reef.

Not so much.

Instead of coming up with concrete, workable ideas, I get distracted. Which is not like me in regular life. I’m usually disciplined—work before pleasure and all that. Like the character on Friends. What was her name? The Courteney Cox character, not Rachel, who was Jennifer Aniston. You know, the one who got all bent because her friends wouldn’t click the caps on the marking pens and they’d dry out? I never liked her and really hate that I can be like her…. Um. What was I saying about distractions?

Then there’s the fact that I’m a lazy thinker. I can get out of working for new ideas by telling myself that it would do my shriveled up gray matter good to rest and take in a movie to absorb story telling by osmosis. Or, really, wouldn’t it be better to read that new book on craft to gain some inspiration? Or maybe that old book on craft.

It’s said the great ones like Hemmingway and Fitzgerald knocked back a few cocktails to loosen the creative juices. Many of my writing pals have play lists or use pictures tacked to their walls to inspire them and keep them focused.

Even as I write this The Man With Infinite Tolerance is scurrying around and he said, “You keep looking at me with a blank expression and I assume you’re thinking.” Just because he’s the only thing moving and my eyes can’t help but follow him might make it look like I’m thinking but really, I’m panicking. My brain is refusing to give me what I want.

There are two tricks I use to force myself to concentrate. They both involve physical things to make my mind forget it’s working. The first thing I do is get out my big, thick, yellow legal pad. It has to be a new one so I don’t fret (Courteney Cox character-esque. What the hell was her name?—Squirrel!) about running out of paper or wasting it. I write down questions: Why would Nora have to solve this murder? Why wouldn’t she call the cops? What happened to her cell phone? What is the first plot point? The midpoint? What is her character arc? You know how that list grows and grows.

Somehow, the act of moving my hand across the page can trigger thoughts and many times the answers flow. Often, the characters themselves answer in their own voice. (Oh, don’t pretend I’m the only one sick enough to do this. You KNOW you hear your characters, too.)

The other ploy is to strap on my running shoes or hiking boots and hit the trail or pavement. Walk, run, plod, trek, traipse. Whatever it takes. I pound myself into some kind of trance and my eyes turn around and start to look into my brain. Please, dog, someone tell me you do something like this, too. My brain becomes like a movie screen and the scenes play themselves out before my turned-around eyes.  They aren’t always brilliant scenes, mind you, but sometimes magic strikes and it works. I’ve also done this on cross-country drives but I don’t recommend it. It’s really hard to concentrate on driving if your eyes are turned around in your head.

If you are one of those geniuses who don’t writhe in pain when you plot, I don’t want to hear from you. But if you struggle and fight your brain to give you the shining nuggets, I’d love to hear how you make it cough up the goods.