You Are Your Own Luck

Have you ever wanted something so badly and for so long that you figured if you ever actually got what you wanted, you'd probably die within the week because life has a sick sense of humor like that? 

That was how I felt about the long road to publication. It got to the point that I nursed the secret fear that I'd get one book published and that would be it. My life's pathetic purpose would be achieved and my number would be called. The neuroses weren't just mine. Shortly after I got word that the first two books had sold, my husband started having nightmares about me abandoning him, either via divorce or because I up and died on him. Yeah. We were a mess. Alternately going out to celebrate and cowering in some superstitious kind of terror.

Humans, man. We are an odd lot. Riddled with unfounded fears, superstition, irrationality and an innate desire to control forces over which we have absolutely no sway. Fortunately for me, I seem to still be alive. So does my partnership. I guess that's a kind of luck. But it was also hard work. Some days, keeping anyone or anything alive is a tough go. So, yes. Superstition? Check. Rituals? You bet. Totems? Sure. Luck? Well, maybe. After a fashion.

"Fortune favors the prepared mind." Louis Pasteur 

Short way of saying, if you don't show up and put in the effort, luck can't show up, either. Let's assume that part's a given, though. Nobody writes who isn't compelled to for one reason or another. There are too many other, easier ways of earning a living in this world. Up to and including becoming an ax murderer.

I do have rituals, though they shift and adapt over time. I used to have to have a certain desk and a certain time of day and perfect quiet in order to write. Then I had to have all my chores done, a cup of tea, and a cat lounging beside me before I could do my thing. I had my very own room in those days - filled with all of the THINGS I believed I needed in order to succeed. Then a dear friend became terminally ill. Before he died, he suggested that everything I needed in order to write was inside of me. It took some time before I could absorb the message, but he was right.

No matter who you are, no matter what you do, external, material items aren't going to change the fact that you are your own best source. Doing what you love, how you love to do it while surrounded by more things you love? I call that a win. But realizing that you're living every After School Special you ever saw about kids losing whatever 'lucky' trinket they had just so they could learn they had the power to succeed all along? It may be cheesy, but the lesson is invaluable and you'll always be stronger for it.

Still. The stuff of imagination is dangerous work. No one should go alone. It pays to have friends.

Do You Feel Lucky? Well?

Funny. I want to tell you I don't believe in luck. But I do. In that "Fortune favors the prepared mind" (Louis Pasteur) kind of way. Hence the alpine glow shot. Except that this wasn't 'prepared mind'. It was run like heck to fetch the camera when I realized what a great shot Ma Nature was offering.

Despite what I've said about not wanting to believe in luck, I feel lucky.

I have two really great critique groups. Did I actively DO anything to make those come together? I don't know - I was looking and I stumbled upon two sets of people who've made me a better writer and who have also become my good friends. That's pretty damned lucky.

I have a tremendous editor who knows exactly what to say in a revision letter so that ideas and solutions to story problems begin flowing immediately. For real - there's very little angst to revisions so far just because she's that good. *I* didn't get to pick my editor - though she did pick me and we had a test run to see how we worked together but still. How lucky is that?

Sure. I can claim to have put in my time and paid my dues, cliche after cliche. But the fact remains that showing up to do the work isn't a guarantee of publication. The fact that I've been published isn't a guarantee that I ever will be again. Still. I feel lucky.

I get to do something I love. Something that drives me and that keeps me awake at night scribbling story notes in pen on my hand in the dark. What? My family gets cranky when I sit up at 2am and flip on the light. And yes. Usually, I can even read what I wrote. But as far as good luck charms go - I'm not crazy about them. I've had 'em. But they burn out. Maybe it's me. What worked to generate luck yesterday, won't do the job tomorrow. Places are the same way. I'm squeaking the last dregs of 'luck' out of going to work at the tea shop up the road. This breaks my heart. Any place that brings me tea and goodies while I write has my everlasting devotion...until I can't write there anymore. And for whatever reason, lack of new-to-me-ness maybe? The writing mojo is dying on the vine there. Dang it.

Ritual remains. Sit down. Open the WIP. Sip tea. Empty veins on virtual paper. Rinse. Repeat. If there's invocation or grounding or whatever is necessary to get me focused, fine. But clinging to objects and places to be my luck? No. It's my job to generate my own luck and to trust that such a thing is 100% possible.