Lessons I've learned while writing.

A few months back, I boldly admitted to the world that I'm writing a book. That was probably a good decision, because the public shame of stopping has ultimately kept me from stopping. It's like going running on 12 Ave South. If I stop... I know someone will notice me walking. And I'd rather them see me jogging slowly than walking. So I keep going.

It's a positive kind of shame. Let's call it positive peer pressure.

Nashville's Library. My favorite workspace.

And there are other things I've learned, too. When you take on a large project that's bigger and nastier than you ever expected—expect to get your butt kicked and you brain bent more than a few times.

Here are five lessons I've learned while writing something bigger than ever...

1. When you're staring at a blank page, just do the next thing.

There's nothing scarier than a blank page. So fill it. I've had to learn that if I'm stuck, the only way to get out of that rut is to move forward. So what happens next? What needs to happen next to move you to the next page? Write it. It doesn't have to look pretty or sound pretty (see #3), it just needs to happen.

2. If someone asks what you're working on, tell them.

Something that's been hard for me lately is feeling like I'm not doing anything of value (see #5). And when people ask me what I'm working on, I wish I could give them a measurable, understandable answer (i.e., 'Oh, I'm on summer break, becuase I'm a teacher,' or 'I just finished up three great stories for GQ, Esquire, and Vogue'). But when you're working on an extended project... you don't have that luxury. So I've had to force myself to own up to the truth. I'm writing a book. Then, it forces me to pitch it over and over again. By answering the next, logical question—what is it about?—I'm helping myself get back to the heart of what it's about. And that is a good thing.

3. Don't be your own critic. At first. 

When you start writing, it's going to be ugly and sloppy and you're going to say that your characters "sigh" a lot. Who cares. If they are sighing in your head, write that they're sighing on the paper. You can get out your thesaurus and change words and mess with it later. Just write it down now. This is why I've found that I'm better writing things by hand. Yes. By hand. That way, I can use really bad handwriting, and I can just get everything down without going backwards and editing (copy, cut, paste, delete, change) before I've even written 10 words. Once it's down on paper, I can type it. And when I type it, I can make it better. But if I start criticizing the story I'm writing before it's even written, I'll never keep going.

4.  Forget the future. For now. 

It's easy to get lost in the "what is the point of this" question. Where is it going? What is the end result going to be? Will anyone ever read it? Those questions are rough and are worth answering. But when you're in the middle of writing—those questions must be beat down into the ground and out of the room. They should be tied up and left for dead. At least until you're done writing. Because the truth is, the future doesn't matter unless the book is written—the answers are Nowhere, Nothing, and No One, unless you keep going.

5. Stop Looking at the Bottom Line. 

Money. It's a scoundrel. It also keeps me feeling like I'm not doing something of value. But in reality—money can't drive what we create. I am in research and development stage. In grad school, so to speak. Yes. I'm giving up time and energy and possible income to write a book. But it's an investment. Not a waste.

These are the lessons I'm learning. And I'm forcing myself to write them down—because I have to preach this to myself. I have a feeling these same lessons could apply to lots of different undertakings...

Parenthood.

Writing music.

Taking pictures.

Starting a business.

Just living.

Do you agree?

Losing a loved one.

  Did you know that my first name isn't Claire?

It's Beverly.

I was born on February 10, fifty-six years after my grandmother. My parents decided to put her name on my birth certificate, and in that, we shared two things: a birthday and a first name.

As I grew into a young girl, I couldn't wait to spend time with the older Beverly. My Bebe. Her house was the one where we could play Hungry, Hungry, Hippos. Her house had the huge mirror in the back, where we could watch ourselves dance. The bedroom I slept in at Bebe's house had a Popeye the Sailor Man lamp. The yard was lined with trees. Small ones I could climb in. And for many years, there was a stump in the back yard we could jump on and off. Once, my cousin William did a back-flip off that stump.

There was a garage behind her house I never went in.

But when I spent good time with Bebe, it wasn't in her home town, Augusta. It was in St. Simons Island. At Christmas, she was always the same. So warm and welcoming and big-arms around you loving you. I remember she'd bring out crackers and cheese. She'd offer a tin of cheese sticks and her famous, homemade fudge.

And she was always so generous.

She was the grandmother that bought me treats in the grocery store. The one that stuffed envelopes with surprises. She helped me buy my very first laptop. She wrote me letters and always encouraged me to write down my stories. She clipped out newspaper stories she thought would interest me, and sent them to me in the mail.

In a word, she was wonderful.

A few years ago, she moved to St. Simons. Her mind was still sharp as a whip, but her body began moving more and more slowly. And then, last week, she took a hard fall that sent her to the hospital. But she'd been to the hospital after a fall. It didn't seem out of the ordinary.

But two days in the hospital seemed unusual.

And four days was unprecedented.

And pneumonia wasn't part of the plan.

And then, it was over.

Beverly Beeland Carlton

February 10, 1931 - July 10, 2013 

The Day I Met Nelson Mandela

When I was a young girl, I met Nelson Mandela.

**This post was written before Nelson Mandela passed away, December 5th, 2013. To keep the integrity of the story, I've left it as I wrote it in June, when he was admitted into a South African hospital. May he rest in God's peace.

You may or may not know who he is, or that he's in the hospital in critical condition, and I don't blame you.There's a lot to keep up with in the news.

History, with its vast swaths of heroes and names to know and dates to remember, can be defeating. Add to that a deluge of social media, opinions, and the latest BuzzFeed article about the "23 things we all do but none of us will ever admit to," and it's a wonder any of us ever stop reading the internet for a minute. It's impossible to keep up.  Sometimes I have to just throw up my hands and say, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

When I was five years old, I had an excuse not to know the African man walking through the back door to the White House—I was five.

We were living in Virginia at the time—in Woodbridge to be exact. I don't remember what my house looked like. I don't remember my pre-school teachers or how I spent my time before I started kindergarten. But I remember meeting Nelson Mandela.

It was cold that day. Winter. I was red-faced and thirsty, but was told to hold my tongue because we were walking into the West Wing. In the days before September 11th—that was still possible—but only because we had a family friend on the inside, who was willing to give us a special private tour.

In the days before, we'd guessed and took bets on who we might run into in the halls of power. George Bush? The Chairman of the Joint Cheifs of Staff, General Colin Powell? We're going to the West Wing, I remember my father saying, chances we'll see someone.

But we never guessed who it would be.

It was 1991—just months after the South African apartheid regime released Mandela from a prison cell where he'd spent 27 years in captivity.

Nelson Mandela was born in 1918, a son of the South African Thembu tribe. He spent his life bucking the system. He was expelled from college after joining a student protest. He was a fugitive from his tribe after refusing to accept an arranged marriage. In 1952, he and a friend, Oliver Tambo, established the first black law firm in South Africa, the same year he was first arrested for civil disobedience. He was a leading voice in the African National Congress (ANC), a man who stood up against radical racial injustice of his time, and refused to accept the white supremacy that reigned in terror during his early life.

Apartheid (racial segregation in South Africa) deprived black South Africans of citizenship, forced segregated housing, and extended well into the 1970s, 80s, and until 1990—all while Mandela was imprisoned.

Though he'd been arrested and released many times in his life, Mandela faced the death penalty in 1964, a little over a year after Martin Luther King penned his now-famous letter from Birmingham jail.

In the letter, King wrote, "I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood."

A year later, in front of a court threatening to end his life, Mandela said, “I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."

He was sentenced to death-by-prison. A life sentence.

In 1990, the day after my third birthday, Mandela was released from prison. In 1991, Mandela was chosen as president of the ANC. And that year, with his second wife, Winnie on his arm, Nelson Mandela walked into the West Wing of the White House.

There, to his left, a small family sat waiting for their promised private tour. My parents sat, mouths agape, at the history that walked into their presence.

He turned to us, shook our hands, and looking right at my sister and me, Nelson Mandela spoke words to me, and to my sisters.

I remember what he said.

"You are a precious child." 

Three years later, in 1994, Nelson Mandela voted for the first time in his life. He voted for himself.  Through that election, He became South Africa's first democratically elected president.

Today, he is in critical condition in a South African hospital—his fourth hospital stay since December.

I get it. We are inundated with information. There is too much to read, too much to pay attention to, way too much to know and watch and see. But if you know anything. If you care about human rights. Justice. Character. The tides of history and the importance of a human soul...

You will know Nelson Mandela.

photo via. 

Related:

• The most embarrassing moment of my life.
• My story.

You're Invited!

Tomorrow, Patrick and I are headed to my favorite place in the world. 

St. Simons Island, Georgia, here we come!

THINGS I'LL BE DOING AT THE BEACH:

• Wearing my very first one-piece bathing suit that looks like this.
• Reading Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxazs, then reading Mr. Peanut by Adam Ross. 
• Listening to the Great Gatsby soundtrack, in particular this song by Gotye. 
• Cooking this recipe for herb-encrusted pork at least once. 
• Celebrating Father's Day with my dad, who gives the best advice. 
• Celebrating my love, Patrick's Birthday!!! (June 17th)
• Enjoying the view and the yoga classes at the Cloister.

So while we're galavanting on the beach sipping mojitos and margaritas, I'll be taking a blogging break. I have a feeling it's going to feel good. 

But in the meantime, I'd love to invite you to follow my professional site by clicking "HOME" above, or by visiting www.clairegibson.com. On the right-hand side of the page, there's an option to enter your e-mail address and follow along. While we're gone, I'll be updating that site with a few articles I've written that you won't want to miss. 

Also, you can keep up with us on Twitter and Instagram. Duh. 

Happy Summertime!

A Deadly Dose of Nostalgia

Recently I've been writing the first few pages of my first book. And it hurts.

It hurts because it's hard. It hurts because the things I write today often don't read so well tomorrow. It hurts because most of the time it's so overwhelming I can't see straight. And it hurts because the subject matter I'm writing about sends me deep into the throws of nostalgia. The deadly kind.

The book I'm writing is about three women who attend West Point. And when I start thinking about West Point, traveling up there to do research, spending hours upon hours looking at photos of that place... it's hard not to get lost in it all. Lost in the memories of middle school and high school—and then just kind of lost.

It got me thinking... when you start thinking back, does it prevent you from moving forward?

This is West Point. My once home.

Nostalgia is this gut-wrenching feeling of wanting to be back in a place you once were with people you once knew or in a time you once had. The dictionary says nostalgia is "a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period of place with happy personal associations." Right. So if nostalgia takes you to a happy place, why, so often, does it leave us in a state of utter depression?

I think it goes back to my thought life. Fostering a healthy thought life is the key to breaking the bonds of nostalgia. If I let my mind dwell in the past - my brain can conjure up memories (true and false) that can taint my enjoyment of the present.

Whatever is true. What is true is that I live in Nashville—the greatest city in the world with some of the greatest people I've ever met and some of the closest friends I've ever had.

Whatever is noble. What is noble is that I'm trying my hardest to live in the gifts I believe I've been given, to the glory of God, for better or worse.

Whatever is right. Whatever is pure. What's right and pure is knowing the ways God has blessed me here and now, today.

Whatever is lovely. What is lovely is looking in the mirror and feeling content with who I am now.

Whatever is admirable. What is admirable are the ways other people in my life are living for today and giving their lives away to others.

If anything is excellent or praiseworthy.  Think about such things. 

Philippians 4:8. 

Lord, help me. This hurts.