You may think "at the border without a passport" is a cute new way of saying "up the creek without a paddle" or "all dressed up and no place to go," but you'd be wrong. 

Last week I was actually at the Canadian border, trying to cross without a valid passport. 

Now that I think of it, that is the same thing as being up the creek without a paddle and all dressed up with no place to go.

"How could you have gotten yourself into that unfortunate situation, and what does it have to do with writing?" you may be asking.  Or you may be pointing at me and laughing while screeching, "You idiot!" (in which case you would not be alone).

Given those two scenarios, I'm going to choose to believe you are not ridiculing me and calling me names, and I'll tell you the story of how this unfortunate situation came to be.  And how it relates to writing.  Which it does.  I promise.

Once upon a time there was a writer who was also a very busy mom with two children preparing to go to school abroad.  In recent weeks this writer-mom spent very little time writing and a whole lot of time ushering her children through the red tape of preparing to live in foreign countries, namely procuring the necessary legal travel documents.

"Make sure you have your passport!  You'd better apply for your student visa right now!  Has that residence permit come through yet?" she could be heard yelling far and wide.  (It was easy to hear her since there was absolutely no sound of tap, tap, tapping of fingers on keyboard to mask her voice.)

She managed to get one son safely off to Sweden, complete with a nearly-impossible-to-obtain residence permit, and was on her way to deposit her second son at his university of choice in Canada, when the unthinkable occurred.  While idling in the one-way, there's-no-way-to-exit line at the Peace Arch border crossing, she took out her own passport only to find it had expired.  Three months ago.  And there's no grace period. 

Back in the pre-9/11 days, this wouldn't have been a problem.  But now?  Problem.  Big problem.

In a little aside I'll tell you that this writer-mom is known to her friends and relatives as "the prepared one" (or behind her back: "the over-prepared one").  She's always got a safety pin handy, magically produces an aspirin just when you need it, and can provide a resource, reference, map or guide to anything at the drop of a hat.  Her critique group calls her "Kanga" because it's like she always has a big pouch full of all the things you might need in any given circumstance, no matter how unexpected said circumstance might be.

So how, you may be wondering, could Miss Kanga have gotten herself in such a fix at the border?  It's not like the trip was unexpected.  It's not like she hadn't spent the last two months up to her neck in red tape of the entering-a-foreign-country variety. 

The how is actually very simple:
It happened because I was so focused on what everyone else needed, I neglected to make sure I had what I needed. 
I mean She.  Kanga.  The writer-mom.

The how of how this relates to writing is three-fold:

1.  I neglect my writing because I'm so focused on taking care of other people and obligations.  (Too obvious?)

2.  Similarly I focus on developing my secondary characters to the neglect of my protagonist.  And like me, my protagonist and my writing suffer as a result.  (Not as obvious?)

3.  I need to scrap the idea I had for a short story about an American citizen getting turned away at the Canadian border due to an expired passport.  Because it wouldn't be credible.  (Did you see that one coming?)

Yes, I crossed that border with the well-wishes of not one but two Canadian border patrol officers who either didn't notice or didn't care that my passport had expired.  No one was more surprised than me.  I'm soooo glad I did not attempt to sneak across by hiding in the back of the car amidst my son's luggage.  I think having to face my sons with an expired passport --after having berated them loudly and endlessly about their travel documents-- is humiliation enough, thank you.

Although a mom smuggling herself across the border in her son's dorm-bound luggage might make a better short story....

So how do we proceed?

What can we sacrifice without giving up our true self?

How do we know what to change and what to preserve? After all, isn't it entirely possible that the person giving us feedback was in fact wrong? Or, even if the person might have been right, couldn't it be true that they're just right for other people?

Don't all the great authors out there succeed by sticking to their guns and believing in their own work even when others don't?

If I just write some book other people want to read, won't I be giving up the whole point of me becoming a writer in the first place--the opportunity to tell my unique and singular story?

These are all key questions to ask when you're in the darkness. Indeed, I think it's only from asking these questions that we can find our way to the Elixir. The trick is minding our own internal antagonists along the way. Just as antagonists typically drive the early part of the action and propel a hero toward her destiny in fiction, so too can our own demons lead us toward the crucial moment when everything is on the line.

Pay attention to where your own resistance is most intense. Where do you feel most tender? Most vulnerable? Most angry? Most frightened? What part of you are you desperately and even irrationally trying to protect, despite the fact that you keep receiving feedback that it's a weakness? Do you keep saying "Yeah, but..." or "You're an idiot!" when people approach this very sensitive spot? If so, that's likely the place you need to go if you want to find the Elixir.

It may seem impossible or profoundly unpleasant, but I'm guessing the impossible-er or unpleasant-er it feels, the more important it is to push at that precise spot. You may feel brutally and wretchedly exposed or humiliated, or it may seem like all the work you've done for so long is suddenly worthless. You may feel alone, abandoned, sold out. Certainly this is the point we try to take our heroes to on their journeys. So why not follow them there ourselves?

Just as it's true for our Heroes, at a certain point, it will all be up to you. You will be given the opportunity to learn the lesson, to sacrifice the precious thing you've been clutching, to face the most frightening enemy you can imagine and give everything you have to the encounter.

Muster your courage, gather your conviction, and then let go.

And don't forget to grab the elixir on your way out.

[P.S. - Once you've returned (or to those who've already gone through that darkness), tell us in the comments what you found.] 

It's Shark Week, and this time it's ACTUAL Shark Week, not a reference to my own editing "week." 

"Why do I care?" you might be asking.  "What on earth does Shark Week have to do with writing?"

"Plenty," I reply.  "Let me count the ways."

1.  Don't count your sharks before they're hatched:  a two-headed baby shark was cut from the uterus of an adult shark.
Lesson:  you never know how many stories you have inside you.  Sometimes you think you're gestating one, when it turns out there's a sequel attached.

2.  Speaking of gestation, for the frilliest of sharks (aka the Frill shark), gestation can last 3.5 years.
Lesson:  for the frilliest of stories (aka complex, detailed and rich), gestation can take a lot longer than we're prepared to carry that story around inside of us, so be patient and allow enough time for the story to fully develop.

3.  Basking sharks are the second largest shark, and they use their enormous mouths to gobble up not giant squid, but teeny-tiny plankton.
Lesson:  sometimes it's the small things that nourish us -- a smile from a reader, a compliment from a critic, a kind word in a crap-laden rejection letter -- so don't miss those crumbs because you're focused on taking the cake.  Or the giant squid.

4.  Thresher sharks attack with their tails, not their teeth.
Lesson:  attack your manuscript with whatever tools are at your disposal, not just the ones you're expected to use.

5.  The Japanese Wobbegong shark is a weak swimmer who gets around by walking along the sea floor on its fins.
Lesson:  writers aren't the only weirdos on the planet. 
Embrace your weirdness and use it to get where you want to go.

6.  The Greenland shark is one of the slowest moving fish, yet reindeer, polar bears and speedy seals have been found in their stomachs. 
Lesson:  reindeer?  Really?  I guess slow and steady really does win the race.

7.  Hammerhead sharks can see everything except what's right in front of their faces.
Lesson:  writers can see everything except what's right in front of our faces,
so employ a critique group or partner to help you see what you're missing in your own manuscript, then do the same with theirs in return.

8.  Most shark attacks on humans occur in shallow water.
Lesson:  don't just dip your toe in--
If you dive in with everything you've got, maybe you won't get eaten alive.

9.  Sharks have thick skin to help protect them from the bites of other sharks, like the Cookiecutter Shark (yes, that's a real shark).
Lesson:  develop a thick skin to protect yourself from the biting words of other writers (and editors, agents, and critics),
as well as from writing demons like the Snickerdoodle Demon (yes, that's a real demon!  See A COMPENDIUM OF WRITING DEMONS if you don't believe me.)

10.  Thanks to ecotourism, today sharks are worth more alive than dead.
Lesson:  your stories are worth a lot more when they're out in the world being viewed by others, so get them out there!

11.  Expecting me to stop at ten? 
Eleven is my lucky number, so here's a
bonus lesson:

Don't be swallowed by the beast
(or shark, or demon)
of perfectionism -- As my mentor always says, perfect is the enemy of the good.  So break free of the grip of perfectionism, make your manuscript good (not perfect) and throw it out into the deep blue.  You'll never get any bites if you don't.