The Multipotentialite Writer: Multipotentialite Series

When I discovered I was a multipod, I realized that my tendency to pick up interests and drop them ad infinitum was not a deep character flaw but simply a characteristic.

It was liberating to realize there was nothing wrong with me.

But it took me a little longer to realize that my identity as a multipod has meaning for my writing as well.

I write like a multipod. What does that mean? Well, currently, I have several projects I’m working on; fantasy/folklore, horror, memoir, and this blog. I also have a lot of ideas for other kinds of stories in various genres.

There is an internet full of writing advice, and I’ve read many, MANY books on writing in the past few years. Most of it tends to have the same problems for multipotentalite writers as conventional career advice does for multipotentialites in life.

Finish what you start.

– Most advice

As multipods, we’re told to stick with one career, one passion, for life. That’s being debunked as we speak by awesome people like Barbara Sher and Emilie Wapnick (go Puttytribe!), but there’s been so little on multipotentialite writers.

Finish your story, even if you don’t feel like it, or it’s not what you’d envisioned, or it didn’t go the direction you thought. That’s what I read and saw in dozens of places. And it always, always made me feel guilty. Yes, I have finished stories. I think there is incredible value in finishing something, to know you can and to develop the ability to finish a story to its end. I felt hugely accomplished when I finished my first novel two years ago.

But is it always the right thing to do? Is it worth it to keep working on a story you fall out of love with? Writing advice is a bit like dating advice; you’ll stop feeling it, but you must still commit and work at it. That’s what love is. Yes, I agree. That’s what love is. Is that what writing is?

I love metaphors as much as anyone, but in this case, I don’t think love and writing match. Just like I don’t think love and careers match for multipods. The whole “soul-mate,” one-for-life kind of things works for love. I believe in monogamy. I believe in working out a relationship with someone you love, especially when the going gets tough.

I don’t believe in a career soul-mate. Not anymore. It doesn’t exist for a multipod, who will move through careers and passions and interests and must do so. 

It also doesn’t exist for multipod writers. I have at least ten stories going. Conventional wisdom would have me finish each story before moving on to the next one, or, as some less narrow views have expressed, have two projects going that are very different, so if I experience writing fatigue with one I can still keep my writing edge by working on the other. But I’m not allowed to work too much on the other until I’ve finished the one I’ve set my mind on.

It’s bad advice for multipods. It just is. As in life and all our passions, we must be allowed to move between things. We must be allowed to go as far as we need to and let something go when it’s time.

I used to look at all my unfinished stories as black marks against my credibility, but now I see them as stepping stones. There are stories inside me that must come out, and sometimes I have to circle around to them through other stories before I can get to them.

I’m circling around my point as well.

The point is; if you are a multipotentialite and a writer, you will have many projects at once, and you will bounce back and forth between them, leaving some unfinished. And that’s okay. That is natural for you, as natural as bouncing between interests is.

Once I realized what was happening, and that I was feeling the same guilt with my writing as I once did with my interests, I had a real ‘aha’ moment. I decided to allow myself the freedom to write whatever I wanted, as long as I was hitting my mini-habit goal of fifty words a day.

I made cards like the Rotating Priorities Board, one for each writing project, and taped them to my wall – there to switch around as my feeling dictated per day. Now, I can look at all my options and go with the one I’m feeling most in tune with that day or week. And usually, it’s not a case of five minutes here, then five minutes there. I really don’t think that could be productive. But I have found that some weeks I’m really into blogging, so I write a dozen or so posts. That’s great because there are other weeks when I just want to work on my story, and I have those blog posts already ready to go.

And then some weeks I just need to journal, so that’s my writing.

But no matter what, I’m always writing, and I’m fulfilling my need. It’s just not in the same way as other writers; writers who, like the one-career-for-life people we see, can dedicate years and years to a single book. We think we should look like them. We think we should have the same kind of writing attitudes and work desk and schedule that they do, and as multipods, we forget that our multipod identity extends even within our interests.

I’m here to tell you that as a multipotentialite writer, your writing journey will look different, and that’s okay.

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Flash Fiction Friday: Speak

Jaz craned her neck over the endless line in front of her. It had been going for nearly thirty hours, with families taking turns to sleep and use the bathroom. Jaz had no family with her, but neither did the boy in front of her. The first hour they locked eyes, nodded, and both were able to leave when they needed to. Jaz clutched her papers tightly. Her mouth was dry. Her mouth was always dry, as if it lacked the water necessary to speak. No, her mother had said gently, you have no need to speak, Jaz, you have a heart that will speak for you.

It seemed like she might not get that chance. She didn’t know how she was going to tell her story since she didn’t know the language of this world. She clutched her immigration papers tighter.

“Next!” The boy in front of her went. Jaz knew this word, it meant, “come up to this booth.”

“Next.” Jaz was already stumbling forward.

“Name?” This word was said much more quietly. Jaz hadn’t heard it before. She started to sign, hoping they might understand.

“Damn,” said someone beside the man, and Jaz didn’t know what that meant either.

They looked at each other, and one left. The other kept his eyes down, cleared his throat. Jaz looked around for some paper, pointed. The man gave it to her and she began drawing feverishly. The man kept one eye on her while he went through her documents. She wasn’t good at drawing. The man was a stick figure, but she drew a big knife and herself as well she could. Would he understand? She wrote the word BAD in her language, but the man wouldn’t know.

“There’s a problem with this document, Miss,” the man was saying, and Jaz nodded, thrusting the paper forward, pointing at the man and herself, trying to indicate danger.

“Right, but there’s this problem. We can’t let you through-”

“Wait!” The word in her own tongue made Jaz spin around, and then the whole room seemed to spin. As if she had conjured him with her drawing, there was Thoris pushing through the line.

Jaz could only shrink in horror as he came forward, gabbling to the men in their own language. They were nodding, smiling. No…

“I am here to tell your story,” Thoris said.

Jaz was still shaking. After all he had done to their family…he was the reason she had had to flee their world, her family’s name in ruins. All because of Jaz. Because she taught the little ones things they weren’t supposed to know. Freedom, responsibility, even the word “no.” She had been teaching when they’d dragged her away.

“I know what I did,” Thoris was saying, and she saw the redness of his face was from crying, not anger. “I made a mistake. I will tell your story here, and mine. Show me.”

Jaz began to sign, and Thoris began to speak.

-a.e

I Want To Write…

I Want to Write Something So Simply
Mary Oliver

I want to write something
so simply
about love
or about pain
that even
as you are reading
you feel it
and as you read
you keep feeling it
and though it be my story
it will be common,
though it be singular
it will be known to you
so that by the end
you will think—
no, you will realize—
that it was all the while
yourself arranging the words,
that it was all the time
words that you yourself,
out of your heart
had been saying.

That, friends, is why I write.

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Flash Fiction Friday: The Fix

Jose floated above the desks, scowling at his replacement. Mr. Lagheri was definitely a better teacher. He never yelled at his students or shamed them publicly, but he hadn’t attended Jose’s funeral either. Shaking his invisible head, he floated towards Duncan, in the corner as usual. Duncan slouched more now. He had more piercings. If he went on like that, he’d end up like his peers, in jail for drugs or dead on the streets. If only Jose had given him a chance. If only he hadn’t yelled at him that one time. Those…many times. If only he hadn’t fudged the assessment records. Well, he could fix it now in death. He could make it up to this one student.

Jose had practiced with small objects for days, moving them, making them hover. It had made him exhausted, however that was possible. He’d never worked so hard in his life. Now he moved to Duncan and nudged his pencil. Just a slight motion. He didn’t want to startle him.

Duncan saw the motion and jumped, then looked around to see if anyone had noticed. He shifted and tried to look out the window again, but Jose knew his attention had been grabbed. He slowly spun the pencil, then picked it up so the tip was still on the desk.

Duncan was blinking hard as he looked at it, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Jose knew he had never been the most imaginative student, and something like floating pencils was beyond his grasp of reality. Jose picked the pencil up fully, to write his apology, but Duncan snatched the pencil and his bag and ran out of the room, eyes wide.

Mr. Lagheri called after him. “Duncan, not again! You’ll be suspended!”

But Duncan ignored him and sped on, out the double doors and towards his home.

Jose sped after him, raising small rocks as he could, yelling silently for Duncan to stop. Duncan turned once to see the floating stone and gave a sound like a frightened bull as he ran straight into the street.

Jose was focus on holding up corporeal matter. Duncan was focused on the magical stone following him.

Neither noticed the horns of the bus until it was too late.

**

“So you just concentrate really hard,” Jose told him, watching as Duncan strained to shift a tack on the table. “Try to put all your you-ness into your hand. That’s it. You’ll get it!”

The tack shifted, just enough to get it rolling.

Duncan looked around at him, his face shining. “Thanks for helping, Mr. Ramirez. This ghosting stuff is harder than it looks on TV.”

Jose nodded and smiled. He had gotten a second chance, and this time he would be a good teacher. This time, he’d do it right.

-a.e

Flash Fiction Friday: Action!

Verity didn’t like the new role. It was dirty, smelly, and uncomfortable. The director was giving her weird directions too; you can’t go to the bathroom yet, Verity, we need to finish this scene. Your arm is dislocated for a good reason, Verity. That blood running in your eye will look amazing, Verity! Your fame is guaranteed! Nothing is threatening to fall on your head!

Verity waited for the next direction. All she had to do was wait. It was a really easy role. Sit very still, not moving against any of the rubble, not looking in that direction, not worrying about the bathroom. She had to be afraid, but cool. She was the Scared Girl Holding it Together. Easy. Only big stars could be really afraid. The sound guys in the back were doing a good job too. Pillars groaning, shouts far away, and big machinery moving. They must be testing out the foleys.

The bathroom thing was a problem. She would have to go soon. And he’d been silent for a while, staring at the ceiling, taking a nap. Well, she would just sneak out.
She crawled forwards, past the sleeping man, looking for the way to the bathroom. There had been a light— She heard a grinding of stone, as a pillar slammed down behind her, bringing up a cloud of dust. She sneezed, the sounds carrying around her small stage but not echoing. Looking around, she saw the pillar had fallen right behind her, and anyway the bathroom thing was okay now. She would just have to check in with wardrobing.

But where was her co-actor, Lawrence? He had been next to her, waiting, but he was gone now. She couldn’t let him fade away. Lawrence Olivier would be famous. She looked around, moving rubble and stones with her aching hands. There was his shoe. She yanked on it, but he was hiding behind a pillar. She yanked harder and he came free. Well, no, not Lawrence. A dummy leg popped out, one of the ones with fake blood that spurts and stains to look real. She looked at Lawrence’s shoe at the bottom and sighed. He must have gone to the bathroom after all and missed his scene.

Verity could hear shouts closer now. The director was probably angry about Lawrence. She saw the light again, larger. She moved towards it and remembered something important. Sometimes you had to make the role your own instead of waiting for directions. Verity decided to become the Girl Who Rescues Herself and moved up.

It took time, and the stagehands were amazed when she crawled through the gap holding Lawrence’s shoe. Everything was very bright, it felt like she had been acting for days. Someone gave her a blanket and took the dummy leg from her. The producer came forwards, crying. She must have been really good.

Then it was on to her next role after that. Interviews over, she was ready for the Mental Ward Patient.

-a.e