HELP!  I have a phantom, and she's stalking me.  She stands over my shoulder and watches me write.  I've tried to make her go away but nothing I do or say seems to be working.  At first, I tried ignoring her; but I quickly found out that the more I ignore her, the louder she becomes.  She really is a precocious little twit.  She waits until I'm deep in my process-in mid-trance, no less-to start whispering her sweet nothings in my ear.  "Did you pay that electric bill?" she asks; or, "Don't you think the house is getting a little too dirty?" or, "Did you fold that load of clothes.  It's been sitting in the dryer all day.  Everything is going to have wrinkles."  Of course, my all-time favorite is, "You really shouldn't write that.  It's not nice.  What will your family think?  You don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.  You're a nice girl.  Nice girls don't write things like that."

Yes, I have a phantom, and she's stalking me.  Some days, I think she is going to drive me insane.  On these crazy days, when the chaos swirling around inside my head is almost too much to bear, I stop, take a deep breath, and think about other women writers.  This small act calms me and brings me back to center.  It also helps me to see that I am, in all likelihood, not insane.  But, hey, the way I look at it, even if I did end up being on the loopy end of the continuum, I'd be in damned good company.  Lucky for me, and my insurance company, writers and phantoms seem to be synonymous.  In fact, one of the most prolific female writers of the twentieth century had a phantom. 

In her essay entitled, "Professions of Women," which she read to the Women's Service League in 1931, Virginia Woolf discussed the pain and suffering she endured at the hands of her own phantom, which she so aptly named the Angel in the House.  Now, you might find this name a little perplexing.  I did until I did a little research and found out that Woolf named her phantom after a character in a famous Victorian poem. 

This poem, "Angel in the House," written by Coventry Patmore in the mid-1800s, extolled the virtues of the perfect Victorian woman.  Patmore felt his wife, Emily, embodied all of these attributes.  The poem is supposedly about her.  Now, I won't bore you with all the miniscule details, but the domestic goddess extolled in this poem reminds me of a Stepford wife-minus the push up bra, that is.  Here's a short excerpt for your perusal. 

Man must be pleased; but to him to please

Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf

Of his condoled necessities

She casts her best, she flings herself.

How often flings for nought, and yokes

Her heart to an icicle or whim,

Whose each impatient word provokes

Another, not from her, but him;

While she, too gentle even to force

His penitence by kind replies,

Waits by, expecting his remorse,

With pardon in her pitying eyes;

And if he once, by shame oppress'd,

A comfortable word confers,

She leans and weeps against his breast,

And seems to think the sin was hers;

Or any eye to see her charms,

At any time, she's still his wife,

Dearly devoted to his arms;

She loves with love that cannot tire;

And when, ah woe,\she loves alone,

Through passionate duty love springs higher,

As grass grows taller round a stone.

(This is just a small sample from this epic-length poem that goes on and on, ad nauseam, about the qualities of the perfect Victorian woman.  At this point, it should be noted that this concept of the Angel in the House or domestic goddess held sway not only over the mindset of the men and women of the Victorian Era but also the literary works of the period.  Novels like Jane Eyre, written by Charlotte Bronte, and the Awakening, written by Kate Chopin, challenged the concept of the Angel in the House, and, in so doing, called into question the strict social constructs built around the concept.

Virginia Woolf went a step further.  Instead of challenging the Angel in the House, her very own phantom, she killed her.  It wasn't that she didn't find parts of the angel intriguing.  In her essay "Professions for Women," which can be found in The Death of the Moth, and other essays, she described the angel this way.

She was intensely sympathetic.  She was immensely charming.  She was utterly unselfish.  She excelled in the difficult arts of family life.  She sacrificed herself daily.  If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it-in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish or her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others.  Above all-I need not say it-she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty-her blushes, her grace.  In those days-the last of Queen Victoria-every house had its Angel.  And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words.  The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room.  (p 168) 

Woolf said she tried to send the angelic phantom away, but she kept coming back.  She felt she had no other choice than to kill her; so every time she felt her presence hovering over her writing, she threw her inkpot at her.  Her death, however, was not fast nor was it easy.  In fact, Woolf said, "She died hard."  (p 170)  

Like Woolf, I have thought of killing my phantom.  Unlike Woolf, I have never considered calling my phantom an angel.  Nope, she's a pain in the ass, pure and simple.  And, unlike Woolf, I do not see my phantom as a separate fictional entity.  No, the precocious little twit is very much a part of me.  I have no idea where she came from.  Was she birthed through nature or nurture?  Did she just ooze up through a leak in the quantum field?  Is she a quirk in an otherwise viable strand of DNA?  In the end, I guess it doesn't really matter.  She's real.  She's here.  And, like most women, I just have to learn to deal with her. 

Like most women, I find myself caught in an ironic dichotomy.  I am a writer, but I am also a wife, a mother, and a grandmother.  I could never, nor would I ever want to, make this part of my life disappear.  I love my family.  I also love writing.  Writing is my passion.  My life makes sense because I write.  I cannot imagine my life without writing, nor can I imagine my life without my family.    

Balancing family and career has never been an easy task; I liken it to juggling razor sharp knives while standing on top of a beach ball.  The problem, as I see it, is not the task.  Women have been doing it for years, and doing it well.  The problem is the guilt a woman feels when she has to take from one side of the scale to balance the other.  This is where the Angel in the House wreaks havoc.  Even after all these years, we women are still working under the outdated assumption that we must be all things to all people.  Many of us are still trying to fit into the Victorian concept of the Angel in the House.  It didn't work then, ladies, and it will not work now.

Let me ask you a question.  How many men have you ever known that lost one hour of productivity (or sleep, for that matter) because they were worried about whether a bill had been paid, a floor had been mopped, or a child had a cold?  Not to be sexist here, but I'd venture to say not many.  No offense guys, you're just better at focusing on the task at hand and blocking out any and all incoming static.  This is not a bad thing.  We women need to learn to do this.  Watch a man at work and you will see just that, a man at work. 

We also need to learn how to accept ourselves just as we are.  Men do it all the time.  Look at your significant other and tell me I'm wrong.  We need to get over our need to be perfect, ladies.  We are mere mortals.  We are not responsible for all the ills of the world, though many in today's society would have us believe so.  And while we should not turn our backs on our responsibilities to our families, we should never allow ourselves to be told that we are totally responsible for everything that goes on in those families.

We are each on a heroic journey into the center of ourselves.  It is time to dive into our passions, to live our lives to the fullest.  It is time to open our hearts to the truth of who we are as writers and as women.  Yes, we can do it all.  Can we do it all perfectly?  Who cares?  What matters is that we're doing it.  The journey will not be easy, but is anything worthwhile ever easy?  Our loved ones may not understand.  They may throw fits and cry.  We need to expect this; we have been their source for a long time.  It's time they learned to take care of themselves.  On the way, we may be required to ask others for help.  This is a good thing.  It's called sharing the load.  It's what families do.  Again, our family members may whine and throw fits, or they might just surprise us and jump onboard.  Either way, we cannot let their feelings and/or opinions deter us.

Our journey will require boundaries.  For instance, when it's time to write, write.  Tell everyone, "When my door is closed, I am writing.  Unless you're bleeding out of your eyeballs, you'd better stay away."  When the Angel in the House brushes up against your back, whispering all those sweet nothings in your ear, tell her, "The laundry can wait.  If they don't like wrinkles, they can iron.  The bills will be paid when I get to them.  The dirt, muck, and grime aren't going anywhere, but my words might.  These words, the ones that are pounding through my brain, begging to be released, will not come to me again.  This is a one shot deal.  I have to write them out now.  Oh, and by the way, I am not a nice girl when I'm sitting at this desk.  I am a writer.  I write for me, no one else.  If other people don't like what I have to say, they don't have to read it.  These are my words.  I will write them my way.  This is my truth, and I will shout it from the housetops.  Now, you go away or I'll pluck you like a chicken."

Keep writing; and remember, always, always, always do it your way!

© 2008 Phoenix Rising.  All Rights Reserved.

Individuals may copy this post for noncommercial use without permission provided that this post is used in its entirety and carries the Phoenix Rising copyright notice and the following link back to this blog: www.phoenixrisingwriterscorner.blogspot..... 

I have done many things in my life because of fear but only a few things in spite of fear.  Writing is something I have chosen to do in spite of my fear.  It has taken me to places I have never wanted to go.  It has pushed me right to the edge of insanity and lovingly pulled me back.  It has made me look deep within myself, and it has forced me to excavate the depths of my own darkness.  

Writing is my passion.  It is my true love.  Yet, as with all lovers, there comes a time when the honeymoon period ends and real life kicks in.  Void of abstraction, real life has a way of revealing the character of love's commitment.  True commitment, by its very nature, requires a choice.  Stay and fight or turn in flight.  A few months back, real life hit me square in the face and forced me to examine my own commitment to the writing process. 

For me, real life came in the form of an idea for a third novel.  I already know what you're thinking.  You're a writer.  What was the problem?  The problem was one of choice.  Writing a novel is a long-term commitment-much like choosing to get pregnant.  Once you agree and the act is done, there is no going back.  That baby has to be your first priority.  I had already spent seven years going through what at times felt like an endless cycle of pregnancy and childbirth, I wasn't sure I was up to the task.  My heart kept saying yes, but my mind kept saying no.    

"You know you're not really good at this writing thing," my mind whispered.  "Why don't you just go back to school?  Get another degree.  You don't have to go back into business.  You could always be a teacher.  You'd be good at that.  You could teach English or maybe creative writing."

"You don't want to teach writing," my heart said.  "You want to write."

"You've always liked kids," my mind shot back.  "You could be a first grade teacher."

"You don't really like them that much," my heart reminded me.

"Okay, then, don't be a teacher.  You could be a psychologist.  You've got a lot of psyche credits.  You love psychology."   

"Do you really believe that's a wise course of action?" my heart asked.  "After all-and I'm not trying to be mean or judgmental here but-you are the Queen of Codependency.  Putting you in charge of other people's lives would be like putting a drunk in charge of a bar." 

"You're killing me here," my mind shouted.  "I can't take anymore of this.  It's too damned hard.  You need to get a real job."

"Writing is a real job."

"Show me the money."  My mind laughed.  "Hell, show me anything-respect, kudos, pats on the back for a job well done."

My heart was silent for a moment.  It fluttered slightly (yeah, I know heart action supposedly dilutes a narrative, but I don't care.  This is my story, and if my heart wants to flutter it can).  Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yeah, my heart fluttered slightly then said, "Is that what all this is really about-money and pats on the back?" 

"Shut up, you quivering lump of flesh," my mind screamed.  "You're not the only body part involved in Miss Thing's so-called writing career.  Without me, she wouldn't be able to fashion a cohesive sentence.  I say she needs to cut her losses and walk away while she can still hold her head up." 

"But she loves writing," my heart cried.  "Sure, it's hard; but she's done harder.  She's a really good writer.  She was born for this.  She just needs to trust the infinite wisdom of the Universe.  The Creator has never let her down before." 

Universe, shmuniverse. . . ."  My mind snickered.  "She's never even been published.  Where was the Universe when she was getting all those rejection notices?  She's tired.  She's burned out.  And she's not making any money.  It's time for her to admit defeat, to give up and move on." 

I couldn't argue with the tired and burned out part.  Writing is hard work.  Crafting complex, readable sentences takes skill.  Making those sentences sing takes talent.  Some people believe talent is inborn.  I believe it can be learned.  I think if you love something you will put everything you have into it and excel at it.  Aptitude or not, you will develop the talent necessary to achieve your desired goals.  And for the past seven years, that is just what I have been trying to do.  

I have taken writing classes.  I have read books.  I have studied my craft and given one hundred percent.  And all the while, I continued writing.  Not only have I written two novels, I have written short stories, poems, and blogs.  And I am proud to say that I have carried all of my children to term; and no matter how painful, after giving birth, I released them into the world.  

I wish I could say that my babies were well received; but thus far, that has not been the case.  Oh, they got a few oohs and ahs; but for the most part, the world didn't appear too impressed by their smiling faces.  It hurt to watch them dismissed so impudently.  I didn't understand.  To me, they were beautiful.  Unfortunately, the publishing world saw them as nothing more than street urchins looking for a warm place to hide.  Each time I sent one of them out into the world, I did so with fear and trepidation.  Each time they were rejected, I cried. 

But, hey, don't feel sorry for me.  It's all part of the process.  Ask any mother.  She'll tell you.  Hell, I'll tell you.  I'm a mother.  I raised two children and helped raise four grandsons.  I'm not going to lie, sometimes the experience was wonderfully fulfilling and life affirming; other times, it was so painful that it brought me to my knees.  Looking back over those years, especially the painful ones, I can see and now appreciate the love and commitment that held everyone and everything together.  

Like parenting, writing requires love and commitment.  It also requires faith and discipline.  Without discipline, nothing would be written; and without faith, nothing could be written.  Love, commitment, faith, and discipline are the cornerstones of the writing process; and as such, each must be laid in its proper place before the work of writing can begin.  If you're missing one of these cornerstones, your foundation will be lopsided, and your writing will be unbalanced. 

I knew I had the love and the discipline to write another novel.  I just didn't know if I had the faith necessary to make the commitment.  Once again, I found myself standing on the edge of the precipice.  I had to make a choice.  I would either commit to getting yet another degree and go to school full-time or commit to writing the novel and taking a class here and there when I could fit it in.

I may be crazy-hell, I probably am-but I chose to write the novel.  I'm currently working on the third chapter.  As for those classes, well, I'll try to fit them into my writing schedule.  Right now, I have to focus on my new baby.  Once again, I'm living my life on a wing and a prayer.  Every day, I have to face my fears of failure and rejection and do that which terrifies me.  I have to step outside of my comfort zone and walk by faith and not by sight.  I have to trust not only the Creator but also my own creative ability.  It's scary, but I know it's doable.  I've done it before, so I know I can do it again.

My love gives me the faith I need to make the commitment, and my commitment bolsters my discipline and urges me to begin my task.  I've heard it said that there are really only two emotions: fear and love.  It has also been said that perfect love casts out fear.  I love the Creator, and I love writing, not so into the whole fear thing, so I think I'll chose love. 

Here's some sage advice, from Sarah Ban Breathnach:

"Dare yourself to believe in your creativity, wherever it may lead you.  Trust that where it leads is exactly where you're supposed to be.Your authentic self knows where you're headed.  Don't Wrestle with Spirit, collaborate with it."

 Nuff said.

 © 2009 Phoenix Rising.  All Rights Reserved.

Individuals may copy this post for noncommercial use without permission provided that this post is used in its entirety and carries the Phoenix Rising copyright notice and the following link back to this blog: www.phoenixrisingwriterscorner.blogspot.....