Category Archives: Addiction/Recovery

The 12 Steps to Writing Success, Part 04: My History As A Failure and A Scaredy-Cat

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I was born modest; not all over, but in spots.
— Mark Twain
This is where I tell you why I’m the perfect guy to blog about despair and artistic angst and writers’ block like a cinder block smashing down on the keys of your laptop.

Bottom line is this: my credentials are more about the internal wounds I’ve overcome than the external honors I’ve been given. Which are sparse. It took me five years to finish my first novel, and I was too afraid to try to seek a publisher. The fact that very few people could read it didn’t quite bolster my confidence. It took me another seven to finish my next novel, and I was still unwilling to get help from anyone. And I still kept my writing life a secret from everyone. My wife would knock on the door, and I’d shuffle away my papers.

“What are you doing, Aaron?”

“Nothing. Not writing. Not me. Uh huh.”

Let’s fast forward? Or rewind. Or both. I always wanted to be a writer, ever since I was little. That was the dream. Aaron Ritchey, writer. On the first day of kindergarten, when the teacher told me to get out my crayons and paper, I asked, “Is this going to help me read and write?”

The answer was no. We were going to color. “Well,” I said, “I can color at home.” So I packed up my grip and walked home. I was five. It was clear what I wanted.

And I wrote Indiana Jones/Conan fanfiction. Of course, I combined them. Jase Kilner and his race through the lost city of whatever. Still a cool name, Jase Kilner.

 

I re-did Little Bo Peep, but added a hardboiled bounty hunter to help the luscious Bo Peep get back her sheep. There were wolves, but our hero had a shotgun. He was too cool to have a name. Too Clint Eastwood-y.

I loved to write stories, and my parents would eagerly wait to read what I had written. I had a fan base in the 3rd grade. My mom and dad. Garsh.

But then fear took hold. Bad fear. In high school, we had a literary magazine, and we’d vote on which stories we wanted to include. I always voted for myself, and I always lost to Pat Engelking, who was a better writer than me. But I hated that feeling, voting for myself. It felt horrible and I felt cursed to lose.

In the next twenty years, I wrote twelve novels. But was too afraid to shop them around.
Which brings up an important lesson. Always vote for yourself and vote with pride. Sending out query letters is voting for yourself. Now, if someone else has something better, vote for them, but if you’re all about the same, go for it, baby. We have to be our biggest fans because writers spend most of their time reading and re-reading their own work. It’s called revision. Be your own fan. Hell, be your own groupie. I won’t go any further on that.

So here I was, twenty years of writing, full of fear and regret. But I finally worked through the angst and terror and I sent out sixty queries to agents, editors, and presses, and I got picked up by a small press. That is my story. Along the way, I’ve spent 20 years working the 12 steps with my sponsor, and I’ve guided dozens of people through the 12 steps as a sponsor. I’ve been in recovery, without a relapse, for 21 years. As of today, everyone knows I’m a writer. And I keep on spreading the word.

I have overcome many of my deepest, darkest fears and self-limiting beliefs, and I can help others do the same. Hopefully, you can do it in a couple of months and it won’t take you decades. Hopefully.

A little bit more about me. Just your typical stuff because in the end, I’m just a typical guy. Oh, how I long to be so much more. But I’m not. Just a writer who plods along. Do-de-do-de-do.

In the middle of all that novel-writing, my wife and I spent 15 months traveling around the world. We settled down in Colorado where we raise two James-Bond-Super-Villains-In-Training who pose as little girls and who adore American girl dolls. Which of course is a plot to transfer wealth out of the middle class into Mattel’s evil laboratories.

When I’m not writing or speaking at writing conferences, I work at a computer company troubleshooting software, which is far more dull than it sounds.

I say all of that to say this. I failed at a deep level with my writing. Because of my own fear, because of my doubt, and because of my overly-dramatic self. I can “should” all over myself, all day long. I should have joined a critique group right away. I should have worked on short stories. I should have studied craft. I should have queried every day for years on end. Ray Bradbury had thousands of rejections before he published anything. Stephen King, same story.

But just because I failed yesterday, doesn’t mean I have to fail today. As long as I work through the angst to get to the other side. And there is another side for all of us. But it takes work and effort.

That’s what the rest of my blog posts are going to be all about. Working through the angst and trauma to get to the other side.

Next week:  Step one. Admitted we were powerless over our art and our creative lives had become unmanageable.

Heavenly Fridays – Ex-Drunks, Pushers, and San Luis Obispo Angels

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In The Never Prayer, I introduce the reader to the idea of pushing. Pushing is what angels do when they want to change things on this hard, old world, to make things better. But my angels can only do so much, and in the end, human beings have free will.

Have you noticed that when you are trying to do something that is wrong, things don’t work out all that smoothly? Little things break. You might snag your coat. You might trip.

I grew up Catholic. I know when I’m doing something wrong, and I’ve noticed that things don’t go smoothly when I’m not doing the right thing. Yeah, that may or may not be angels, but still, I liked that idea, and so I put it in my book.

When asked how he knows who to help, my angel says helping people is easy. All you need to do is go outside, look, listen, and you’ll find someone to help. This world is so broken, and people are so troubled, everyone needs help.

This idea came from a story I heard from an old ex-drunk who had spent years living on skid row in Los Angeles. Hardcore bum. We’re talking the bowery, man. Where hope goes to die. But he lived there for years, stayed drunk, and somehow, stayed alive.

Until he got sober in A.A. and became an exceptional man. Anyway, it was in his early years of sobriety, and his life was still rocky, and his sobriety was as shaky as my own faith in God. As shaky as a drunk ten minutes away from earthquake D.T.’s. As shaky as a castanet on a mountain bike going downhill. Shaky.

It was the middle of the night in San Jose, and he found himself in his car, driving around. He was desperate not to drink again, but oh boy, liquor stores were huddled together on every corner, coming out of the shadows to show off their neon. And like I said, he was shaky.

But my friend had heard in AA meetings that if you didn’t want to drink, you should help other people. But who could he help at midnight? Most everyone on Earth was asleep.

He started driving south, not really knowing why, but just driving. And he drove all the way down to San Luis Obispo which is at least 2 or 3 hours from the Bay Area. But it felt right, and it was better than relapsing. So in the wee early morning hours, in San Luis Obispo, he was driving around, looking for someone to help. Following this still, sure voice inside his head.

Yeah, voices in his head. Crazy. And he was about to turn around and drive away from all that crazy when he saw them—a man, stranded by his car, with his family, as desperate as my friend felt. And he helped them and they kept thanking him, saying that he was a gift from God. That he was an angel.

Now, if God, or the Universe, or the Great Holy Muffin of All Creation can use an old ex-drunk to help someone, imagine what this force can do with us, who aren’t drunk, who are in our right minds (at times), who are healthy?

We can be angels. If we slow down and listen.

Miracles happen if we look for them. And if we don’t look, they don’t happen. It really is up to us. How grand is that?

God is where you look. Angels will talk to you. If you listen.

The 12 Steps to Writing Success Part 3: People Love Artists Like They Love Astronauts

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I read my own books sometimes to cheer me when it is hard to write, and then I remember that it was always difficult, and how nearly impossible it was sometimes.
— Ernest Hemingway

 

 

 

People love to tell artists that they’re jealous of them. Wow, you write, that’s great. I wish I had something like that in my life. Generally, I grab them, slap them a few times, dunk them in a nearby lake, hook them up to a motorcycle battery, and then torture them until they take it back.

It’s like when people say, “You’re so lucky you got recovery early.” Uh huh, so lucky I was suicidal at nineteen, a monk at 20 (celibacy vows intact), and I celebrated my 21st birthday watching a bad movie with people who didn’t really give a crap that it was my 21st birthday. Yeah, so lucky.

I think the reason why people are fascinated by artists is that everyone is an artist, deep down, but doubt, fear, general angst, drive them away from it. So it’s like when you say you’re an artist, it’s like saying you’ve just come from visiting a distant planet. Everybody likes an astronaut because they’re tough, skilled, blessed. Artists, writers, same thing.

These series of blog posts are for those who want to be astronauts of the spirit, who want to overcome whatever madness drove them away from creating. The 12 steps have helped millions of people overcome life-crushing, heart-wounding addictions, and they can help those who want to create art but find themselves caged by their own deluded, self-centered fear. The genius behind the 12 steps is that they give us a choice on what we want to do, rather than having us running away whenever some compulsion hits.

And it’s 12 steps. Just 12. Simple. But not necessarily easy. And for those not suffering from a crippling addiction, they can pretend they are. What are you doing tonight, Ed? Working the 12 steps. For your gummy bear addiction? No, I’m a writer. I have a writing addiction I want to nurture. How cool is that?

In 1955, Bill Wilson wrote a series of essays on the 12 steps and 12 traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous that was published in a book, in AA circles called the 12 by 12, and of course, there are a bunch of fascists who are always there to correct people. It’s 12 and 12, not 12×12, ya drunk yodeling idiot. This series of blog posts is going to have a similar format. Next week we’ll have a brief biography, which of course, won’t be hard for me. It’s the old, “I’m not much, but I’m all I think about.” I know, last week I promised a biography, but well, um, the internet breeds disappointment. I’m just doing my job.

Again, I want to be clear, I’m going to keep whatever fellowship I belong to anonymous because the point of this is not to promote any one 12-step program, but to show how people can use the 12 steps to improve their creative lives. And my story is just an example, a kind of, “If this yutz can do it, you can too.” And the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are in the public domain, though I plan to change them, just a bit, because we’re not dealing with alcoholism, or narcotic addiction, or gambling, or sex, or overeating. Ha, reads like a list of ‘these are a few of my favorite things.’ We’re dealing with the generic problem of artistic angst and how to overcome it.

I’ll be using stories from my own life as well as other writers I’ve met, because at the heart of things, 12-step programs are about storytelling. “We heal through our mouths,” or so the saying goes.

And this isn’t going to be a blog series of advice, tips, blah, blah, blah. It’s going to be instructive. Do this. Do this. Do this. In 12-step talk, we take the actions and our thinking changes. You can’t fix a broken mind with a broken mind. It takes action. Bring the body and the mind will follow.

I’m goin’ biblical, Faith without works is dead. Bill W. loved that little piece of quotation magic.

Next week, I promise, the biography of me, or “Why I should be the one to blog about this stuff!”