At the Bottom of the World (Photo by Eugene Kaspersky)

For those of you who didn’t check in last week, we’re discussing Felicity Aston’s solo crossing of Antarctica.

To me, the bravest thing about Aston’s journey was her willingness to be on her own for so long.  The lack of connectivity with other humans must have been more frightening than the possibility of encountering hostile wildlife or getting frostbite, and much harder to prepare for.  A pistol helps discourage pesky wildlife, and some super high-tech longjohns and wicking socks help combat the cold.  (I’m not a survivalist, so substitute the specialized garment of your choice for my longjohns and socks.)

Nothing helps with the alone-ness.  How many of us get slightly panicky at the thought of being without our smart phones, Facebook links, or email for a day or two?  Never mind not seeing or talking to another human being for weeks on end.   (Your initial reaction might be, “Oh, heaven.  I don’t have to talk to the guy in the next cubicle or my snotty teenager for over a month,” but I think the reality of being so cut off might make even your teen’s sullen growls look appealing after a week.)

The fear such solitude engenders, for me, comes largely from the realization that I’d have hours upon hours to think.  Between writing, kids and hubby, household tasks, volunteering at the church, working out, reading, and other such activities, I can go weeks, maybe months, without really thinking.  Scary, but true.  When I try to meditate or have a quiet devotional time, my mind skitters to tasks left undone, projects in process . . . anything to avoid actually having to come to grips with who I am, what makes me happy, what my purpose is, how to better connect with the people in my life.  I can’t sit, being quiet, for more than a few minutes.  Imagine weeks of alone-ness and time to come face-to-face with yourself and tell me that doesn’t scare you more than the prospect of a hungry leopard seal leaping onto your ice floe.

And if that doesn’t terrify you, how does the possibility of a hugely public failure grab you?   I’ve been known to let fear of embarrassment keep me from talking to a woman whose name I should know but which I’ve forgotten.  The fear of embarrassing myself in front of one near-stranger seems silly compared with the prospect of millions of people knowing you tried and failed.  Wait a minute . . . maybe it’s the trying that earns respect, and the success or failure is secondary?  Aah!  Kudos to all who are willing to tackle almost unreachable goals with the whole world watching.

One of my big challenges in 2012 is forcing myself to be reflective without setting off on a solitary cross-Pacific jaunt in a canoe.  I’d love to hear how you quiet your minds and allow space in your lives for serious thinking.

Felicity Aston, alone. (Photo by Eugene Kaspersky.)

As most of us crumpled used wrapping paper into the trash, found batteries for the gadgets Santa left under the tree, and swept up glitter and pine needles, Felicity Aston slogged her way across Antarctica, becoming the first woman to make the trek solo.  Read about it here.

Let me start by admitting that I can’t even begin to comprehend what drives anyone to attempt this kind of feat.  What is appealing about weeks of frigid cold, hard labor, and alone-ness?  The motivation must be related to the urge that makes people tackle K2, swim from Florida to Cuba, and cross Canada on roller skates.  (I made that last one up, but someone’s probably done it.)  Leaving aside the personal courage and hardiness required to undertake these journeys, I’m always left wondering what was accomplished.  Not a single life was saved, nor human burden lessened.  Neither the environment nor the economy was improved.  So why do it?

It’d be easy to dismiss such feats as pointless, but I hope they’re not.  Since I haven’t interviewed anyone who’s undertaken such a project, I can only speculate, but I think there’s value in plumbing one’s depths, discovering that you can face down fears, keep going when the going gets tough, push through pain and frustration and physical/mental deprivation to achieve a goal.  I have to hope that these adventurers take that self-knowledge and go on to make a difference in the world, make a contribution, accomplish something that’s not quite so … individualistic and self-focused.

Or, maybe their feats serve as inspiration for others, give them the confidence to challenge themselves, try new things, set stretch goals.  Maybe the thinking goes, “If Aston can march across the Antarctic on her own, I can march across the street and confront the drug dealers wrecking my neighborhood/offer the homeless guy a meal/stop the teens from bullying the new kid.”  It’s probably a less conscious process than that, but who knows?

Since I’ve undoubtedly exhausted your attention span by discussing whether or not extreme adventuring has value, come back next week to find out what I think is scariest about Aston’s quest.

This year’s theme is “Celebrating Twenty Years of Success!”

A detailed calendar isn’t yet available, but event organizers promise:

Jam-packed days of informative workshops, motivational speeches, networking opportunities, Read & Critique sessions, and the chance to pitch your manuscript to some of the most sought-after editors and agents in the business.

I’m looking forward to discussing both the Swift Investigations and the Mall Cop mysteries. I invite you to join us from 11:00am to noon, on March 24. Event Details.

The Mystery Writers of America sponsor MWA University, where I’ll be teaching a session on Dramatic Stucture & Plot.

Here’s what my students have signed up for:

Event Details

But then I took a make-up and maybe redeemed myself a little.

Here’s what happened:

I received a request from an on-line acquaintance I’ll call “Q” to blurb a novel. For those of you not in the writing fraternity, “blurbs” are those snippets from authors or reviewers on book covers saying “Best debut novel I’ve read since Thursday” or “This mystery combines the in-depth characterization of Agatha Christie with the humor of the Three Stooges.”

You know where this is headed . . . I read part of the book and knew I couldn’t in good conscience (irony here) recommend it. Problem was, in addition to being an author, Q is also a reviewer with some clout in my chosen field. So, not only did I not want to hurt Q’s feelings by pointing out the manuscript’s flaws, but I also didn’t want to piss off Q.

What did I, in my courageous way, do? I lied. I emailed Q and said I had too many commitments to have time to read and blurb the manuscript. Then I got to thinking about it. (Yes, I know it would have been more useful to do some thinking before sending the mendacious email.) The squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I’d done the wrong thing—duh. My lie might spare the author’s feelings, but it wouldn’t help Q become a better writer. And being worried about how Q would review my books in future was too weaselly for words.

So, I sent another email, admitting I’d lied and telling Q exactly why. I detailed the problems I had with the manuscript and offered to critique a future couple of chapters, if Q wanted me to. With great trepidation, I hit “send.”

Q’s reply was professional and gracious—not at all the snarls and scorn I deserved, and I’m happy to say we may become regular correspondents.

One thing I learned from this is that writing a blog about living courageously makes it somewhat easier to do the right thing (even if belatedly). I felt accountable. To myself, and to you. Studies have shown that dieters who let a support group know they’re trying to lose weight hesitate before eating that third helping at dinner, or snarfing down a handful of M&Ms, because they know they’ll have to confess to their friends (or the scale will do the confessing for them). I experienced a little of that feeling. So, thanks for your help.

With your help, maybe I’ll ace the next test the first time.

I paid for and downloaded a program called “Freedom” that disables Internet access for those folks (me!) lacking the self-discipline to stay away from web surfing or email when they’re supposed to be working.

The program is aptly named. I can’t tell you how free I felt when I told the program on Monday to disconnect me for four hours. I’d been getting inklings that email was holding me prisoner (yeah, yeah, I know I had to volunteer to let it hold me prisoner, so never mind that), but I hadn’t realized how trapped I felt until I got away from it. Knowing I couldn’t get to it, I didn’t even miss it. Much.

Working four hours straight, with no interruptions to peek at emails piling up in my inbox, I accomplished massive revisions on my third mall cop mystery, as yet untitled. (Well, I’ve got a working title, but I don’t like it.) I felt focused and creative.

I’ve used it every day since then and actually look forward to sitting down to write, knowing the writing is all I have to think about. I may sound facetious, but I’ve felt for several months as if I were drowning out my creative voice by letting in the din from Facebook, Twitter, email, and the like. Those things have their place, but I’m hugely relieved that I’ve found a way of creating a quiet space that lets me hear that still, small voice that wells up from my creative center.

How do you protect and encourage that voice within?

In a serendipitous adjunct to my new resolve to live courageously, I was pleased to be profiled in Money magazine‘s January/February 2012 issue, on newstands just now. Their investment make-over and my attitude make-over both have me feeling a little exposed.

And I’m embracing it.

The article itself begins this way:

Laura DiSilverio knows how to get to the bottom of things. She spent 20 years as an Air Force intelligence officer before retiring in 2004 to write mystery novels. Today Laura is flummoxed by the job of managing 11 investment accounts. She and her husband, Tom, are unsure whether they’re on track for him to retire in 15 years and help pay for college for their daughters, Lily, 14, and Ellen, 12. As Laura puts it,

“Spying was easier.”

See the clips below for the remainder of the article.