It is finally happening. This writing bug is shifting in me. I have always been susceptible to restlessness. I get bored easily, with everything, including myself, but it is more than that. It is an itchiness and a craving and a terror all in one. I distinctly remember watching Breakfast at Tiffany's for the first time and feeling a click at the phrase "the mean reds," as Holly describes them, "The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"
Yes, Holly, yes I do, and it usually means that good things are coming, if I can just harness that energy and push a little further and dare to peek behind the curtain of doubt that sometimes plagues me.
So, this book. This book that is less than 10 days away from completion... it is growing in me. It is causing me to drift out of conversations and stare a little harder and sit a little longer. It is an obsession. I am in the lovesick throes of a romance that takes more than it gives, and I can already see it taking me somewhere new; somewhere that causes my knees to wobble a bit and my shoulders to hunch at the idea of it. I am ready and I am scared and I am jumping anyway.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A Moment to Celebrate
Today, dearest blog o' mine, I am happy to say that I have completed 1706 words (not including the 200ish that I wrote this afternoon while waiting for coffee). So, yeah, that means, if I am really only going for a 50,000 word count requirement (I might bump it to 55,000-60,000 if it seems like it's warranted), that I will officially reach my goal in 11 business days. That is just over two "business weeks" (it's unlikely that I will get any weekend work in, but I still dream of the day when that could be my reality). I might actually see this pay off with a complete first draft, ripe and ready for some amazing revisions (already dreaming those up, since I am doing all sorts of reading about how to write this book concurrent to writing this book)... by mid-March. What?
In addition to feeling like the world's most productive writer (let me have my moment), I have been revisiting the value in friendships and putting the effort in has been paying out in spades. I feel like being a parent makes a person a terrible friend. It is just a natural progression of having your attention ripped in a million directions while also suffering the affects of sleep deprivation/interruption torture. You become a crazy, exhausted, wimpy non-person who suddenly laments not having a life and tries to manage everything in short bursts. Or I do. Maybe not you. You (if ever there were a hypothetical you to read this) might have figured out a way to master parenting that I simply have not. Anyway, that being said, for all of my complaints about American public schools, they at least make good on childcare (except during bad weather, major bank holidays, at least one teacher in-service day a month, and for a few weeks at a time surrounding Judeo-Christian holidays). So, thank you public school, for giving me a six-hour block, five-ish days a week, during which I can cram all of the things that I want to do without having an anyone else's needs to meet... like being a friend. That is something I find incredibly fulfilling, and the payout of said endeavor is worth all the cheese on the Moon.
See, I have awesome friends. I am friends with women who are smart and capable and tenacious and just all-around badasses. Seriously. I am not exactly sure how I managed to form the perfect algorithm of friend-finding, but I have done quite well for myself, and the ladies whose company I choose to keep are fierce. I am still catching up on all of the listening and talking that I owe them (I don't really engage with social media, so a lot of real-time investment is required), but it has been amazing to make plans and keep plans and follow-up and follow-through. I love my friends. My friends love me. Can you see how this is a really good thing to spend time on?
It also seems to enrich my character's lives and relationships. That makes sense, right? Spend time engaging with real people and feel like the people on the page are more realistic. I swear I am not harvesting my friends' personalities for character quirks, though I would definitely read a book about the amazing people that I know.
If I am blathering, forgive me. I just feel incredible about the accomplishment of coming back to write this week and progressing. I have had a few less than progressive moments lately, what with me and my partner getting sick for a week each, my kid getting put in a cast, and birthdays and holidays, and snow days, and all of these other life things that are worth my time, and have to be done in a conscious and focused way. There is no phoning it in when there are hills to sled and ailments to mend. But my-o-my, it is good to be undistracted.
11 more days...
In addition to feeling like the world's most productive writer (let me have my moment), I have been revisiting the value in friendships and putting the effort in has been paying out in spades. I feel like being a parent makes a person a terrible friend. It is just a natural progression of having your attention ripped in a million directions while also suffering the affects of sleep deprivation/interruption torture. You become a crazy, exhausted, wimpy non-person who suddenly laments not having a life and tries to manage everything in short bursts. Or I do. Maybe not you. You (if ever there were a hypothetical you to read this) might have figured out a way to master parenting that I simply have not. Anyway, that being said, for all of my complaints about American public schools, they at least make good on childcare (except during bad weather, major bank holidays, at least one teacher in-service day a month, and for a few weeks at a time surrounding Judeo-Christian holidays). So, thank you public school, for giving me a six-hour block, five-ish days a week, during which I can cram all of the things that I want to do without having an anyone else's needs to meet... like being a friend. That is something I find incredibly fulfilling, and the payout of said endeavor is worth all the cheese on the Moon.
See, I have awesome friends. I am friends with women who are smart and capable and tenacious and just all-around badasses. Seriously. I am not exactly sure how I managed to form the perfect algorithm of friend-finding, but I have done quite well for myself, and the ladies whose company I choose to keep are fierce. I am still catching up on all of the listening and talking that I owe them (I don't really engage with social media, so a lot of real-time investment is required), but it has been amazing to make plans and keep plans and follow-up and follow-through. I love my friends. My friends love me. Can you see how this is a really good thing to spend time on?
It also seems to enrich my character's lives and relationships. That makes sense, right? Spend time engaging with real people and feel like the people on the page are more realistic. I swear I am not harvesting my friends' personalities for character quirks, though I would definitely read a book about the amazing people that I know.
If I am blathering, forgive me. I just feel incredible about the accomplishment of coming back to write this week and progressing. I have had a few less than progressive moments lately, what with me and my partner getting sick for a week each, my kid getting put in a cast, and birthdays and holidays, and snow days, and all of these other life things that are worth my time, and have to be done in a conscious and focused way. There is no phoning it in when there are hills to sled and ailments to mend. But my-o-my, it is good to be undistracted.
11 more days...
Monday, February 22, 2016
Smells Like Teen Spirit
I am in this teenage phase of Writerhood. It is as ethereal, insecure and uncomfortable as it sounds. I have not been so unsure of my identity or intentions or feelings for years. I feel this exhileration, reaching out into a dark space and feeling around, unsure of what squishy, spiky, slimy thing waits for me to grasp at it.
It is not coincidence that it is Spring and I am feeling on the brink. I feel like I am tetering, right next to the line of discovery and movement and newness, and still on this side of it, wide-eyed and unsure. But I am feeling brave and open. Every day is a practice in unlearning that steely brace that I don so naturally. Every day is a matter of stepping back from the fight and rushing toward the possibility toward failure. Afraid to touch it, but having to dance with it to do this work. I could leave the page empty, and do nothing at all. Instead, I write.
Write write write...
Every week day bears a daily target of 1200 words. Achievable, but work nonetheless. Every day is also dedicated heavily to discovery and learning; always learning. So, for today's 1200, an intention (because focus is key and this developmental adolescene is so blurry at times): I will explore the depth of the male lead's feelings in the book so far. He is going to have to face the stakes and establish his stance in the challenges to come. What is his motivation? Are his weaknesses showing? The tension will be surrounding his own personal resolve and his feelings for another person.
Now, time to do that voodoo.
...
Done. 1449 words, with preliminary edits. I need to figure out where we go from here. Clearly there's another phone call that I have to write in, and at least one more interaction that goes well before the chapter where things go terribly wrong. I need a subplot, so I guess I need to map that. Tomorrow might be spent playing with the idea of a career shift for my main character.
It is not coincidence that it is Spring and I am feeling on the brink. I feel like I am tetering, right next to the line of discovery and movement and newness, and still on this side of it, wide-eyed and unsure. But I am feeling brave and open. Every day is a practice in unlearning that steely brace that I don so naturally. Every day is a matter of stepping back from the fight and rushing toward the possibility toward failure. Afraid to touch it, but having to dance with it to do this work. I could leave the page empty, and do nothing at all. Instead, I write.
Write write write...
Every week day bears a daily target of 1200 words. Achievable, but work nonetheless. Every day is also dedicated heavily to discovery and learning; always learning. So, for today's 1200, an intention (because focus is key and this developmental adolescene is so blurry at times): I will explore the depth of the male lead's feelings in the book so far. He is going to have to face the stakes and establish his stance in the challenges to come. What is his motivation? Are his weaknesses showing? The tension will be surrounding his own personal resolve and his feelings for another person.
Now, time to do that voodoo.
...
Done. 1449 words, with preliminary edits. I need to figure out where we go from here. Clearly there's another phone call that I have to write in, and at least one more interaction that goes well before the chapter where things go terribly wrong. I need a subplot, so I guess I need to map that. Tomorrow might be spent playing with the idea of a career shift for my main character.
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