...and had all sorts of ideas of how long it takes to do anything.
So, if any writers who haave been doing the work for longer than I have ever stumble across this page, I'm sure they'd get quite a laugh out of my timeline assumptions posted here. I always feel like I'm padding my dates so well when I offer a deadline, but the truth is I take such a zig-zag approach to my work that estimating timelines is like throwing rocks at the moon.
It's not really just that the work takes longer than I think (though, it often does, because I'm methodical and obsessive - and honestly, slow). It's that I also have this problem where I want to do everything all of the time. I want to travel this year, and I want to have my garden again now that my back is in better shape (thank you, 8 months of physical therapy) and I want to run and climb rocks and spend all of my time with my ever-more-interesting soon-to-be-7-year-old. But I'm also a writer.
I know this now. I know this now more than ever because I recently dove back into the work of quality assurance for a part-time gig to add to my travel fund (because part of doing everything is figuring out how to pay for it), and the experience has done well to remind me I am 100% writer and there's no going back now that I've had a bite of that apple.
So, taking on part-time work, volunteering with the PTA, running and doing crazy workouts in my basement, freelancing for friends and feeding my artist-self - it all takes time.
Here are the things I have done:
1. Finished reading one book already this year (and book 2 will be done by the end of this week)
2. Got that tattoo I promised (she's beautiful - I have another session coming up in March that I'm chomping at the bit to get to)
3. Signed up for my first writers' conference
4. Continued to JukePop my work (with the exception of November, when life stuff got the best of me)
5. Gotten back into comic books
6. Started planning a 6-week long trip with my daughter for this Summer
7. Started mapping the historical fiction piece for the coming year's work
8. Promised myself that Valentine's Resolution will be submitted to a publisher this year (OR BUST!)
Next things to do:
1. Get business cards (Betty Chestnut: Girl Boss has a nice ring to it)
2. Make that money to do those things - also, stop part-time gig in April for travel season
3. Start cooking again, cripes there's too much takeout in my life
4. Start working with my local adult literacy program THIS YEAR (I completed training in October and I should be getting my assignment any day now!)
5. Redo my cover art/name/etc
I hesitate to even type this, because I just admitted to my awful timeline problems, and clearly I am not doing much to make that easier on myself, but I did some math and I have ~24 chapters left to post on JP (that means I've hit the halfway point after today). If I can post 4 chapters a week, I'll have a full book up there in 6 weeks. Not too shabby. Realistically that means it'll probably be 12 weeks and then I'll have to start the tedious work of final revisions and formatting for submission, but hey progress is progress.
Alright, now that I'm frantic about being so far behind I'll never catch up, I guess I'd better get that chapter posted for today.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Vacation Can't Last Forever
I went away. I went to Italy with my partner-in-crime and spent 11 beautiful days celebrating love and life and circumstances. It really was that simpe. Every day was gentle and kind, even as we tried to navigate public transit in a number of territories where very few people spoke English. We ate and and held hands and explored together. There's no real way to share just how much it meant to me in a condensed paragraph, but that's what I'm doing, because this post is not about my travels through Italy.
It is, however, about something that happened one day while I was sitting down for a nice long lunch in Rome. As I sipped on a glass of red wine and settled back to enjoy the perfect breeze, I had a euphoric moment of anticipation. I could not wait to come back home and write again. This time last year was a huge deal for me as my kid started school, providing me with actual quiet time to work. I felt like the my days were suddenly filled with possibility. I started reading. I tried to implement a running routine. I stopped blogging simple word counts and started really acknowledging my identity as a writer. It was amazing for about a month because I suddenly could do the things I wanted to do. And then I had to go through the struggle of figuring out what that looked like. I delayed finding my way there until the beginning of this year when I developed the routine that worked for me. So, on a sunny day in Rome two weeks ago, I was flooded with excitement at the thought of starting the 'back-to-school' season when my routine already known and a first draft with a media outlet for exposure. I have never in my life been so happy to return to work.
I spent the Summer getting the first act of my book onto Jukepop. A venture that has been both wonderful and detrimental to my newfound identity. I love reading other Writers as they take the leap and put their work out into the world, and I really am working to build a social network that genuinely embraces people like me. I still have not found the balance of generating my own content and reading the works of others, but I am happy to keep working at it until I get there. I will get there.
Initially I found myself obsessively checking my status on Jukepop to see if I made the top 30. And I did. I made the top 5 - twice. June and July were a bit much as I digested the idea that people were actually reading (and enjoying?!) my work. Then I had to work through my reaction of receiving criticism, and the what-if of how to handle the someday reception of my first truly negative feedback. Then I decided to find a good Therapist to make sure that I have the tools to handle the level of public visibility that I am planning to take on this Fall. I realize that pandering to my neurotic psyche is not especially glamorous or original, but I feel like I am at a point in my life when self-destruction just is not going to work anymore for dealing with those less than stellar feelings surrounding self-worth and failure. Now Jukepop has (almost) comfortably become a tool for building my platform and getting ready for the next steps.
As for what those next steps are, I anticipate another draft revision before the end of the year. I would like to buff and shine Valentine's Resolution for query and submission by November at the latest. While I do that work, I am going to try to figure out the Wonderland of juggling more than one project at a time. I have had an historical fiction series novel on the backburner of my brain for a year now and I have to start planning it or I will burst. On top of that, I would like to start down a more structured education path, starting with Holly Lisle's course on flash fiction and moving toward Coursera for the Spring semester.
So I am still doing this crazy writing thing, and I am not bored or defeated yet. This is promising.
It is, however, about something that happened one day while I was sitting down for a nice long lunch in Rome. As I sipped on a glass of red wine and settled back to enjoy the perfect breeze, I had a euphoric moment of anticipation. I could not wait to come back home and write again. This time last year was a huge deal for me as my kid started school, providing me with actual quiet time to work. I felt like the my days were suddenly filled with possibility. I started reading. I tried to implement a running routine. I stopped blogging simple word counts and started really acknowledging my identity as a writer. It was amazing for about a month because I suddenly could do the things I wanted to do. And then I had to go through the struggle of figuring out what that looked like. I delayed finding my way there until the beginning of this year when I developed the routine that worked for me. So, on a sunny day in Rome two weeks ago, I was flooded with excitement at the thought of starting the 'back-to-school' season when my routine already known and a first draft with a media outlet for exposure. I have never in my life been so happy to return to work.
I spent the Summer getting the first act of my book onto Jukepop. A venture that has been both wonderful and detrimental to my newfound identity. I love reading other Writers as they take the leap and put their work out into the world, and I really am working to build a social network that genuinely embraces people like me. I still have not found the balance of generating my own content and reading the works of others, but I am happy to keep working at it until I get there. I will get there.
Initially I found myself obsessively checking my status on Jukepop to see if I made the top 30. And I did. I made the top 5 - twice. June and July were a bit much as I digested the idea that people were actually reading (and enjoying?!) my work. Then I had to work through my reaction of receiving criticism, and the what-if of how to handle the someday reception of my first truly negative feedback. Then I decided to find a good Therapist to make sure that I have the tools to handle the level of public visibility that I am planning to take on this Fall. I realize that pandering to my neurotic psyche is not especially glamorous or original, but I feel like I am at a point in my life when self-destruction just is not going to work anymore for dealing with those less than stellar feelings surrounding self-worth and failure. Now Jukepop has (almost) comfortably become a tool for building my platform and getting ready for the next steps.
As for what those next steps are, I anticipate another draft revision before the end of the year. I would like to buff and shine Valentine's Resolution for query and submission by November at the latest. While I do that work, I am going to try to figure out the Wonderland of juggling more than one project at a time. I have had an historical fiction series novel on the backburner of my brain for a year now and I have to start planning it or I will burst. On top of that, I would like to start down a more structured education path, starting with Holly Lisle's course on flash fiction and moving toward Coursera for the Spring semester.
So I am still doing this crazy writing thing, and I am not bored or defeated yet. This is promising.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
JukePop Serial Publishing is Go
It has been a ridiculously busy start to Summer, so this will have to be short, but Valentine's Resolution is officially accepted on JukePop. So now, my dear blog, it's time for some self-promotion. If you happen upon this little site of mine, I would be eternally grateful if you were to click here and read the work that I've done. I would probably become incontinent if you liked it and continued reading. Seriously, I've been the most excitable fool about this whole new step in what feels like the right direction.
This week marks a freelance project for a friend and trip to Boston with three of the most beautiful souls I know, and then I'll be back to hit the pavement and do the work and find a way to help people find me.
This week marks a freelance project for a friend and trip to Boston with three of the most beautiful souls I know, and then I'll be back to hit the pavement and do the work and find a way to help people find me.
Friday, April 15, 2016
I finished the book - like 3 weeks ago?
Yes, I finished the book.
I am the world's worst blogger. It's a good thing I don't put much stake in that identity. I used to love journaling and sharing my journalings. I put a solid five years of daily ramblings on LJ (remember LJ?). I still spend a lot of time in my head, thinking of what I would tell the world if I was sharing my thoughts with the interwebs. I even sit down in front of this computer ever few months with a real intention of making a path into that journal life once more. The reason that I struggle so much when it comes time to write those thoughts down? I have a few theories.
1. Chaos
My life is chaos. I realize that the human experience revolves around making sense of the chaos of daily life, and so most people who read that will think I'm being generically philosophical. I'm not. I mean it in a very quantifiable way. When I interact with people who don't experience similar levels to chaos to mine, I feel so incredibly alien from them. I can see how many folks would consider me manic or over-anxious or just place coconuts by interacting me on one of my more high chaos days. My life is so crazy (how crazy is it?) that when I walked outside on the day after Easter with my 6-year-old daughter's hand in mine, only to find a seemingly untouched but dead baby bunny directly in the path leading to my car, my only reaction was, "Huh, yep. Sounds about right." I know that this statement sniffs a bit of Truman-show-believing bs. I know it does. I think that's the only reason that I haven't had more concern for my mental state, because I'm definitely aware of my lingering layers of insanity. And I know that a lot of people would think, "Hey dummy, that's just a coincidence and those things happen to people all the time." I know. I know. I KNOW. Sometimes my coincidence rate feels a little higher than most. My theory is that it's just a numbers game, and I tend to do too much stuff too often and so my turn on the wheel comes around more often. Sorry, I'm getting away from my point. My point in sharing the bunny story is more to display my general mindset. I can't afford to be too heavily phased by dead bunny omens. Why not, you ask? Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because I have days like yesterday, when real intentional chaos continued to slam me in the face up until the very minute that I passed out on my bed, in the only position that doesn't allow my terrible crunched up lower back to send pain shooting down both of my legs (a condition that I'm sure is related to my chaos-induced daily way of holding my body, which is somewhere between a ready pounce and a braced crouch).
So what happened yesterday? It started with the usual. My partner (the man who I love in ways that drive me batty) left for work before my daughter and I woke. It's normal enough, except that just the evening before he decided to share that he believed this training to be the most dangerous he's ever attended. This is a guy who doesn't get phased by running into burning buildings or treating a patient on an active crime scene with an armed felon. So, when he shared that he felt like the water rescue class that he was taking was actually a threat to his life, you can imagine it stuck with me. Okay, so let's hope my husband doesn't drown today.
My daughter knows that her dad's job is dangerous, and she reacts emotionally to his being gone in irregular bursts (let's just say there's always a layer of chaos in my home because my husband's schedule is anything but routine - people who go on frequent business trips or who have family who work funky shifts get this), and she has about a three-day lag time before she reaches the point where she just can't anymore. I know that lag time will lengthen as she gets older and develops better self-control and coping skills, but right now, it's three days people. I have three days for her to feel secure and steadied by her home life before she starts to act up. It usually starts with sleep (the kid fears sleeping in a home without her dad - I get it, but it sucks, because I desperately need sleep to handle my daily dose of crazy, and once the sleep interruptions start, it's all random fits of crying and decision fatigue from there).
So, yesterday morning, it was day three. It was the third day of nothing being normal, not eating family dinner, switching between mom and dad's way of doing things, and pretending to be cool with it. She had a night of weird sleep and was already trying to make up for her exhaustion with swings of silliness and silence. This poor kid. I hate that we put her through it. I tell myself that growing in this environment will only make her stronger and that as long as she has our support and love she'll be okay. I over-balance it sometimes with attention. Go three days without normalcy, get extra attention from mom. It doesn't help and I feel worthless when I do it. I'm building unrealistic expectations. I try to balance that by being honest with her in talks about our lives. That just seems to make the kid depressed. I'm bad at this, but I'm trying so back off (that's basically my tagline - I know, not helpful). Anyway, I drop the kid at school and then I go have a fairly normal great day. I do my work, I revise. I meet my writing partner. I see a friend. I get a good hug and drink some good coffee and I pretend that everything is totally normal.
Then I pick the kid up. Here we go again. It starts with the timeout slip because she physically lashed out at a classmate. Nothing serious, but still, everything feels serious when kids are developing. Some girls were whispering and she thought it was about her so she tugged on the one girl and the girl kicked her. Admittedly, it sucks when my kid engages physically at all because she's basically a tiny Xena: Warrior Princess. She's bigger than every other girl in her class (and most of the boys) and could cause some real damage if she tried. I feel like my arms are being ripped out of their sockets when she tugs on me to follow her to her room to see her new fort. I can only imagine what a fellow Kindergartner felt. Not cool. She got a pretty fierce talking-to from her intense gym teacher (not her favorite teacher - she's a bit intimidating), and was crying with shame and fear and anxiety by the time we got back to the house. This isn't what I consider an unreasonable level of chaos. People deal with this stuff every day. No big deal. Now I have to determine an adequate consequence for my kid by myself and figure out a way to reinforce the lesson at home between me and my fellow parent who is around in a haphazard and constant state of PTSD (so let's call this a half-level of chaos that just looms over my daily life and isn't going anywhere for the next twelve years until retirement).
So, I give her a snack, I ask the intertubes about adequate consequences for physical aggression in anxious children and I find a solution that I feel good about. I sit with my kid and I help her work through her bad feelings and we write out different solutions to her problems and then we let it go and come downstairs to do homework. While I'm doing that, I get a knock on my door. It's my neighbor. It's my neighbor stopping by to deliver cookies. I kind of don't even want to write about this because, frankly, it shouldn't be a problem. I get that. I mean, someone is stopping by to be friendly and GIVE ME COOKIES. How could this be a problem? Because this is where things start to derail. All of the following events would have happened, but they would have happened with me able to focus and attend and make good decisions and not have an audience. I realize it's not an impossible feat to deal with, but it's another unplanned event to add to my daily bustle and fluster.
When I have a visitor in my home, everyone gets crazy. My daughter is terrified that I'll forget that she exists (overcompensation for lack of dad's attention backfiring riiiiiiight here). My dog must bark until the new person pets him, and then once that's done, he must go check outside to see if anyone else is going to show up at our house, and then he must come back in and investigate the guest, and then he must go outside to check again (and so on, in 10-minute bursts, for at least the first hour of someone hanging around my house - at least there are cookies). And I lose track of time and feel bad trying to wrangle my 6-year-old into readying herself for her extracurricular for the day (and it's pretty likely her homework doesn't get finished). I definitely forget that my cats need to be fed, but they kindly remind me by trying to kill each other and screaming loudly during the ordeal. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Granted, some level of this is always happening (regardless of guests), but I'm able to work against it by running around like a subservient fool, working against the irrational and selfish needs of some really cute snugglers. Unless I'm supposed to sit and make tea and talk about my feelings, but I'll save that for theory number two.
So, while I'm having my tea time, which sounds so laughably zen, my partner calls to talk to my daughter. This never happens. NEVER. He'll schedule calls while he's at work so he can say goodnight and things, but just calling to make sure our kid knows he loves her, it smacks of real fear. UGH. I get it. I get that he's a planner and we've lost enough people to weird and sudden circumstances that he doesn't joke around about regrets. But seriously, I had almost forgotten the whole maybe-my-best-friend-drowns-today tone of my day. No such luck. Try explaining that to a neighbor who just dropped by to talk about your day? I don't think I even wanted to hear about my day at that point.
Then the dog reenters my kitchen (for the third time) and looks rough. Something is off. I have a guest who is trying to make conversation, and a kid who is trying to avoid finishing her math, and all I can see is that my dog looks uncomfortable. Thankfully my neighbor was on the way out anyway , because that's the point when I officially lost focus. Then came the vomit. And from there it just took off. I've been very lucky to only hear a dog crying in a few limited circumstances (most of which were movies which assuredly did not harm animals during the making of). It's such a heart-wrenching sound. My dog cried and whimpered, laying on his side while his stomach visibly cramped. It lasted for fifteen minutes before I called the vet, who was able to get me a walk-in appointment if I could wait three hours, unless I wanted to call it an emergency and pay the extra fee to come in early. I tried to wait and watch and after twenty minutes, it was too much. So I rounded up my 6-year-old into the car (thankfully this is where the kid realized that getting attention was not the most pressing problem of our evening), and we went the vet. They wanted to keep the dog, which sucked, because (as I think I've illustrated) I only have so much stability, and my K9 friend is one of the few dependables in my home.
I ended the day too tired to sleep, back crunching and aching, with no partner, an exhausted kid, no dog, and a real concern that I was going to lose at least two of those three overnight. Just recounting it makes me tired. And that's a pretty common kind of day for me. You know how they measure floods by the rate of occurence? I'd say that's a once every two weeks kind of day. Pandora's got nothing on me.
2. Feelings
I seriously hate talking about my feelings, because most of them are not especially admirable. I react to things. I acknowledge my annoyance and frustration and UGHHHHHHHH moments. They're the most interesting ones. When I'm not talking, I'm spending most of my internal monologue feeling grateful and lucky and fulfilled and even giddy. The problem is, most people don't seem to get my fuel. I'm fueled by my kid's drawings and approach to conversation. I'm excited when things make sense in my head (especially writing things, but really anything because sleep deprivation has ruined my brain). I'm happy when I get to watch a twenty-minute TV show with my partner. I'm over the freaking moon when I get to have a conversation with him during which neither one of us loses focus and we both feel engaged by the material we're discussing (ooh especially if it doesn't involve talking about our kid, pets, bills, schedule, or sleep needs). These happy moments are boring. They're my boring moments and I love them. I don't really want to hear another person's judgments on them. But people are welcome to judge away on my mishaps, my whoopsies, and my UGHS, because I have very little stake in those things. It's a pretty functional state of being, but you can see how my share habits are less than stellar.
I often wonder if I'm poisoning my wells of friendship when I share. This is why I just tend not to. Add to that all of the feelings that happen on a day like the one described above and, no offense, but very few people can handle the truth. This is my life and it is awful sometimes and I totally get that people don't know how to work with that kind of material. But I'm not going to pretend that it's otherwise, and I'm not looking for fixes. See, the good days are so good. So good that the days like yesterday are entirely worth it. Crazy right? And those good days are for me. They're special. They sit in my heart like crazy rays of sunshine ready to be tapped when I'm laying in bed, aching all over, sleeping alone, and working through my terror that the next day could feasibly be worse. I'm sure that I sound like such a pessimist, but I know bad days and I know rate of occurence and I know luck and I know that depending on things to go smoothly is naive when you've got things stacked otherwise. I would rather ready myself for impact (which does involve working through and accepting crap that I so unfairly cannot control), instead of ignoring the fact that I'm on a collision course. It's a course that I chose, that I choose, to experience daily by allowing so much chaos into my life. It enriches me and keeps me alive. And sometimes it wears me down and pushes me too hard. When that happens, the last thing I want to do is examine how it makes me feel, because I'm not going to change any of it, so why analyze?
It's that litmus test that I love so much. Can I change the less-than-desirable goings-on? If I can, awesome, let's do it. If I can't, awesome, let's be snarky about it so it's clear whose in control here. Either way, I'm not super interested in showing my emotional work, because the point at which I start sharing, is the point where I'm already done.
So, okay, that went only for much longer than I intended, but all of that to say that I finished the book. Whether or not I become a better blogger about my work or my life is TBD. When I do get around to this space again, I definitely want to talk revisions and the bittersweet work that I've been doing for longer than I care to admit.
I am the world's worst blogger. It's a good thing I don't put much stake in that identity. I used to love journaling and sharing my journalings. I put a solid five years of daily ramblings on LJ (remember LJ?). I still spend a lot of time in my head, thinking of what I would tell the world if I was sharing my thoughts with the interwebs. I even sit down in front of this computer ever few months with a real intention of making a path into that journal life once more. The reason that I struggle so much when it comes time to write those thoughts down? I have a few theories.
1. Chaos
My life is chaos. I realize that the human experience revolves around making sense of the chaos of daily life, and so most people who read that will think I'm being generically philosophical. I'm not. I mean it in a very quantifiable way. When I interact with people who don't experience similar levels to chaos to mine, I feel so incredibly alien from them. I can see how many folks would consider me manic or over-anxious or just place coconuts by interacting me on one of my more high chaos days. My life is so crazy (how crazy is it?) that when I walked outside on the day after Easter with my 6-year-old daughter's hand in mine, only to find a seemingly untouched but dead baby bunny directly in the path leading to my car, my only reaction was, "Huh, yep. Sounds about right." I know that this statement sniffs a bit of Truman-show-believing bs. I know it does. I think that's the only reason that I haven't had more concern for my mental state, because I'm definitely aware of my lingering layers of insanity. And I know that a lot of people would think, "Hey dummy, that's just a coincidence and those things happen to people all the time." I know. I know. I KNOW. Sometimes my coincidence rate feels a little higher than most. My theory is that it's just a numbers game, and I tend to do too much stuff too often and so my turn on the wheel comes around more often. Sorry, I'm getting away from my point. My point in sharing the bunny story is more to display my general mindset. I can't afford to be too heavily phased by dead bunny omens. Why not, you ask? Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because I have days like yesterday, when real intentional chaos continued to slam me in the face up until the very minute that I passed out on my bed, in the only position that doesn't allow my terrible crunched up lower back to send pain shooting down both of my legs (a condition that I'm sure is related to my chaos-induced daily way of holding my body, which is somewhere between a ready pounce and a braced crouch).
So what happened yesterday? It started with the usual. My partner (the man who I love in ways that drive me batty) left for work before my daughter and I woke. It's normal enough, except that just the evening before he decided to share that he believed this training to be the most dangerous he's ever attended. This is a guy who doesn't get phased by running into burning buildings or treating a patient on an active crime scene with an armed felon. So, when he shared that he felt like the water rescue class that he was taking was actually a threat to his life, you can imagine it stuck with me. Okay, so let's hope my husband doesn't drown today.
My daughter knows that her dad's job is dangerous, and she reacts emotionally to his being gone in irregular bursts (let's just say there's always a layer of chaos in my home because my husband's schedule is anything but routine - people who go on frequent business trips or who have family who work funky shifts get this), and she has about a three-day lag time before she reaches the point where she just can't anymore. I know that lag time will lengthen as she gets older and develops better self-control and coping skills, but right now, it's three days people. I have three days for her to feel secure and steadied by her home life before she starts to act up. It usually starts with sleep (the kid fears sleeping in a home without her dad - I get it, but it sucks, because I desperately need sleep to handle my daily dose of crazy, and once the sleep interruptions start, it's all random fits of crying and decision fatigue from there).
So, yesterday morning, it was day three. It was the third day of nothing being normal, not eating family dinner, switching between mom and dad's way of doing things, and pretending to be cool with it. She had a night of weird sleep and was already trying to make up for her exhaustion with swings of silliness and silence. This poor kid. I hate that we put her through it. I tell myself that growing in this environment will only make her stronger and that as long as she has our support and love she'll be okay. I over-balance it sometimes with attention. Go three days without normalcy, get extra attention from mom. It doesn't help and I feel worthless when I do it. I'm building unrealistic expectations. I try to balance that by being honest with her in talks about our lives. That just seems to make the kid depressed. I'm bad at this, but I'm trying so back off (that's basically my tagline - I know, not helpful). Anyway, I drop the kid at school and then I go have a fairly normal great day. I do my work, I revise. I meet my writing partner. I see a friend. I get a good hug and drink some good coffee and I pretend that everything is totally normal.
Then I pick the kid up. Here we go again. It starts with the timeout slip because she physically lashed out at a classmate. Nothing serious, but still, everything feels serious when kids are developing. Some girls were whispering and she thought it was about her so she tugged on the one girl and the girl kicked her. Admittedly, it sucks when my kid engages physically at all because she's basically a tiny Xena: Warrior Princess. She's bigger than every other girl in her class (and most of the boys) and could cause some real damage if she tried. I feel like my arms are being ripped out of their sockets when she tugs on me to follow her to her room to see her new fort. I can only imagine what a fellow Kindergartner felt. Not cool. She got a pretty fierce talking-to from her intense gym teacher (not her favorite teacher - she's a bit intimidating), and was crying with shame and fear and anxiety by the time we got back to the house. This isn't what I consider an unreasonable level of chaos. People deal with this stuff every day. No big deal. Now I have to determine an adequate consequence for my kid by myself and figure out a way to reinforce the lesson at home between me and my fellow parent who is around in a haphazard and constant state of PTSD (so let's call this a half-level of chaos that just looms over my daily life and isn't going anywhere for the next twelve years until retirement).
So, I give her a snack, I ask the intertubes about adequate consequences for physical aggression in anxious children and I find a solution that I feel good about. I sit with my kid and I help her work through her bad feelings and we write out different solutions to her problems and then we let it go and come downstairs to do homework. While I'm doing that, I get a knock on my door. It's my neighbor. It's my neighbor stopping by to deliver cookies. I kind of don't even want to write about this because, frankly, it shouldn't be a problem. I get that. I mean, someone is stopping by to be friendly and GIVE ME COOKIES. How could this be a problem? Because this is where things start to derail. All of the following events would have happened, but they would have happened with me able to focus and attend and make good decisions and not have an audience. I realize it's not an impossible feat to deal with, but it's another unplanned event to add to my daily bustle and fluster.
When I have a visitor in my home, everyone gets crazy. My daughter is terrified that I'll forget that she exists (overcompensation for lack of dad's attention backfiring riiiiiiight here). My dog must bark until the new person pets him, and then once that's done, he must go check outside to see if anyone else is going to show up at our house, and then he must come back in and investigate the guest, and then he must go outside to check again (and so on, in 10-minute bursts, for at least the first hour of someone hanging around my house - at least there are cookies). And I lose track of time and feel bad trying to wrangle my 6-year-old into readying herself for her extracurricular for the day (and it's pretty likely her homework doesn't get finished). I definitely forget that my cats need to be fed, but they kindly remind me by trying to kill each other and screaming loudly during the ordeal. Chaos. Chaos. Chaos. Granted, some level of this is always happening (regardless of guests), but I'm able to work against it by running around like a subservient fool, working against the irrational and selfish needs of some really cute snugglers. Unless I'm supposed to sit and make tea and talk about my feelings, but I'll save that for theory number two.
So, while I'm having my tea time, which sounds so laughably zen, my partner calls to talk to my daughter. This never happens. NEVER. He'll schedule calls while he's at work so he can say goodnight and things, but just calling to make sure our kid knows he loves her, it smacks of real fear. UGH. I get it. I get that he's a planner and we've lost enough people to weird and sudden circumstances that he doesn't joke around about regrets. But seriously, I had almost forgotten the whole maybe-my-best-friend-drowns-today tone of my day. No such luck. Try explaining that to a neighbor who just dropped by to talk about your day? I don't think I even wanted to hear about my day at that point.
Then the dog reenters my kitchen (for the third time) and looks rough. Something is off. I have a guest who is trying to make conversation, and a kid who is trying to avoid finishing her math, and all I can see is that my dog looks uncomfortable. Thankfully my neighbor was on the way out anyway , because that's the point when I officially lost focus. Then came the vomit. And from there it just took off. I've been very lucky to only hear a dog crying in a few limited circumstances (most of which were movies which assuredly did not harm animals during the making of). It's such a heart-wrenching sound. My dog cried and whimpered, laying on his side while his stomach visibly cramped. It lasted for fifteen minutes before I called the vet, who was able to get me a walk-in appointment if I could wait three hours, unless I wanted to call it an emergency and pay the extra fee to come in early. I tried to wait and watch and after twenty minutes, it was too much. So I rounded up my 6-year-old into the car (thankfully this is where the kid realized that getting attention was not the most pressing problem of our evening), and we went the vet. They wanted to keep the dog, which sucked, because (as I think I've illustrated) I only have so much stability, and my K9 friend is one of the few dependables in my home.
I ended the day too tired to sleep, back crunching and aching, with no partner, an exhausted kid, no dog, and a real concern that I was going to lose at least two of those three overnight. Just recounting it makes me tired. And that's a pretty common kind of day for me. You know how they measure floods by the rate of occurence? I'd say that's a once every two weeks kind of day. Pandora's got nothing on me.
2. Feelings
I seriously hate talking about my feelings, because most of them are not especially admirable. I react to things. I acknowledge my annoyance and frustration and UGHHHHHHHH moments. They're the most interesting ones. When I'm not talking, I'm spending most of my internal monologue feeling grateful and lucky and fulfilled and even giddy. The problem is, most people don't seem to get my fuel. I'm fueled by my kid's drawings and approach to conversation. I'm excited when things make sense in my head (especially writing things, but really anything because sleep deprivation has ruined my brain). I'm happy when I get to watch a twenty-minute TV show with my partner. I'm over the freaking moon when I get to have a conversation with him during which neither one of us loses focus and we both feel engaged by the material we're discussing (ooh especially if it doesn't involve talking about our kid, pets, bills, schedule, or sleep needs). These happy moments are boring. They're my boring moments and I love them. I don't really want to hear another person's judgments on them. But people are welcome to judge away on my mishaps, my whoopsies, and my UGHS, because I have very little stake in those things. It's a pretty functional state of being, but you can see how my share habits are less than stellar.
I often wonder if I'm poisoning my wells of friendship when I share. This is why I just tend not to. Add to that all of the feelings that happen on a day like the one described above and, no offense, but very few people can handle the truth. This is my life and it is awful sometimes and I totally get that people don't know how to work with that kind of material. But I'm not going to pretend that it's otherwise, and I'm not looking for fixes. See, the good days are so good. So good that the days like yesterday are entirely worth it. Crazy right? And those good days are for me. They're special. They sit in my heart like crazy rays of sunshine ready to be tapped when I'm laying in bed, aching all over, sleeping alone, and working through my terror that the next day could feasibly be worse. I'm sure that I sound like such a pessimist, but I know bad days and I know rate of occurence and I know luck and I know that depending on things to go smoothly is naive when you've got things stacked otherwise. I would rather ready myself for impact (which does involve working through and accepting crap that I so unfairly cannot control), instead of ignoring the fact that I'm on a collision course. It's a course that I chose, that I choose, to experience daily by allowing so much chaos into my life. It enriches me and keeps me alive. And sometimes it wears me down and pushes me too hard. When that happens, the last thing I want to do is examine how it makes me feel, because I'm not going to change any of it, so why analyze?
It's that litmus test that I love so much. Can I change the less-than-desirable goings-on? If I can, awesome, let's do it. If I can't, awesome, let's be snarky about it so it's clear whose in control here. Either way, I'm not super interested in showing my emotional work, because the point at which I start sharing, is the point where I'm already done.
So, okay, that went only for much longer than I intended, but all of that to say that I finished the book. Whether or not I become a better blogger about my work or my life is TBD. When I do get around to this space again, I definitely want to talk revisions and the bittersweet work that I've been doing for longer than I care to admit.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
The 11th Hour
I broke 55,000 words yesterday. That felt amazing.
Now I am on the home stretch, and go figure, my energy is low. Thank all that is holy for coffee.
I have to write:
1. The last of the tension building middle scenes.
2. Rewrites of male lead chapters to fix timeline issues.
3. The ending (maybe more than one ending, just to see how it all plays out).
It won't be done today. It may not be done tomorrow, but I'm going to keep on trucking, and it will be done eventually.
When I finish:
1. I'm getting that tattoo that I've been dreaming of.
2. I will take a whole week off.
3. I will float.
First this, then Camp NaNoWriMo for the final draft. I've earned this. All I have to do is finish.
Now I am on the home stretch, and go figure, my energy is low. Thank all that is holy for coffee.
I have to write:
1. The last of the tension building middle scenes.
2. Rewrites of male lead chapters to fix timeline issues.
3. The ending (maybe more than one ending, just to see how it all plays out).
It won't be done today. It may not be done tomorrow, but I'm going to keep on trucking, and it will be done eventually.
When I finish:
1. I'm getting that tattoo that I've been dreaming of.
2. I will take a whole week off.
3. I will float.
First this, then Camp NaNoWriMo for the final draft. I've earned this. All I have to do is finish.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Numbers
Less than 2000 words until I break 50,000.
2 more working days until I've officially hit my target.
3 more scenes that I definitely MUST write.
I am going to finish a book. While the numbers don't lie, I do think they will change. It seems more likely that I'll work until the end of next week, since a few of the middle subplots require rewiring/fleshing out. The good news: the hard part (the groan-inducing, do-I-have-to?, blank stare inspiring middle) has become my favorite part. I think I love writing middles. Who knew? I think it just took the introduction to the idea that the middle is made for building tension to get me on track. Building, strething, layering, complicating? These are all my favorite things about writing/reading. I love tension. A good trait for a Writer. And that is exactly what I am.
So, since I'm still doing some middle-building, I'm guessing that I will definitely exceed 55,000 words by the time the book is actually finished. And that is okay. That is great. That is still only 7,000 words to go.
Then I think I will be giving myself a day or two off to start researching revision tools. April 1st starts Camp NaNoWriMo, and I aim to have a Final Draft at the end of it.
The idea of a Final is thrilling. I have a lot of conflicting fear associated with the idea of completion. I am sure I will get around to writing about that eventually. For now, I am just going to kick back on my heels and appreciate the fact that the numbers look pretty good.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Obsession
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Plotting
"Clearly, the fact that stories have plots in common is of no more account than that many people have blue eyes...The plot is they Why. Why? is asked and replied to at various depths; the fishes in the sea are bigger and deeper we go." --Eudora Welty On Writing
I get it. Romance writing is not taken especially seriously -- by me, by the writing community, by most readers who have walked past the blurred and toned bodies, covering the glossy paperbacks in that row in Barnes and Noble. It's okay. We're all cynics when it comes to love, but some of us are willing to set that cynicism aside to read a love story that only asks us to be swept away by the fervor of two characters that we find compelling.
Admittedly, my well of genre knowledge is pretty shallow. It includes a large number of works written by Jennifer Crusie and that one racy plantation-style library book that was passed through the hands of all of the more curious girls in my high school. I remember reading that novel with morbid fascination, and finding myself more than a little out of sync with the aggressive male lead, and the swooning (by the end of the book) bride.
When Ms. Crusie was passed my way, I reacted with a resounding yes. Sure, there was sex in the book, but there was also drama and fun and ugh the kind of love that you love and you hate and you want more of. I realize that once a book is marketed as romance, there are expectations, and I imagine that many genre readers don't react very well if those expectations aren't met. So, I have been resting back on my heels, wondering if I want to go for the commercial gold mine, or give my literary chops a go. With romance, it feels like there really aren't any examples of crossovers written within the last 100 years.
Regardless, I am still writing the love story that I want to write. Stumbling across the above quote by Ms. Welty gave me a renewed sense that the plot work that I am currently doing is going to be key in getting this book where I want it to be. I wrote a new chapter today, and it was the first time that I felt anguish for my lead's pain. That felt like something big.
In other news, I compiled the book with my new software, and found that I currently have 185 pages of first draft (more now that I've written two chapters since then and have yet to incorporate page breaks between chapters). When I first started this blog, I gave myself a deadline based on my kiddo's school year. Of course, all sorts of heinous life stuff took over only a few months into writing, and I lost the childcare that I had hoped to keep through the Summer. So, now with school ending in June, I would like to have something worth optioning by then. It's attainable, it's realistic, and I am well on the way to achieving it. Now, it's time once more to plot. I am about to write yet another chapter of mid-story rock-throwing. I don't want to watch my character endure the things that are going to happen, and yet I realize she has to if either one of us is going to get anywhere.
I get it. Romance writing is not taken especially seriously -- by me, by the writing community, by most readers who have walked past the blurred and toned bodies, covering the glossy paperbacks in that row in Barnes and Noble. It's okay. We're all cynics when it comes to love, but some of us are willing to set that cynicism aside to read a love story that only asks us to be swept away by the fervor of two characters that we find compelling.
Admittedly, my well of genre knowledge is pretty shallow. It includes a large number of works written by Jennifer Crusie and that one racy plantation-style library book that was passed through the hands of all of the more curious girls in my high school. I remember reading that novel with morbid fascination, and finding myself more than a little out of sync with the aggressive male lead, and the swooning (by the end of the book) bride.
When Ms. Crusie was passed my way, I reacted with a resounding yes. Sure, there was sex in the book, but there was also drama and fun and ugh the kind of love that you love and you hate and you want more of. I realize that once a book is marketed as romance, there are expectations, and I imagine that many genre readers don't react very well if those expectations aren't met. So, I have been resting back on my heels, wondering if I want to go for the commercial gold mine, or give my literary chops a go. With romance, it feels like there really aren't any examples of crossovers written within the last 100 years.
Regardless, I am still writing the love story that I want to write. Stumbling across the above quote by Ms. Welty gave me a renewed sense that the plot work that I am currently doing is going to be key in getting this book where I want it to be. I wrote a new chapter today, and it was the first time that I felt anguish for my lead's pain. That felt like something big.
In other news, I compiled the book with my new software, and found that I currently have 185 pages of first draft (more now that I've written two chapters since then and have yet to incorporate page breaks between chapters). When I first started this blog, I gave myself a deadline based on my kiddo's school year. Of course, all sorts of heinous life stuff took over only a few months into writing, and I lost the childcare that I had hoped to keep through the Summer. So, now with school ending in June, I would like to have something worth optioning by then. It's attainable, it's realistic, and I am well on the way to achieving it. Now, it's time once more to plot. I am about to write yet another chapter of mid-story rock-throwing. I don't want to watch my character endure the things that are going to happen, and yet I realize she has to if either one of us is going to get anywhere.
Friday, December 4, 2015
The Thing
Today I am sitting with Amy Poehler's voice in my head:
“You do it because the doing of it is the thing. The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.”
Time to do the work. I already mentioned the James Scott Bell book that I'm working reading, and now it is time for the Chapter 1 exercises. This is me being accountable.
Exercise 1 - 10 minute essay on understanding my approach to plot
When readers read my novels, I want them to feel whole at the end. That's because to me, novels are explorations into the choices we make. Novels provide comfort in presenting characters who also stumble and stress and miscalculate. My favorite novels show portraits of fully-formed people, trying to navigate a landscape of complex choices and relationships. There is very little place for security in a novel, except through the trust formed in character relationships, and even that isn't sacred. I want a reader to enter the novel feeling compelled to know more about the characters on the page, and exit with their heart in hand, grateful for the journey. I don't require a perfectly packaged conclusion to feel satisfied when I read, but I do require a perfect conclusion. I like to feel lit with possibility and full with love and tragedy and comedy. I like chaos when I read and I don't mind feeling lost while I wander through a novel, as long as there is an element of simplicty. I don't like being told the hows and whys of character action. I prefer to glean these from the character, as if they were a true friend who requires no explanation or defense. I love when the plot feels organic and unhurried. I do fnd myself driven to turn pages in commercial novels, but I also find myself pulled from the page to question plausibility more often than not. I prefer to feel deeply entrenched by a novel, moving through it as it were a waking dream - unavoidable and without intention.
It's Friday I'm in love.
“You do it because the doing of it is the thing. The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.”
Time to do the work. I already mentioned the James Scott Bell book that I'm working reading, and now it is time for the Chapter 1 exercises. This is me being accountable.
Exercise 1 - 10 minute essay on understanding my approach to plot
When readers read my novels, I want them to feel whole at the end. That's because to me, novels are explorations into the choices we make. Novels provide comfort in presenting characters who also stumble and stress and miscalculate. My favorite novels show portraits of fully-formed people, trying to navigate a landscape of complex choices and relationships. There is very little place for security in a novel, except through the trust formed in character relationships, and even that isn't sacred. I want a reader to enter the novel feeling compelled to know more about the characters on the page, and exit with their heart in hand, grateful for the journey. I don't require a perfectly packaged conclusion to feel satisfied when I read, but I do require a perfect conclusion. I like to feel lit with possibility and full with love and tragedy and comedy. I like chaos when I read and I don't mind feeling lost while I wander through a novel, as long as there is an element of simplicty. I don't like being told the hows and whys of character action. I prefer to glean these from the character, as if they were a true friend who requires no explanation or defense. I love when the plot feels organic and unhurried. I do fnd myself driven to turn pages in commercial novels, but I also find myself pulled from the page to question plausibility more often than not. I prefer to feel deeply entrenched by a novel, moving through it as it were a waking dream - unavoidable and without intention.
It's Friday I'm in love.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
All You Have To Do Is Read
I have come to the conclusion that I should probably stop coming to conclusions. It is a terrible habit. I can distinctly recall the look on my professors' faces, so many years ago now, as they watched me struggle to establish a conclusive endpoint to every conversation. It was this half-pity half-eyeroll expression that often triggered in me the feeling that I had just barely stutter-stepped off the mark again. I would toe so close to the plane of understanding, only to fall away from it entirely by trying to pin the thing down. It took me a while to adjust to the idea that my liberal arts education was not preparing me to present the right answers, but to ask the right questions. The coolest part about writing and reading is the exploration of possibility. It would be made utterly less cool if authors simply regurgitated facts and thesis sentences and punchlines and sent you on your way.
Conversely, in business, people love it when you present and adhere to an idea as if it was the only available possibility. I am sure there are some great progressive enterprises out there that enjoy paying their employees to ponder without conclusion, but my anecdotal experience is that management does not really find thinkers good for the bottom line. It is no wonder that I adapted so well to that environment and moved up the ranks as a result of my willingness to dedicate myself to efficacy, efficiency and righteousness. I am a focused, driven, motivated and successful employee. I am a foolish, bumbling, backwards student.
I struggle with focus when a world of possibility is available. I find myself revisiting my writing with a whole new mind of whatifs, especially if I can only visit sparingly (as in the case of holiday or sick weeks, when the world is rife with interruptions). I guess it makes sense then when I share that I have been avoiding learning about writing since I started my endeavor into the career a year ago. I know that avoidance is pretty juvenile behavior, but I was not quite ready to let go of my self-indulgent righteousness. I mean I have only recently started really staring down the fact that I am new at something again. And I sort of hate that fact. I really liked feeling like an expert, even if it was on the regulatory environment of good laboratory practices for medical device work.
How do I get to be a writing expert? There I go, asking the wrong questions. I have to start learning again. Shame on me for spending years poring over court hearings and preambles and white papers about something that made me feel sick to my stomach most of the time. Shame on me for hundreds of hours and dollars spent pursuing a professional certfication that I did not even really want. I could have been spending that same time continuing my college education with books and seminars and conferences on writing. I love writing. My undergrad thesis was in creative writing. Yet, I did not even require convincing to abandon it. I assumed it was such a natural progression to give up the dream for something that brought home a steady paycheck.
Gross. Clearly I have some unsettled guilt, but that's enough self-effacement for one blog post.
Now I am reading. I have a pretty decent unfinished first draft to one novel, and 10,000 words started on another that could lead to a promising short story. I also have been doing the leg work to put together a third serial project, and I purchased some new writing software. That being said, I have no idea how to do any of this. So, I am reading. I picked up Eudora Welty's and Stephen King's books, both titled On Writing, and borrowed this amazing plot and structure book by James Scott Bell from a friend. I am relearning how to ask questions and revel in ambiguity. I am unlearning the mindset that made me an expert and sitting in my humility in order to make something good happen. We can only hope.
Conversely, in business, people love it when you present and adhere to an idea as if it was the only available possibility. I am sure there are some great progressive enterprises out there that enjoy paying their employees to ponder without conclusion, but my anecdotal experience is that management does not really find thinkers good for the bottom line. It is no wonder that I adapted so well to that environment and moved up the ranks as a result of my willingness to dedicate myself to efficacy, efficiency and righteousness. I am a focused, driven, motivated and successful employee. I am a foolish, bumbling, backwards student.
I struggle with focus when a world of possibility is available. I find myself revisiting my writing with a whole new mind of whatifs, especially if I can only visit sparingly (as in the case of holiday or sick weeks, when the world is rife with interruptions). I guess it makes sense then when I share that I have been avoiding learning about writing since I started my endeavor into the career a year ago. I know that avoidance is pretty juvenile behavior, but I was not quite ready to let go of my self-indulgent righteousness. I mean I have only recently started really staring down the fact that I am new at something again. And I sort of hate that fact. I really liked feeling like an expert, even if it was on the regulatory environment of good laboratory practices for medical device work.
How do I get to be a writing expert? There I go, asking the wrong questions. I have to start learning again. Shame on me for spending years poring over court hearings and preambles and white papers about something that made me feel sick to my stomach most of the time. Shame on me for hundreds of hours and dollars spent pursuing a professional certfication that I did not even really want. I could have been spending that same time continuing my college education with books and seminars and conferences on writing. I love writing. My undergrad thesis was in creative writing. Yet, I did not even require convincing to abandon it. I assumed it was such a natural progression to give up the dream for something that brought home a steady paycheck.
Gross. Clearly I have some unsettled guilt, but that's enough self-effacement for one blog post.
Now I am reading. I have a pretty decent unfinished first draft to one novel, and 10,000 words started on another that could lead to a promising short story. I also have been doing the leg work to put together a third serial project, and I purchased some new writing software. That being said, I have no idea how to do any of this. So, I am reading. I picked up Eudora Welty's and Stephen King's books, both titled On Writing, and borrowed this amazing plot and structure book by James Scott Bell from a friend. I am relearning how to ask questions and revel in ambiguity. I am unlearning the mindset that made me an expert and sitting in my humility in order to make something good happen. We can only hope.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Insomnia, My Best Habit
About a week ago I had this great plan, a total success lightbulb. I was going to go to bed early every night, and wake up at 4 am every day to write. I love mornings. I loved this idea because I love mornings and I love writing, and what could go wrong? There is only one tiny problem with any sleep plan to which I commit myself. I have terrible, totally unpredictable, stupid stupid stupid insomnia. I have read so much about sleep and sleep patterns and cycles and habits, because sleep hates me. Still, I thought I would employ all of these tips and tricks and awesome sleep knowledge to make myself become the 4 am writer that I dream of being.
So, why is it, that in the past week, I have spent the majority of my best writing time between the hours of midnight and 4 am? What is that about? Why am I waking up in the middle of the night with crazy amounts of creative energy, dying to write? The hard part is the right now part. This is the part where I debate going back to sleep before my 5-year-old wakes up and redirects all of my energy toward making things happen today. I know that I can sleep once she is safely at school in the care of competent providers, but I was supposed to do things today. I was supposed to handle things like making sure there is food, and a shelter that doesn't smell funny. This is why the plan is to be a 4 am writer, so I can still be a functional (tired, but functional) human being throughout the day.
After spending 3 hours writing in the middle of the night, I am not good for much other than sleep and binge-watching incredibly addictive television shows. Gross. So, so satisfying after a sleepless night, but gross because now I am an adult and my time is limited, and that just doesn't work for me.
The good news is, I am writing every day night. So, at least there is some good news. The bad news, is that I am screwed. I can either A. Be the binge-watcher day-sleeper that my body wants me to be. or B. Totally ignore the fact that I am exhausted and work through it, thus leading to a full body breakdown in the next month or so (trust me, this is so not my first rodeo).
So here I sit, wishing that I had slept once again, sure that this can only end poorly.
So, why is it, that in the past week, I have spent the majority of my best writing time between the hours of midnight and 4 am? What is that about? Why am I waking up in the middle of the night with crazy amounts of creative energy, dying to write? The hard part is the right now part. This is the part where I debate going back to sleep before my 5-year-old wakes up and redirects all of my energy toward making things happen today. I know that I can sleep once she is safely at school in the care of competent providers, but I was supposed to do things today. I was supposed to handle things like making sure there is food, and a shelter that doesn't smell funny. This is why the plan is to be a 4 am writer, so I can still be a functional (tired, but functional) human being throughout the day.
After spending 3 hours writing in the middle of the night, I am not good for much other than sleep and binge-watching incredibly addictive television shows. Gross. So, so satisfying after a sleepless night, but gross because now I am an adult and my time is limited, and that just doesn't work for me.
The good news is, I am writing every
So here I sit, wishing that I had slept once again, sure that this can only end poorly.
Monday, November 2, 2015
NaNoWriMo - The Start
I am such a novice. How did I manage to be totally green at thirty years old? I suppose it is a good thing really. A little nugget of youth that I get to have. Not that I am saying that I am old, because I am not one of those people who thinks that life has now ended because my body no longer wants me to behave like it is still sixteen. I just think that now that I have a matured impulse control and the need to sleep that I sometimes miss out on some of life's best learning opportunities. For me, it is the ability and willingness to continue to learn that keeps us young.
So, I am green. So green. This is my first NaNoWriMo. I am like a puppy about it; all wiggles and panting and tail-wagging. I also know that there will be a bump (there is always a bump) that will knock the puppy in me down enough for the cynic to chime in. It is going to be a battle. I just want to come out at the end of it with 50,000 words.
I am putting aside the funfic. I have been staring down the fact that writing the light and flippant fun novel takes as much work as writing one where the stakes are higher. Sure, in theory it requires less emotional investment, but I am beginning to wonder whether I am just not cut out for light investment. So, now I am writing a book that came to me in dream. Like a weirdo. Like a totally weird weirdo. It is really satisfying, though, to write something that feels like it is all mine. Whatever. All I know is that I do not feel quite as inclined to distract myself, and that probably means I am on a better path. Or that I am a puppy, and right now, this new and shiny work is its own wonderful distraction.
So, I am green. So green. This is my first NaNoWriMo. I am like a puppy about it; all wiggles and panting and tail-wagging. I also know that there will be a bump (there is always a bump) that will knock the puppy in me down enough for the cynic to chime in. It is going to be a battle. I just want to come out at the end of it with 50,000 words.
I am putting aside the funfic. I have been staring down the fact that writing the light and flippant fun novel takes as much work as writing one where the stakes are higher. Sure, in theory it requires less emotional investment, but I am beginning to wonder whether I am just not cut out for light investment. So, now I am writing a book that came to me in dream. Like a weirdo. Like a totally weird weirdo. It is really satisfying, though, to write something that feels like it is all mine. Whatever. All I know is that I do not feel quite as inclined to distract myself, and that probably means I am on a better path. Or that I am a puppy, and right now, this new and shiny work is its own wonderful distraction.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Firsts
The first day of school for my Kindergartner (so really, the First first day of school) has come and gone. I spent a whole week cleaning my house because I could. Now it is time for the first day of work, because I keep promising myself that I will work because I mean this. I am over a quarter of the way through a book, and all I have to do is finish it. I realize that finishing does not guarantee a marketable, or even readable product, but it does show that I am at least dedicted to myself and this idea that I am a writer; that I want to write. I realize that it's not sexy or exciting to expose this level of insecurity this early in the process, but I am battling myself lately. I don't want to write because the whatifs in my brain are asking whether I actually can.
Something happens to a person when they endure years of compromise in order to make a buck. It was both the dream and the nightmare to find myself with pockets full of cash and no idea what the goal was anymore. Maybe it's a hyperbole to imply that I was living large, but I definitely had that salary that I once considered enough to finance my life and plenty to share with those less fortunate. Instead, I just kept buying nicer clothes, and better things, and more convenience. Life is hard when you can hardly stand to live it. Anyway, I am not getting into all of that. People do what they need to when they need it, and I am certainly not the first 30-year-old who proved to be a major letdown in the eyes of her 20-year-old self. The truth behind all of it is that I have to work so much harder now to find my way (back? onward? upward?) to wherever I can speak my voice without fear or filter. Yes, this first book is meant to be a simple one that doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things, but I don't really believe that writing can exist without truth, and I need to be able to express that truth in order for the characters I write to be able to live it. Otherwise, what is the point? Without that, I would just be satisfying someone else's criteria in order to make a buck (which is definitely a desired endpoint, because hey 20-year-old self, mortgages are awful and no one wants to live in a rathole if they don't have to).
It is all just a balancing act. So, in the interest of getting somewhere while I try to ignore my own mental naysayers and actually produce something, I am revisiting the first chapter. I received notes from a friend who is a writing expert, and I am going to take those today and really give myself some time to work. So here goes my first day. I wish I had slept better and didn't have this terrible caffeine headache because I drank too much coffee over the weekend, but that's just how it goes sometimes.
Word count: 35,893
Goal: Rework chapter one in the interest of finding the main character and pulling the thread through the rest of the book.
Something happens to a person when they endure years of compromise in order to make a buck. It was both the dream and the nightmare to find myself with pockets full of cash and no idea what the goal was anymore. Maybe it's a hyperbole to imply that I was living large, but I definitely had that salary that I once considered enough to finance my life and plenty to share with those less fortunate. Instead, I just kept buying nicer clothes, and better things, and more convenience. Life is hard when you can hardly stand to live it. Anyway, I am not getting into all of that. People do what they need to when they need it, and I am certainly not the first 30-year-old who proved to be a major letdown in the eyes of her 20-year-old self. The truth behind all of it is that I have to work so much harder now to find my way (back? onward? upward?) to wherever I can speak my voice without fear or filter. Yes, this first book is meant to be a simple one that doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things, but I don't really believe that writing can exist without truth, and I need to be able to express that truth in order for the characters I write to be able to live it. Otherwise, what is the point? Without that, I would just be satisfying someone else's criteria in order to make a buck (which is definitely a desired endpoint, because hey 20-year-old self, mortgages are awful and no one wants to live in a rathole if they don't have to).
It is all just a balancing act. So, in the interest of getting somewhere while I try to ignore my own mental naysayers and actually produce something, I am revisiting the first chapter. I received notes from a friend who is a writing expert, and I am going to take those today and really give myself some time to work. So here goes my first day. I wish I had slept better and didn't have this terrible caffeine headache because I drank too much coffee over the weekend, but that's just how it goes sometimes.
Word count: 35,893
Goal: Rework chapter one in the interest of finding the main character and pulling the thread through the rest of the book.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Listing
I need to put together a first chapter for the historical fiction piece I want to start in a month or so, and I need to run through the edits on the revised first draft of the beach read. I need these two things and I need the time to make them happen. I can feel it coming with Summer winding down and I am scared and excited to be in that state of desperation, because I want my wheels spinning before they hit the ground.
I am starting to romance coffee again, and I want short hair. I am all sorts of in between and transitional. There are too many things going on and I am easily obsessed at the moment, so I am just going to list to get it out, in hopes that I can get back to one of two first chapters.
Current obessions:
1. Party Down: The cast, the jokes, the single camera set-up that makes me feel like the first time I watched The Office or Parks and Rec (which I want to watch all over again since obsessing over #2 on the list).
2. Amy Poehler's Yes Please: The thoughts on parenting and change and age and apologies. The way she describes her problem with sleep with such delicate and empathetic comedy that this kindred insomniac laughed and cried and wanted to read it all over again.
3. Play it Again, Dick: A second chance at experiencing a new and sardonic world of Veronica Mars. Enough said.
4. The Nutri Ninja: Because I love smoothies. Liquid nutrition, yum.
5. Comic books: It's general and it's not new, but it has been 7 or 8 years since I really knew what I was doing in a comic book store. I just picked up Carol Corps and Phonogram and the Spidergirl title that was so popular in the mid 2000s. I am utterly tickled by the return of comics to my life.
6. Running: That obsession never ended, but I think I may finally be healing enough to make it regular for the first time in a year. September starts training for another half marathon. I like being the insane person who has to run at least 15 miles a week. I like putting sneakers on while my eyes are half-closed and forcing myself to move until it is all I want to do. Something about running makes me feel like a kid again. I like that. I want that forever.
7. Moonrise Kingdom: Finally saw it, and it was perfection. We celebrated 9 years of marriage yesterday, and it was good. We ate an obnoxious amount of fried potatoes, got a little tipsy on good beers, and spent an hour playing Galaga and Ghost Squad. Then we came home and watched Moonrise Kingdom for the first time, over honey bourbon and lemon juice, and we laughed and we cried and everything was perfect.
That's it. Hopefully that exercise helps me get some stuff done. Or I'm just going to watch Party Down until I feel fully hydrated and maybe take one more nap before I pick the kiddo up from her sleepover.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Titling by Date is Stupid and Boring
So, I realize that it is absurd to keep popping into this blogspace in order to assure this blogspace (and all 53 people who have viewed it, if they ever return) that I'm NOT DONE WRITING. Nevertheless, here I am, promising myself and the internet that I am most assuredly not done writing. This Summer has simply made me put a pin in it. Between camps and climbing and the ongoing requirement to get outside and revel in Vitamin D. I have allowed myself to stop pushing the word count. I am not (very) lazy, I swear. I actually LOVE working. I know that, because I have spent a decent amount of time aching for it as I have been shuttling between zoos and parks and pools. Yes, I have other goals that are calling me away from writing as well, but in truth it's just the birds singing and the fulfillment of weeding the garden and playing with my kid that has pulled me away from the computer.
I don't feel too bad about closing the laptop for a short while, because I haven't been ignoring the craft at all. In fact, I have been spending a lot of time figuring out just how much I don't know and what I need to start attacking first. I have reread the first 5(ish?) chapters of my book and found my main character boring. In an attempt to keep her from being me, I have successfully made her nobody. I have spent a few hours, on and off, with a legal pad, trying to find out who she is. I have spent more time journaling in my written journal (not enough, but definitely more) alowing myself out, in order to better digest the complexity involved in writing a character. I don't know if it is working, but that is what I have been doing. I am also reading EVERYTHING. I am watching documentaries again and studying people like the wallflower freak that I have always been. Afterall, that is what made me want to write, right? I wanted to understand WHY PEOPLE KEEP DOING THOSE THINGS. I wanted to play with characters that frustrate and confound and relieve and inspire and excite and motivate me. I wanted to give people some authentic truth to look at and question, and rub between their fingers for a while.
In an attempt to conform and be more likeable, I think I forgot that I am 100% weirdo who likes to ask questions and know more and wonder why and stare. I LIKE TO STARE. Somewhere in there I became embarassed by these tendencies that make me feel so remarkably, so strongly me. I started feeling like I needed to be ready in case someone stared back at me. I felt like I had to be just interesting enough, but in a way that did not intimidate anyone. That is not me. I like discomfort and awkwardness and the power that comes with a good long intimidating stare. I am not averted by fear, which is probably why it felt so frustrating and false to pretend otherwise, and why it feels so invigorating to work through and undo all of that bullshit.
I haven't really done this in a long time. I used to blog almost every day, pouring an obnoxious amount of words into the internet, like fuel on an anonymous teen-packed bonfire. Most of it was not great or even good, but it was at least easy to do back then. When did it get so hard to stop thinking when I wrote? When did I trick myself into thinking that everything I did was big-I Important? I think some point in adulthood plateaus into the feeling that there is real power and importance in the things we do, and I definitely believe that there is truth in that, but we settle into the idea that we are powerful and Important because of it. We are still nothing other than the constructs that we rebelled against and exposed in our teen years. Legacies and influence don't really change that fact. Our kids will throw it in our faces one day, and everyone who bought into the idea that age inherently adds meaning will have to stare down the empty shells that they worked so hard to establish. Living in denial also works pretty well for some.
Anyway, if we all just stopped trying to be liked and banding together in a fearful attempt to keep feeling like we matter, then growing older might not have to be such an emotionally painful process. I'm still trying to figure out how to alleviate some of the physical ailments, but at least I can rest in the knowledge that the less I fake it, the happier I am. Maybe then I'll stop hunching so much.
That's it then. Or however I used to end these things. Synopsis: 1, I'm not writing much, but I am alway thinking about it and working towards the next rainy day. 2. I'm done being afraid of getting old and having no fans. I have friends. I don't need an entourage.
P.S. - There are a lot of other things stressing me out right now. Home buying and selling things. Training for a half marathon things. My kid is starting school in 3 weeks and AM I A GOOD PARENT YET? things. But, time is limited, and this blog is supposed to be about writing, or something.
I don't feel too bad about closing the laptop for a short while, because I haven't been ignoring the craft at all. In fact, I have been spending a lot of time figuring out just how much I don't know and what I need to start attacking first. I have reread the first 5(ish?) chapters of my book and found my main character boring. In an attempt to keep her from being me, I have successfully made her nobody. I have spent a few hours, on and off, with a legal pad, trying to find out who she is. I have spent more time journaling in my written journal (not enough, but definitely more) alowing myself out, in order to better digest the complexity involved in writing a character. I don't know if it is working, but that is what I have been doing. I am also reading EVERYTHING. I am watching documentaries again and studying people like the wallflower freak that I have always been. Afterall, that is what made me want to write, right? I wanted to understand WHY PEOPLE KEEP DOING THOSE THINGS. I wanted to play with characters that frustrate and confound and relieve and inspire and excite and motivate me. I wanted to give people some authentic truth to look at and question, and rub between their fingers for a while.
In an attempt to conform and be more likeable, I think I forgot that I am 100% weirdo who likes to ask questions and know more and wonder why and stare. I LIKE TO STARE. Somewhere in there I became embarassed by these tendencies that make me feel so remarkably, so strongly me. I started feeling like I needed to be ready in case someone stared back at me. I felt like I had to be just interesting enough, but in a way that did not intimidate anyone. That is not me. I like discomfort and awkwardness and the power that comes with a good long intimidating stare. I am not averted by fear, which is probably why it felt so frustrating and false to pretend otherwise, and why it feels so invigorating to work through and undo all of that bullshit.
I haven't really done this in a long time. I used to blog almost every day, pouring an obnoxious amount of words into the internet, like fuel on an anonymous teen-packed bonfire. Most of it was not great or even good, but it was at least easy to do back then. When did it get so hard to stop thinking when I wrote? When did I trick myself into thinking that everything I did was big-I Important? I think some point in adulthood plateaus into the feeling that there is real power and importance in the things we do, and I definitely believe that there is truth in that, but we settle into the idea that we are powerful and Important because of it. We are still nothing other than the constructs that we rebelled against and exposed in our teen years. Legacies and influence don't really change that fact. Our kids will throw it in our faces one day, and everyone who bought into the idea that age inherently adds meaning will have to stare down the empty shells that they worked so hard to establish. Living in denial also works pretty well for some.
Anyway, if we all just stopped trying to be liked and banding together in a fearful attempt to keep feeling like we matter, then growing older might not have to be such an emotionally painful process. I'm still trying to figure out how to alleviate some of the physical ailments, but at least I can rest in the knowledge that the less I fake it, the happier I am. Maybe then I'll stop hunching so much.
That's it then. Or however I used to end these things. Synopsis: 1, I'm not writing much, but I am alway thinking about it and working towards the next rainy day. 2. I'm done being afraid of getting old and having no fans. I have friends. I don't need an entourage.
P.S. - There are a lot of other things stressing me out right now. Home buying and selling things. Training for a half marathon things. My kid is starting school in 3 weeks and AM I A GOOD PARENT YET? things. But, time is limited, and this blog is supposed to be about writing, or something.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Prologue:
Things are happening! Writing things. I feel a little guilty at not keeping up habits, like blogging before every writing session, but there are so many little moments when I scurry away to make notes or continue a scene. No need for excuses here, I know, but I still make them. I'm only taking the break to write this blog because the power has gone out, and I don't want to create anything new that won't be auto-saved. I guess I won't even be able to publish until I get wireless back. This week is an exciting one for me, because I truly believe I can wrap up another thousand words this week to break 30,000. I'm aiming for 50,000 now, since I'm controlling much more of the content. Then I'll need to find beta-readers and editors who can lend themselves to a quality product. And then I'm going to move this book, because I will have written a book worth reading. I swear I'm not being overly confident. I really thing it's worth reading. It's fun and flip and light, but still good enough writing that I can feel confident in asking people to spend money on it.
I'm writing all of the time now. New series ideas, character and content practice in a gaming community, and still the book continues. I have found something wonderful here.
Word count: 29,015
To do:
Things are happening! Writing things. I feel a little guilty at not keeping up habits, like blogging before every writing session, but there are so many little moments when I scurry away to make notes or continue a scene. No need for excuses here, I know, but I still make them. I'm only taking the break to write this blog because the power has gone out, and I don't want to create anything new that won't be auto-saved. I guess I won't even be able to publish until I get wireless back. This week is an exciting one for me, because I truly believe I can wrap up another thousand words this week to break 30,000. I'm aiming for 50,000 now, since I'm controlling much more of the content. Then I'll need to find beta-readers and editors who can lend themselves to a quality product. And then I'm going to move this book, because I will have written a book worth reading. I swear I'm not being overly confident. I really thing it's worth reading. It's fun and flip and light, but still good enough writing that I can feel confident in asking people to spend money on it.
I'm writing all of the time now. New series ideas, character and content practice in a gaming community, and still the book continues. I have found something wonderful here.
Word count: 29,015
To do:
- Misunderstanding fiasco fun times
- Set up a real date (should be a blast - expand on a dynamic I've been dying to get back to)
Notes:
- Consider working in the friend angle more (Novak)
- Christmas party goings-on
- Does this book end on New Years?
- Increase output to 5,000 words per week to meet the goal (I can do this!) - try for 2,000 words a day
Input:
- Storium
- Rocket Boys
- Daredevil
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Prologue:
Writing play-dates are a go. In addition to that, I have a partner writing session on Mondays. This has been amazing for me. I'm struggling with balancing my desire to write all of the time and my responsibilities and obligations outside of the written word. It's actually a really good struggle to have. In addition, my publishing ambitions have changed a bit. Initially I wanted to submit under a publishers title. Now I'm considering self-publishing an e-book. I'm leaning pretty heavily in that direction.
Word count: 26,165 (more than halfway!)
Status:
Input:
Writing play-dates are a go. In addition to that, I have a partner writing session on Mondays. This has been amazing for me. I'm struggling with balancing my desire to write all of the time and my responsibilities and obligations outside of the written word. It's actually a really good struggle to have. In addition, my publishing ambitions have changed a bit. Initially I wanted to submit under a publishers title. Now I'm considering self-publishing an e-book. I'm leaning pretty heavily in that direction.
Word count: 26,165 (more than halfway!)
Status:
- Beginning is still a bit clunky (long paragraphs)
- Revisit initial encounter/consider simmering the scene a bit for easier consumption by larger audience
- About to enter a scene from male character's point of view. Do some recon. Ask for help!
- Pass around to beta-readers with new changes. Get a feeling for whether the action is organic/anticipated, but not too obvious.
Input:
- The Dinner by Herman Koch (book club book)
- Rocket Boys by Homer Hickam
- Daredevil (Netflix)
Monday, April 6, 2015
Monday, April 6, 2015
Prologue:
Mondays have now become the best days. Mornings are for writing, afternoons are for dating, and the weather finally wants me to be awake and energized. I have a few precious hours to create and I am excited to be using them. As for life outside of Mondays, I am still bad at expressing frustration while also requesting that it not being taken too seriously. I feel like complaining is integral to getting rid of frustration and not dwelling. Complaining switches to scheming and manipulating and drawing lines in the sand. Why can't I just be annoyed and be through it? I can't stop myself from feeling frustrated/annoyed. I try to use friendship to relieve frustration so I don't pay it too much credence. Boo to all of it. I just want to write.
Starting Word Count:
20,025
Ending Word Count:
21, 175
Time:
1.75 hrs(including blogging)
Writing Scope:
Life:
Mondays have now become the best days. Mornings are for writing, afternoons are for dating, and the weather finally wants me to be awake and energized. I have a few precious hours to create and I am excited to be using them. As for life outside of Mondays, I am still bad at expressing frustration while also requesting that it not being taken too seriously. I feel like complaining is integral to getting rid of frustration and not dwelling. Complaining switches to scheming and manipulating and drawing lines in the sand. Why can't I just be annoyed and be through it? I can't stop myself from feeling frustrated/annoyed. I try to use friendship to relieve frustration so I don't pay it too much credence. Boo to all of it. I just want to write.
Starting Word Count:
20,025
Ending Word Count:
21, 175
Time:
1.75 hrs(including blogging)
Writing Scope:
- Pete scene:
- On the way to Val's place
- Still playful
- Maintenance scene:
- Rife with tension, bursting with excitement, total human blunder
Life:
- Run outside
- Figure out dinner plans
- Front yard garden
Optionals:
- Listen to The Dinner
Current input:
- Arguments between professionals in a cafe setting
Notes:
- Pick a quieter setting
- Not in love with the dialogue - feeling clunky - research dialogue exercises and maybe write Pete's character a little more clearly
- Still not to the juicy scene that I really want to write - consider skipping ahead to stay motivated
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