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.
Monday, February 22, 2016
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)