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