A year ago I'd not quite finished the first draft of my novel.  If I recall correctly,   the bulk of my writing took place near the end of July and most of August 2011.    The draft wasn't complete, so I dribbled bits and pieces here and there until I finally felt it was complete in December.  Nearly 69k words, a surplus from the 50k I'd been shooting for initially.  Thousands of attempts to make something readable--a feat considering I'd sat down at my tiny HP netbook with no story and no direction.  Crazy what has happened in my life since then.

This year I'm going into National Novel Writing Month with an improved second draft under my belt.  This time, my biggest fear is going into this thing blind again.  I love writing, but forcing myself to spend months ripping apart and stitching back together the old with the new feels less like writing and more like playing Dr. Frankenstein.  Outlining and planning are two of my weakest points, I'm already aware, but even the crudest of ideas are a step up from blank pages and an oppressive deadline.

Scrivener is a snazzy program for writers who are in the drafting/research phase of a novel.  They offered a nice discount for 2012 NaNoWriMo participants (and something like 50% off for those who meet their 50k goal), so I hopped onto that bandwagon.  This blustery, miserable day was spent navigating the tutorial in an attempt to demystify the program.  Now I kind of have a clue what some of the features do instead of being convinced I'd wasted my dough on something I'd never figure out.  Plus, the guy who compiled the tutorial wrote like he was British, which is always fun to read.

Another positive:  This morning the name of the next big antagonist came to me, I don't even remember how.  Out of curiosity, a few minutes ago I looked up the meaning of her name and it means "heavenly".  That's pretty funny because she certainly believes she is God's gift to mankind.

I wish those minor accomplishments were enough to say I was ready for the start of this next journey, but I know it's not. 

Two days to make some plans.  Scary.

I have a voice, even though I rein it in so often it has become barely a whisper.  You have a voice, too, and sometimes it is all I can hear in this room.  It's okay, though.  This isn't a request to make your voice quieter, but to make mine loud.
The spoken word is a betrayal to what I truly feel.  I need to spend some quiet time, glorying in the ink as it seeps into the page.  I need to rest in the calm of letters, punctuation, and emotion.  Speaking, I fumble and reach for ideas out of grasp.  

It is better this way.  This is my way.

First of all, I know every one of you is sick of hearing about this novel (and most of the other things I go on about).  Word counts.  Chapter numbers.  The rather strange experience of having people living inside your head.  All of that.

Thank you for looking past that. 

I realize that half of you will like what I've written, and half of you will think it is rubbish and will make fun of me behind my back.  It's okay.  What I've written isn't earth-shattering, but very few things are.  For me, it is a journey, a challenge, a dream.

Thank you for letting me be excited about my dream.

I'll probably never be a best-seller.  My book isn't about vampires, werewolves, zombies, or post-apocolyptic kids thrown into a death match.  There's no swearing, no sex, no drugs, no booze. 

Thank you for letting me be PG.

I just can't believe it. 

Thank you to Courtney and Tim who have stuck with me to the end of this one, and Rosie who suffered through the atrocity that was Draft 1.  Thank you to my muses, Moe and Ish.  And, most importantly, thank you, God.

I am seriously going to be sick, I'm so excited to be done with this draft.  Here is it, my last chapter.

Mr. Ohboy, my biggest fan, has also been very skeptical when it comes to this whole novel ordeal.  He believes in me, I know.  It must seem that all I do is write, and it's been so much of what I've done for the past 16 months.  This shouldn't have taken that long, it's true.  My horse shouldn't have died, either.  The writer's block following that was incredibly frustrating.  Even now, I know that I haven't made my way back to the level I was at before.  Maybe I never will.... but I've learned a lot in the process.

It's not over yet -- these last words have to find their voice, and I think, first, I need to go ride a horse and give my hands (and mind) a break.

But I draw closer to it with each word I type.  That's nice.

This could be the last chapter of draft two, which is pretty darn exciting!  I had to threaten myself with a Facebook hiatus until I wrap this thing up, which seems to have been effective.

Chapter 18 was awkward and I still don't love it.  I see revisions in the future, but at least I'm more at peace with where it is now.

I might be done with this just in time for National Novel Writing Month, where I would undertake another 50k-word novel during the month of November.  The question is:  How much do I hate myself?  ;-)

My heart is not a keepsake box.
It clicks open and closed, no safety locks.
With flutters and pauses until it stops,
Love is not secure as it ought.


Instead, I'll keep you in my mind
To whirl and dance in dreams of our design.
Any better place would be rare to find,
Than this hiding place of yours and mine.

My client sent me a text confessing she is scared to leave the hospital and the comfort of having a nurse or lactation consultant one button-press away.  I sent a text back to her to reassure her that we'd help her find support if it was needed.  What I was thinking at that moment was: 

"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."

It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it?  Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?

For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit.  The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why.  Is it fear?  The complete scariness of letting go of control?  Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak? 

I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything.    Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be.  We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  

Last night I said goodbye. 

It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure.  A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.

Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007.  It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft".  Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT.  Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered.  Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books?  I think I get it now.

At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind.  There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder.  For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it.  I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc.  And that's true for most of what I write.  The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics.  They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.

The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma.  They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others.  Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand.  It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense.  I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities.  If that's true, shhhhh!  I don't want to know.

This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives.  I laugh.  I hope.  I fall in love.  I get angry.  I feel their despair.  I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next.  I'm just the messenger.