My goal was to finish the opening scene of book 1, which I did. I felt good about the changes I made, but when I re-read it just now. Meh.
Maybe it will feel better tomorrow.
S. J. Henderson Books |
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I decided to edit today, with three kids in the house, one of whom I was attempting to potty-train. My husband spent most of the day working. In other words, I was torturing myself.
My goal was to finish the opening scene of book 1, which I did. I felt good about the changes I made, but when I re-read it just now. Meh. Maybe it will feel better tomorrow.
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Nothing I've written is remotely near being ready to publish. There are sentences to weed and phrases to prune. Characters to cultivate or burn away, the choice is up to me. Plots need water or redirection like vines on a trellis. In other words, a ton of gardening.
Have I mentioned I'm not particularly great at keeping green things green? Gardening is a bad metaphor. This week I gave myself the option of writing or not writing, editing or not editing. Laying in bed catching up on bad t.v. and afternoon naps instead of deadlines and writer's block. Staying up late watching Conan because I can or going to bed obscenely early because there's no word count left. My break should be refreshing. My synapses should be snoozing so they can return ready to fire more quickly and easily. But no.... That's not what's happening. Instead, my stomach is churning with each day that passes in which no forward progress has been made on my dream. I don't like being in limbo. I don't want to rush this thing, but I hate being suspended in this void. I'm reading to distract myself, to refuel my creativity and see how others more successful than myself spin a tale. Apparently it's not working, because instead of losing myself in these books, I push my way through each one. My brain is persistant, nudging me every few pages. "Pssst! Hey! If she can do this, so can you!" My husband is not helping. "Finish that book yet?" Every. Single. Time. He. Walks. In. The. Door. I love him, I do. But sometimes, I loathe him. Mommy Dearest isn't helping, either. When I described to her why I was overwhelmed about editing my first book (a.k.a. "The Book Written Entirely In Passive Voice"), she shocked me by telling me I was probably over-analyzing my book. A few minor changes,she said, and I would think it's ready to go! She's my mama. It's written into her job description to believe I can do no wrong--except for that typo on page 35 and the other one on page 110--but it's still strange to have her on more of an accelerated timeframe than myself. I probably owe her money. It's all about patience. When God handed out patience, I think I was in the back of the line, and by the time I reached the front, there were only crumbs left in the bag. "Here." I imagine God said as he dropped the specks of patience in my palm. "Good luck with that. And, remember, 'thou shalt not kill'." Then He walked away bent over in hysterical laughter. To make it even more hilarious, He pumped my veins full of the blood of Irish, Scottish, and German ancestors. Well-played, God. Welllllll-played. On top of it all, the crazy (and not-so-crazy) thought occurred to me to write the third installment first just to see if I could and the stars aligned. And by "stars aligned", I mean "does any of this make a lick of sense?" If I chose to write more now, I would need to find another place to live because I am pretty sure that would be the end of my marriage, right there. My husband's already convinced these books will never see the light of day past my computer screen and I'm just pretending to write. So, yeah. There's a lot of pressure. From books that aren't but very well could be my own... From my well-meaning (but adolescent) husband... From my usually well-planned but impetuous mother. But mostly, and most deeply, from my own self. I'm not letting anyone talk me into putting anything out there before it's really and truly time, but I sure hope this feeling of suffocation decides to leave me soon. Hours ago I watched a baby slide into this bright world to the shelter of loving arms. A family's joy and wonder was renewed with the cry of life. For me, it was an evening of learning more about new friends, laughing together until baby was near and undeniable. Walking from the hospital with a grin--a nice reminder of how rewarding and powerful it can be as a birth worker.
At the same time, I know my days as a doula are numbered.... Or, at least, my days as a semi-busy doula are. The on-call lifestyle is difficult on families, bodies, and just about everything else. This week it is more apparent to me after a night spent away from home and the subsequent day lounging around the house required to recharge my energy. I admitted it on the phone to one of my sisters this morning. My sister, in all seriousness, replied, "You need to write." Where has she been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? Or, maybe, where have I been hiding for the past year-and-a-half? In her defense, she does not waste much time on the Internet, so she has missed my million-and-one Facebook statuses/blog posts about my books. I'm sure she believed she was shedding light on something I'd been passing over all this time. At the very least, it made me laugh to myself several times throughout my morning. Really? You think I should write? Eureka! Make-up writing was my only weekend plan (besides make-up sleeping), but a simple text message looks like it may throw a wrench in those plans. Books never text with emergencies, and books can be written accompanied by a nice meal.... But books, as wonderful as they are, don't hug you at the end of the day with appreciation for the minuscule role you play in their life. They keep talking about how lonely it is, the life of a writer. Authors are driven to drink every day, taunted by their own words and the overwhelming quiet of it all. We're changing that, they say. Now you can connect with other writers who are on the verge of crazy, too!, they say. See Twitter, Facebook, Skype, meet-up groups, a million blogs from Joe Schmoes just like you--you get the idea. There's no reason to slog through this alone when you can share the [sometimes] torturous process with others. And when the madness strikes all of you, well, at least you're not drinking alone.
This morning I am feeling the isolation. I'm also confused because I don't know whether I should feel sad or if it is acceptable. To me, writing is exciting but also weighty. It's the warmth of sun on my face as well as the dark outline of a thunderhead off in the distance. This is what I want to do... But I feel the pressure of it, the frustration from wasted moments while pursuing other things. Or, on the other hand, there is the sadness from looking family in the face and saying, "It's been a long time. What have you been up to?" Then there's the agonizing decision of spending an extra hour or two to write in the evening or turning in early because I know I will end up at a birth sooner or later. Even taking the time to post on this blog seems foolish, a wasting of words, when I should be concentrating on my other works in progress. What's the payoff to hiding myself away in order to THINK, or sitting alone in a cafe with earbuds and a keyboard (besides the obvious--people-watching and caffeine!). Balance. Reality. What to do, what to do. I read somewhere that writers shouldn't write in order to be read, to which I agree to a point. But, really, I can't figure out why someone would spend hour upon hour building a story unless they planned to share it, at some point. All of this has to be worth it--has to reconnect you to the world in some fashion, or the world slips from your grasp. It feels egotistical to say, but I need a writing village. Who's in? ... or I'd like to think it is.
I hit 40k words just a little bit ago. Finally. I almost went to bed early because I've been dragging all day. Instead, something told me that it would be a perfect night to check out the Write Or Die desktop program I bought before Christmas. The premise of Write Or Die is that you can set goals--crazy or easy, or somewhere in between--for your writing, and if you don't hit those goals, then you are punished. The punishments range anywhere from violins screeching in the background to words deleting themselves from the screen. If you are idle for too long the screen fades from pink to red, which I found to be really annoying. So tonight, I managed to write about 1084 words in an hour, which is some sort of record for me. I'm excited about this new gadget to hopefully motivate me to get to the finish line. I'm only 10k off now! Yay! And now I am falling asleep at the keyboard. That's the price you pay for an hour of super-speed. 2012. I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go. The truth is, I'm not. A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost. Yes, milestones work in reverse.... Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had. The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed. I can tell you, for me, it's true. There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come. The sadness means a part of him is still here. Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me. I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.
Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance. For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually. We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free. Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me. As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened. Purpose. Life. And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too. For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place. It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy. Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice. I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice. I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn. 2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself. I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have a silver lining. But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too. May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all. I think most of us could use that. Since deciding to pursue writing last year, I have been anxious to learn more about the practice of writing--the habits, struggles, and other odd things that make up this calling. I enjoy reading other books now to see how authors describe characters and paint their worlds. Lately I've been reading nearly as much as I've been writing, which I consider refueling and instruction. As I was riding home from a family Christmas meal this evening, I began re-reading Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" on my Christmas present, my awesomely awesome Kindle Fire HD.
Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it. Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day. The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline: Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves? Nah.... Totally not a dream. What I loved most was reading about her background. Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work. She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions. That sounds vaguely familiar. While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing. The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future. Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive. Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess. And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure. For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason. Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those.... I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud." Ouch. Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters. I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to. Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work. Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core. Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there? I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt. Here I am, the first morning of December. Up too early on a Saturday despite having only one child in the house at the moment (two if you count my husband) who is still sleeping under a thick cover of Angry Birds and purring kitties.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer. So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like. And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha. I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to. My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know. I will do this. I've got to. 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. 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. |
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