Only Mostly Dead

I am not dead. Yet. I am exhausted and have no time to write, let alone think about anything but my son's upcoming surgery, Christmas and all the lovely holiday entails (including hours upon hours on the computer for non-writing shopping, researching...am I the only one who obsesses?), and catching some shut-eye every once in awhile.

The plan: dive head-first back into my novel once the kids are out of school (and I don't have to worry about the blasted schedule) and continue on when they go back in January.

I miss the character chatter that used to constantly fill my brain. Is it strange to say I'm a little lonely without Casey and Ezra? And Jean-Pierre, oo-la-la! I'm sticking to it, promise. Until then, the blog will continue it's silent time-out.

Merry Christmas!

To Sleep, Perchance...

I am a perpetual night owl. It's a double-edged sword. My muse awakens around midnight, but it's about the time my brain stops forming cohesive sentences. To write alone, uninterrupted, without a babe on my leg...it's worth the sleep deprivation. But it does catch up with me, and the loss of sleep has hit me hard this week. October overflowed with family and visitors and staying up into the wee hours of the morning. It was worth it, as always, but I stole from the sleep fairy, and now there's H-E-double-hockey-sticks to pay. Mr. J and kids can vouch for me. They've been taking the brunt of my theft.

The other night I went to bed at eleven--Mr. J was knocked flat on his back, shocked. It's like getting the kids in bed by seven. It never happens. But I needed the sleep badly, so there I was, cozy and warm under the covers, the only light coming from the numbers on my clock. Just as I was drifting into that wonderful, fuzzy place where your mind is all mushy but you can kinda, sorta still hear the tree branches scratching against the window, just when I was there...words came streaming through my consciousness. The opening scene of my book played out in my mind--the scene I have worked on approximately 86,493 times re-wrote itself right behind my darkened eyes. And I knew it was good, much better than anything I'd written before, but why--*yawn*--why did it have to come now? It wasn't even midnight yet.

I rolled my tired bones out of bed and typed in the dark on my laptop as hubs moved into REM slumber. I'm glad I did. Even in the light of the day, it's proved to be good stuff. Now, dear Muse, if you could but wake me and tell me exactly what I need to change on page 257, I would be much obliged.

This beats out any YouTube laughing baby vid...

You can't help but be happy after watching it.


...And lucky me, I am related to this chub-a-lub.

Needed this

http://querytracker.blogspot.com/2009/10/editing-how-to-avoid-staring-into-great.html

Advice on editing your manuscript. Great, sound advice. I'll be re-reading it in the throes of my editing woes.

Successes

I take out my woes on this new blog like I'm beating a dirty rug on my back patio. It's an unbalanced view of my writing, and a completely off-kilter view of my life. I write because I love it, because it drives me, because my brain gets a weird high from creating and pretending. I love pretending. I always have. When I was a teenager my social pseudonym was Brooke. Or Kate. It depended on my mood and on my earrings. Silver dangling daisies with a huge black center worn with a black bathing suit at a water park? (True story.) Brooke, all the way. Preppy pegged khakis and a rugby shirt with penny loafers (so hideously hot back in the day)? Kate fit the bill. It was the fake me, and I lived up to Brooke's flirty, sassy personality, her forwardness with the boys, her confident appeal. Kate was more reserved, shyly smiling from beneath a book or newspaper, biting her lip softly and sighing dramatically.

Oh, I was pathetic.

But it was fun to pretend, to fill another girl's shoes, to be someone else and create dialogue through her filter.

One of my faves of all time as a kid was to climb up into the weeping willow in our front yard and sit for hours, creating my own world where all the cute boys loved me despite my beaver teeth and all the girls thought I was uber cool. Or a world like Anne of Green Gables where I milked cows and served mice-laden plum pudding and currant wine to guests at a formally set table. Or a world with a secret, walled garden that only I had a key to and therein I'd rule the fairies. Oh, those were the days. I didn't need constant friends because I found them in books, read high in the comforting branches of the weeping willow. And where the books left off, my mind would continue.

Those characters and creations sometimes became darker, and I'd lie in bed literally weeping over a scene where a family member was in a fatal accident--the very details playing behind my eyes--from something outlandish, like falling from a train trestle or being cooked in molten lava from the dormant volcano outside my window. I could almost feel the fall, the whoosh of wind gathering speed, the cracking of bones on the rocks below. I could see the lava, red and smoking, melting the flesh of my loved one. Seriously? What was wrong with me?!

My mind is now muddled and fragmented by motherhood, but I still love to pretend. It's oh-so-easy to push those scenes and catchy lines that fly into my brain to the back of my head, where they get lost in the piles of laundry that demand my attention. Or in the continuous flow of dishes and crumbs that run through the kitchen. Or in the hours spent in carpools and on errands. But some voices shout above the din, demanding attention in my literal vortex of chaos, and sometimes they are beautiful, enchanting or plain hysterical.

And so, among all my frustrations, which are easy to complain about, there is a smattering of success. There is joy. There is real, emotional writing that fuels my need to keep at it, to write until the baby cries at 3 a.m., to finish my story and write another. Somewhere in my mind, there is a tale the world will enjoy. That is enough motivation to plug away...

FRUSTRATED

I have been re-working my manuscript from the beginning, and frankly am sick and tired of it. GRRR. (It must be noted that it is nearly midnight and I'm exhausted.) I never have enough time recently to devote the hours it takes to get some good writing in, so it's been editing, re-editing, and re-re-editing to the point of nausea.

So, I decided to skip toward the end (of 350 pages) and put the finishing touches on the ending once and for all. (That is a hysterically hilarious, lie-down-on-your-back-and-roll-around-the-room-cackling-like-a-crazy-lady thought. To be finished in one attempt? Oh...gasp!... it is just too much!) As I started reading to get into the character voice again I began to feel a panicky little flutter in my chest. It soon filled my abdomen and rushed down my arms, leaving them almost feelingless. Staring at that screen, I was completely overwhelmed with the seemingly insurmountable task of writing a cohesive, emotional, balanced, non-cliche, interesting, relevant work with consistent, believable characters. I almost lost it. I couldn't deal with the mountain of work before me, but I also did not have the time nor energy to freak out.

So I made the conscious decision not to, and shut my computer and took a deep breath. A grim realization struck me: I have become a perfectionist and as such, realize that even when my manuscript is the best I can make it, it still may not be good enough. That thought truly sends me spiraling downward into the black hole of mediocrity I fear, and it's hard to climb out of that hole and face writing again.

But...deep cleansing breath...there is always tomorrow, and so I look forward to renewing my spirit, doing yoga and Zumba, taking a long, hot shower, putting my baby to bed and carving out an hour or two of good, solid writing time. I need to write again, not just edit until all the joy is squeezed out of it and I'm only concerned with syntax. My soul and psyche need to create, so that is my goal this week, on the cusp of the fall snowstorm that is blowing in tonight.

I will hole up and I will write.

But for now, I just need sleep.

Where the heck I have been...

...not writing, I can tell you that much. Between a flooded basement, plans for remodeling in our kitchen, the decision to semi-homeschool one of the kids and basic day-to-day craziness with four kids 2-9 years old, I haven't had a moment.

But I did get a new computer. A MacBook Pro. I was so excited...until I learned it doesn't come with any sort of word processing software. Really? When did a computer come without it?! (So I haven't purchased a computer in over six years. Don't judge me!) And where in the heck is the backspace button? And you can't do control I for italics? So I'm trying to figure out a new operating system. I've been assured I won't regret the painful learning curve.

I did pull out my old laptop (read: circa 1990-ish or there about) and go to B & N on Saturday for an hour or two. It was overall fairly depressing. I worked, for the twentieth time, on my first two pages. I have rewritten the beginning of my story over and over, and it still isn't working for me. Just when I think it might be pretty good, I read an article in a writer's magazine and find it's pathetically lacking.

Back to square one.

In my little world, October is ushering in with company for half of the month, the aforementioned remodeling and fixing of water-logged carpet and walls, cleaning and entertaining. Not seeing much time on the horizon for writing. November is much of the same, with the house being prepared to hold 23 family members to celebrate Thanksgiving. I am holding out for December.

My goals have changed dramatically since I began this process in January. I thought that maybe I'd be done with the story by June...then August sounded more appropriate...and now December seems laughable. But even when the thought creeps in, Maybe this just isn't your time, I toss it off my shoulder with the snarky red devil that whispered it in my ear. I refuse to give up. I can't do it. I'll continue to plod and plunk, erasing entire pages where necessary (can't tell you how many times I've done it) and enjoy the process, knowing that I'm not being paid a dime.

Somehow, despite all the effort for no monetary pay-off (crossing fingers for a later date...), I feel compelled to write, to create and to polish the story. To feel the satisfaction of a well-crafted scene or sentence. For me and for my characters. Mostly for me.

Or at least to live in the delusion of such at 3 a.m.

The Power of Words

"Words can be like arrows. You can't see them, and that's why they're so dangerous. With an ordinary arrow, if you get hit, you know you have to remove it from your body. With words, you can never pull them out once they get stuck in your mind." ~Lisa Tucker, writer

Balance

The above illustration is a good example of why a excellent illustrator is imperative. Add two more heads to the bubble-- hubby's and another babe's--and the ugly drawing is me.

Writing is a tough gig. It stretches my brain outside the bounds of child-rearing, out into the twinkly, evanescent space of thought and self and time alone. Don't get me wrong, throughout the last ten years of birthing and raising children I have maintained thinking time, but it's usually been through reading, not pulling self-formed sentences out of my own brain. And I have tried to ensure so-called me time, but let's be honest here, it was usually spent at Target or the gym. If I needed to get out, I ran to the red bull's eye as fast as my mini-van tires could carry me.

This past year I've had a, shall we say holier?, reason to have time to myself: to write and create. My husband's praising the credit card bills, as I no longer feel a pull to shop or browse. The clincher is I don't get paid, and so in turn feel guilt about the time away from my family. It's not too much-- only a few hours per week--but I still feel the guilt and the strain when I'm gone. I've always been available to my family at any given moment, and now I am requiring something for myself. It's a shock to everyone, myself included. Before, Target sucked money out of my wallet faster than a Dyson sucks dirt, and the gym is still there...I'll go again tomorrow. Using my brain, on the other hand, has been satisfying for me, even if I require multiple editing sessions to make my writing readable.

And so once again I long for balance. I have let some things slide over the past year--certain rooms in my house are in complete disarray, my cooking as been less involved, my sleep has been interrupted by scenes and dialogue and children's books ideas. But in spite of the chaos, I'm happier, more satisfied. I can't say the same for everyone in the family, so adjusting, tweaking, and meeting needs differently are all in order. Limits need to be placed on myself--my time on the laptop, keeping myself in the current conversation instead of out in la-la land, composing a string of dialogue in my head. I also need to get the entire family on a real, bona fide schedule.

It comes down to this: as many times as I've considered quitting, when thoughts creep in like, "Maybe this isn't the time and season to write," or "I should give more to my family," I realize I'd be doing myself AND my family a disservice if I quit. My kids will be empowered knowing I have the gumption to finish something, that writing and creating is important to their mom and that I am not a diaper-changing, dish-doing permanent fixture in the house. I have a brain and I like to use it, and that's a good thing, especially if I can balance it out. A very good thing, indeed.

Writing Insecurities

I started this journey on a whim. Write a book! I thought. No biggie. Give me a few months. If it's bad, I'll burn it. So I wrote. And wrote. And it was fun and silly and thoughtless. I just slapped words on a screen, helter skelter, without considering grammar or syntax, or any of those Englishy things. Character development? Bah!

Fifty pages later I thought, Huh, I 'm kinda doing it. Strange. What I'd written was funny, but overall rather terrible.

At 120 pages I thought, This is darn long, maybe I should consider where it's going. So I edited, re-edited, and threw down new scenes--out of order--as they came into my head. It got very confusing, utterly frustrating and overwhelming.

I quit.

Two weeks later I pulled up my "manuscript" and with an air of doom and gloom, began reading. I was surprised how much I liked it, so dug in again, brutally slashing favorite parts that didn't lend credence to the story. I considered my characters: who they were, what they felt and why. And I fell in love again. With them. It was weird, and painfully addicting. I liked these people. I couldn't leave Casey hanging. I had to finish her story.

Three hundred and fifty pages into it, I love them even more, and in my free time (never) I read and research about writing. Discouragement still smacks me around sometimes, but I'm slowly fighting back, getting in a jab or two between her pummellings.

I won't quit, and this is why: I have to know what happens between Casey and Ezra...and I have to keep running until I cross the finish line, no matter how tired and cranky and cantankerous I get.

Things I wish I was, but am not...

Always wished I was one of these, too.

A week at Lake Powell with four children in tow left me with several ponderous thoughts, one being Man, I annoy myself. Am I the only one with this problem? With this deep thought in mind, I compiled a list late one night of all the things I wish I was, but unfortunately am not...

1. Easy Going. I'm always spazzing out about something, whether it be the possibility of children drowning at the Lake or crossing the street safely, or that mean-looking dog whose head brushes the top of his fence. You know, the one I have to pass when I take a walk in my neighborhood and it snarls at me, sizing me up for a little backyard doggie barbeque. My sister just younger than I manages to keep her cool in almost every situation. I think I inherited her portion of the freak-out genes.
2. More Sensitive. I hate hurting people's feelings, but somehow I manage to regularly, usually through the above stated freak-out genes. Maybe I should try passing it off as inherent to my make-up. I have a medical condition. You get on my nerves and they freak out.
3. Decisive. Oh, I can decide alright, and even stick to it like nobody's business. My problem is I second guess myself to kingdom come. At least, I think I do...
4. In Shape. What? You mean it takes more than putting on workout clothes to get rid of flab?
5. Daring. Deep water, dark spaces, empty streets, wildlife, stingrays swimming between my legs and trying to suck my flesh...all send me crying for mama (or in the last instance, using hubs as a todem pole and about pulling his shorts off in the process). I am the world's biggest wimp.
6. Self Disciplined. I love sleep, I truly do. Every time I lay my head on a pillow I think, I really should do this more often.
7. Patient. I've managed to lose half of my hearing with each child. I figure I am a good negative one in the hearing department. It has increased my patience, but somehow I still hear those high-pitched sounds that make dogs howl, and I howl along with the best of them.
8. Whimsical. Oh, how I long to be less practical. The Whimsy Fairy passed right over me when she was sprinkling her magic dust. I got not a speck.
9. Organized. My garage and craft room will be navigitable. Some day. At least before I die.

A list of all I'm not.

Hmm. That's gonna get me through the day.

My friend once posted on her blog things she liked about herself and I found it disconcerting, although I don't quite know why. I can be blind to the great things about myself because the annoying things are so glaringly obvious. So it's off to work I go...

By the end of my life I will be the most laid back, kind yet firm-minded, well-rested, meditating-in-a-Zen-garden skydiver you've ever known. It won't even be funny how low my bloodpressure will be.* Ahh...I'm relaxing already.

*Probably because I'll be dead.