Central Florida Romance Writers!

I knew about the Romance Writers of America group, but I didn't think I could join because their website is very clear about what constitutes romance: A man and a woman and an obstacle that they overcome and a wedding at the end.  My novel is not that at all, and who knows if I will ever write that, so I thought this group was not for me.

But no!  My friend Penny went to a meeting, and discovered all types of writers there. Well, all types of women writers. I wonder if a man has ever been a member?

I went, despite being pretty nervous and tremendously intimidated. I felt like I had to, after reading my bloggy cheerleaders' encouragement.  Having someone to walk in with made it easier, even though Penny and I hadn't seen each other for more than a year, and had never seen each other out of a salon context before.  We met when she cut my hair: I mentioned I was a writer, she was too, we hit it off and have been exchanging emails ever since.

CFRW meetings are held on the first Saturday of every month in the same conference room at a Hilton near the airport.  It was a nice room, with rows of long narrow tables set up to write on, and big dispensers of coffee, hot water (they also had tea bags), and ice water.  Someone brought coffee cake and croissants. There were around 20 women there, maybe a half-dozen were non-members (you can go to two meetings before you have to pay to join both the national organization and the local chapter).  They gave us newbies a packet of information and an official Central Florida Romance Writers pen. 

Things got started at 10am, everyone introduced themselves briefly.  Most of the members are published and a few are romance authors, but a lot aren't.  One said she writes science fiction, one women's fiction, one urban paranormal, there were even several women who were published authors of gay erotica. I am aware of the popularity of that genre, but that was still a bit of a surprise. 

Being me, it was a painful moment to have to say one sentence in front of 20 friendly women.  I wonder if people who aren't shy can ever really understand the inescapable, crushing nature of it.  I think I got my little introduction out well enough:  Hi, I'm ellen, I have written one novel, it's chick-lit, and I'm currently working on the second draft.

Then they had announcements. They explained that when you join you are given a charm bracelet and presented with charms when you achieve milestones, like publishing a book. One woman had just had a short story published and everyone applauded for her; one woman had gotten a rejection and was ceremoniously given a packet of tissues and some chocolate. The whole thing was excessively girly, but I loved it.

Then they interviewed a member who has been published multiple times and it was during the ensuing discussions about research, characterization, word counts, and plotting that I really started to feel it.  As a fledgling writer, I've had a lot of support; from my enthusiastic husband, my bloggy writer friends, and from various anonymous people on writer's forums.  But none of that can compare to sitting in a room full of people all talking about the concepts and techniques that are bustling around in my head every day.  Please excuse the cliche, but it really was like they were all speaking my language.

AND IT WAS AWESOME.

I got a little teary, to be honest. In a weird way, I feel more like a writer now, having connected with a writer's community. Published or not, I have the heart of a writer, and I see that now in a way that I didn't before.

Then one of the gay erotica authors gave a talk about point of view, which I loved.  I remember when I read the first pages of The Hunger Games, I went to Greg enthusing about the immediacy of writing in first person, present tense. It gives the writing such urgency, I said, excited, and it's fairly uncommon. He nodded, knowing what I was talking about, but not really caring, exactly.  A group of people talking about literary elements and style with the same amount of passion felt like a revelation.  The author's discussion about point of view evolved into talk about her books and the genre of gay erotica in general, and it was all just fascinating.

The whole thing lasted from 10am until after 1pm. When it was over and we were leaving, one of the members asked Penny and me if we would like to join their group for lunch.  We said no, having made plans of our own to have lunch together, but it was so nice to be asked.

When I got home, Greg sat me down on the couch and wanted me to tell him everything.  Seriously, if there is anything sweeter than having an exhilirating, fulfilling experience, it's having someone who is genuinely excited to hear all about it afterwards.

I brought the Central Florida Romance Writers pen with me to work, and I keep it on my desk. It makes me happy to look at it during the day. It reminds me that I'm a writer. 

Stabbing Anxiety < Blank and Fuzzy

Well, I still don't know what is going on at work, and last week I started to get anxious and upset almost to the point of panic. PMS made things worse, for sure. I tried to keep up with my cardio workouts in the mornings, and that made a big difference with the muscle tension creeping up my shoulders and neck.  I took a few Advil PM's to help me get enough sleep. Taking a few days off last week to celebrate Greg's birthday gave me a chance to get away from the office and have a little distance, both physically and emotionally.  And it might not be possible to cuddle a sweet, nuzzling kitten without being cheered up.

This week I'm back and I just feel sort of numb.  Every night I have weird stress dreams; like wandering through a huge pot-luck lunch full of strangers and platters full of delicious looking food that I don't want to eat because I don't know anyone.  I don't feel the stabbing anxiety anymore, but I don't feel good either. 

Of course I haven't been writing.  Other than taking a few pics of Alabama I haven't done anything at all creative.  A friend invited me to go to a local Romance Writers of America meeting.  It sounds inspiring and helpful, full of experienced writers who have been published, and she said that the fact that my chick-lit novel isn't technically "romance" wouldn't matter.  I'm planning to go with her on Saturday, and there's like a little piece of my brain that is excited about it, but mostly I just feel reluctant.  I feel intimidated by the writers and overwhelmed by everything, and just thinking about going makes me tired.

I am going to try to talk myself into going.  I haven't seen this friend in a long time, and we could go have lunch afterwards, and it would certainly be fun.  I feel like I ought to use writing to relieve all this angst, or to at least escape from it, but I don't know how to do that.  My mind feels blank and fuzzy, but maybe being with other writers would spark some inspiration.

We'll see.

Olive Juice

When I look back at that post a few weeks ago about how bad things were going to be at work, I just LAUGH.  I was worried about not knowing how to use the new systems!  I hadn't been trained enough, I feared!  OH NO!  Well, the sad reality is that many things with the new systems that went live mid-October are still not even working completely.  Lack of training has certainly taken a back seat in my giant mental bus of things to worry about.  Our department has been moved into the call center now, which is being taken apart piece by piece and moved to the new call center area, which is around half the size.  People keep coming back from the new area with wide eyes, saying, Well, it sure is going to be... tight.  Whatever.  We'll all deal with it.


Despite waking up with a slightly sore mouth most mornings, my teeth/jaw seem to be basically okay now.  At least, okay enough to wait until next month to go back to the dentist for more x-rays and to have a night guard made.  Ibuprofen and a heated pillow on my jaw for a few minutes before bed helps a lot.  I don't think I was being super paranoid to worry about the intense shooting nerve pain in my back tooth being from a cracked filling or a cracked tooth, but it inexplicably seems to have gone away now.  I will just assume I have regenerating tooth enamel or something.


This past Tuesday was the 10th anniversary of my first date with Greg, and we are planning to go out tonight to celebrate.  We considered a fancy restaurant, but decided instead to go to Rossi's, a casual Italian restaurant that we used to go to pretty frequently when we were first dating.  Since we moved it's farther away, so we don't go very often any more.  Rossi's is a family owned restaurant that's been in Orlando for decades, and it's filled with oil paintings done by the owner's mother.  They'll put green olives on pizza, and it's surprisingly hard to find a restaurant that does that.  Rossi's is like an old comfortable friend.


Sometimes I read something about the craft of writing that really changes the way I think of writing, and this wonderful post did that:  Sean Ferrell - Pathetic Email.  Here's a short exempt that does not do justice to the full amazing insight:  "... anyone who tries to hollow out a part of themselves so that they can give a home to people who don't exist in a physical sense but exist in a very hard and uncomfortable emotional sense. It's not easy giving them a home, a safe place to be themselves, and it will often destroy us in the process. I think it's supposed to. After completing a book you won't be the person you were before trying to write it, not if you've done it right. There's real fear in that... You're supposed to be scared."   Go read the whole thing, and possibly you'll be as inspired as I was.  One person left the comment: "This is the best post in the history of ever". 


FYI:  My blog entry title is from the idea that mouthing "olive juice" looks to someone lip-reading like "I love you".

Good Things, Part II

We finally had enough money saved up and we bought a 13" Macbook Air.

I have never had a laptop before, and being able to carry around this awesome tiny machine seems like magic to me.  How did we ever get along without this?  It's so light, I think it really is made mostly of air.

Being me, I am doing obsessive research about what kind of case to get to carry it around.  After looking at skins, covers, sleeves, bags and backpacks, I think I've decided that I'm just going to go with buying a quilted padded zippered cover on Etsy.  I like the idea of getting something handmade and supporting a creative person, instead of giving business to a big impersonal electronics store.  I just need to find one that has a fabric that isn't so girly my husband would be embarrassed to carry it around - I might really like the one covered with tiny lavender butterflies and pink flowers, but I don't think he'd appreciate it on quite the same level.

Adam Carolla calls his computer his "magic porn box" and similarly I now think of this laptop as my "magic writing box".  I've installed Scrivener (my writing program, see it here) on it, and it really does seem positively magical that I can carry around this tiny thing and not only have my novel and my novel in progress, but all my research and notes and everything right there in my little hand.

Speaking of writing, I completely stopped all writing a few months ago.  I was just getting into my second novel, and I was having an extremely difficult time.  I needed a get-some-perspective break.  I also needed to stop beating myself up.  I did some reading (including the Hunger Games books, which I seriously cannot recommend highly enough, very fun to read) and did some thinking.

And now I can see that I was going the wrong direction with my work-in-progress.  I still really like the characters and the overall plot arc, but I was trying to take it the wrong way.  It's funny, I felt like if I think something is a good idea, then it is, I'm the writer and therefore what happens within my writing is all up to me.  But I can see now that the severe events I had planned were wrong for the relatively gentle tone of the book, and I now have a better idea of what the theme is.  I am probably going to scrap what little writing I did actually do, and start over, with a much clearer plan.

But not yet.  I think that my first novel was written somewhat fearfully, in that I kept hearing critical voices in my head that, despite my attempts to ignore them, still steered me in the wrong direction about several things, including the personality of the main character.  I wrote Megan fairly ditzy, and sweet, and a little naive, and I see now that if I put more of my own personality into her, it would be a lot more interesting.  I think she should be funnier, more sarcastic, and a little darker.  And even though the novel mostly takes place in her office, I really shied away from having too many scenes there, especially with other characters that she works with.

So here I go with My First Novel: The Second Draft.  Yay!

I've already re-written the first scene, and I am positive that it is much better now.  I am tremendously excited to get going with the other changes, and I can confidently say that the joy is now back in my writing.

And therefore, back in my life.  And holy crapmuffins, I could use some joy right about now.  Work remains horrifying.

Screw You, Someday

"Bucket list" is a term I've been hearing a lot for the past few years. I like the idea of identifying the things that are important to do before kicking the ol' metaphorical bucket, but for some reason that I can't really put my finger on, I'm annoyed by the recent trendiness of it.

Maybe because a good number of these bucket bloggers seem to be in their 20's and have lists titled 30 Things To Before I'm 30 that include visits to half the world, SCUBA diving, betting a giant pile of cash on one hand in a Vegas casino, attending Oktoberfest, climbing Mount Everest, etc.  A quick googling overview shows a big pile of bucket list blogs by young (FYI, "young" = anyone who is not as old as I am) people talking about Setting Priorities and Documenting Experiences and Having Goals, and a much smaller number of very sad blucket list blogs written by people who are actually dying and are trying to make the most of their remaining time.

Maybe because for the last several years I have been confronting my middle-age status and dealing with the knowledge of my own inescapable death. I don't think I've had anything that could be considered a mid-life crisis, not really, but I have had moments of very bitter awareness that my time is running out, I've already passed the half-way mark.  For basically my whole life I filed away things in an I'll Do It Someday file in the back of my head: going to Barbados, learning to speak Spanish, riding a gondola in Venice, floating in a hot-air balloon, etc.  When it hit me a few years ago that my time to do things is limited I realized I can't possibly do all the things in my Someday file.  The day I stopped putting things in my Someday file was a sad day.

I wrote about the whole thing here:  http://existenceofellen.blogspot.com/2009/10/mid-of-my-life.html

After thinking about it for a few years, I'm starting to have a different perspective.  Indiscriminately sticking things in an imaginary Someday file really wasn't worth very much.  I didn't stop to think about how reasonable the things would be, how much they would cost me in time and money, and whether I would be likely to get anything much out of them.  It was the mental equivalent of hoarding.

I was forced to throw out the whole moldy pile of half-assed Someday plans, and decide which few were worth saving.  Which VERY few.

The first and most important thing, the one has been yelling at me and waving desperately from the depths of my stupid head for decades, was writing.  So I made that my top priority, and I did it.  I wrote a whole novel!  Now I'm writing another one!  *whew*

The next thing is to go to Paris.  I want to go to Paris so badly.  Greg and I had planned to go once before, near the end of 2007 we decided to start planning a trip, and I was compiling information and buying guidebooks and doing internet investigation when The Year Of Hell hit us.  After Greg lost his job I gave up on planning the trip at least temporarily, and when he was forced to take a job making a lot less money I gave up for good.

But now things are getting better, our financial horrors are easing somewhat, so the idea of Paris has been creeping back into my head.  My last defenses were knocked down the day I gave in and looked at Paris vacation apartment rentals online.  Some of them have little balconies!  Oh, man.

We have decided to loosely plan to celebrate my 50th birthday in Paris.  That'll be March 17, 2016.  Next year we will have a chunk of our debt paid off and will be able to begin saving, and even if we can only save a little every month, we still have plenty of time to save up enough for at least a modest vacation.

PARIS!

Update: Writing!

Today marks one month since I started on Novel #2, and it is my 30th consecutive day of writing.

 

Of course, when I say "writing" that can mean anything from sitting at my computer working steadily for two hours to grabbing a quick five minutes at the end of a long busy day.  I've just been determined to write EVERY DAY, even if it's just for a few minutes. 

 

The good news is that it seems to be going good so far, I am really enjoying reconnecting with my characters and my plot every single day.  I feel like every day that I went without working on Novel #1 made me slip farther and farther away from it, and I really don't want that to happen again.

 

The bad news is that, after one month, I have written exactly eleven pages.  That's kind of not good.

 

I want to be nice to myself and not get all stressy, but I also want to get somewhere.  At 11 pages a month, it'll literally take years to get finished.  I know some writers spend years working on one novel, but I would really, really, really prefer not to be one of those writers.

 

Having a very specific goal during NaNoWriMo worked great for me, it kicked my lazy butt just like it was supposed to.  I've heard that a lot of writers have daily goals, and they write a certain number of pages or words per day.  There's just no way that's going to work for me, because of my weird work schedule I may have a ton of writing time one day and then practically none for the next few days.  I'm going to try having a weekly goal, so that if I go a few days writing very little I can theoretically make up for lost time on the days when I have more.

 

According to my internet research, a Young Adult novel can range anywhere from 50,000 words to over 150,000.  How helpful.  It looks like average might be more like 75,000, probably less, so I'm going with that.  If an average page has 250 words, that comes out to a 300 page novel. 

 

If I want to write the novel in, say, six months (which still seems like a long time, but I am trying to take it easy on myself) that would mean writing approx. 50 pages/12500 words a month, which would be 12.5 pages/3125 words per week.

 

Yikes.  Well, I really do want to pick up the pace, so that'll be my goal.  I don't even have any real idea how long this novel needs to be.  I suppose there is a chance it might not even turn out to be a YA novel, who knows.

 

And speaking of my dear little Novel #2, I have no idea if I should share much about it here or not. I love my main character so much, she's so interesting.  To me, anyway.  Is it appropriate?  Is anyone interested?  

Too Much

On May 31 I started writing my new novel, the young adult novel about the 17 year old lesbian.  I made a vow to write every single day, even if I didn't have time to write more than a few sentences.  I will say this for myself:  I have kept that vow and written at least a teensy bit every single day, so far.  I'm trying to develop a habit, which is a little difficult since I work varying hours and can't get into a regular routine with it.  I feel like it is important to check in with my story and my characters every day, even on days when spending quality writing time is impossible.

That first week everything went great.  I found at least an hour a day to write, sometimes more, and by the end of the week Chaper One was finished.  I am beginning to figure out what works best for me, and I love the freedom to write a little and edit a little, write a little and revise a little.  Doing NaNoWriMo I just threw myself into writing and literally never re-read or re-wrote one single word; I didn't have time.  This way I might write fewer than my NaNo goal of 1,700 words per day (ha!), but I do end up with (I hope) better words.

I love my characters so much.  It was positively joyful.

Last Monday my husband hurt his back at work.  Being who he is, he not only didn't tell me, he actively tried to hide it from me.  He went to work Tuesday and Wednesday, and even went in early on Thursday for extra work.  I finally realized something was wrong, but my reasonable suggestions (aka yelling) fell on deaf ears. 

I wish I could flip a switch and turn off my worry gene.  He didn't want to worry me, and of course, once I found out he was hurt, I worried.  He finally stayed home from work on Friday.  Saturday I had to work, and we missed a friend's birthday party.  I tried so hard to make Greg take it easy all weekend, to do everything that needed to be done. 

Last week was also horrible at work.  Several people were out, and my tiny department was extremely short-staffed.  It was hectic and stressful, and I didn't get home until late each night.  Also, I had my period, and all the stress and worry seemed to coagulate right in my poor uterus.  I was in pain and not sleeping well.

I did still manage to find at least a small amount of time, even if it was only 15 minutes, to sit down with my writing every day.  I didn't get much done, but I am cultivating my habit, so I felt like something was accomplished, and all week I was just looking forward to Sunday, my one day off, to make up for lost time.  Sunday, I was sure, I would be able to reconnect with my characters and be joyful again.

Of course, it didn't work that way.  I wrote a little, rewrote all of what I'd just written, and couldn't think what should come next.  I got stuck, which isn't too surprising, given my state of mind.  But it was such a heartbreaking disappointment.   This writing thing is tearing out my heart in ways I'd never expected.

When my sweetie's back still wasn't okay yesterday he went to the doctor, who said it is just a strain causing muscle spasms, and it's not too serious.  He's home from work today and tomorrow, hopefully after that he'll be fine.

And finally last night I was able to get home from work at a reasonable hour, and get back into my novel, really.  I see what's going to happen next, and what happens after that, and I am so looking forward to writing it.  Hopefully it'll be a little bit joyful again.

Crystal Clear

Yeah, that didn't work.  On my journey to discover who I am as a writer, I can just go ahead and eliminate writing-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, without having any idea what's next. 

After writing the littlest bit, I was so lost and directionless that I had to stop to at least try to figure out who my main character was.  I did have an idea that seemed pretty good, possibly.  I thought about it for a few days, and started to get into the idea, even though a few nagging doubts plagued me.   I never know whether to listen to nagging doubts, and am pretty bad at distinguishing which ones are valid and which are neurotic and self-defeating.  Both kinds seem equally strident, frankly.

Knowing that I can trust my husband to give me his honest opinion, I explained my character(s) and the outline of the plot.  He listened carefully, and then pointed out that this was basically the exact same plot and virtually the same characters as my novel.

Well, crap.

Still, I thought about it for a couple of days.  What does he know, anyway?  Maybe my novel was just sort of a warm-up exercise, and this was the improved version I was meant to write.  Maybe with a few well-chosen changes this would be a completely different story, and worth writing.  I imagined various scenarios and tried to let the characters speak to me.

Nope, he was right.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was all surface and no depth.

As I mentioned, I have two other ideas floating around, and once again I tried focusing on them.  The first, a novel about a woman who murders someone, just kind of waved at me from the back corners of my mind, but wasn't interested in coming out yet.  The second, a young adult novel about a teenage lesbian living in a small town, just jumped right out at me and started yelling.  Sweet!  Oh, the terribly detailed character sketches and outline I'm going to make...  Joy  :)

I feel really excited about this one, and details are coming to me quickly.  And, at least for now, the self-defeating neurotic voices have shut the hell up.

The Suffering Means I Am A Real Writer, Right?

Writing is hard, and when it isn't bliss, it sucks a lot.

 

And the bliss is a depressingly low percentage.

 

So, I wrote the main chunk of my novel (the first 50,000 words) during NaNoWriMo, then took a break, then finished it (total of approx 75,000 words).  Since then I've been working on revising/editing, and halfway through I basically just got sick of it.  Two other ideas for new stories started blooming in the back of my mind, but I pushed them aside, determined to keep going on my  novel.

 

After suffering through trying to force myself to keep revising I have finally decided to move on to something else, for now.  I still like my novel and my characters and I feel weirdly like I am abandoning them, and I actually know what changes I want to make, it's just that I feel like I need to spend some time away from it.  I have completely lost perspective.

 

I feel:

• guilty
• like a failure for not following through to the end
• lazy for stopping work
• excited for the other ideas
• confused
• tense when I am not writing
• happy when I am
• hatred for myself for not writing more
• proud of myself for writing at all

The two other ideas are only partially fleshed out in my mind, and I don't want to start work on either one of them quite yet.  When I wrote my novel I thought about it for months beforehand, setting up a fairly detailed outline and doing extensive character sketches.  I had the plot pretty much completely mapped out, and it worked well for me.  I don't want to start on either of the other two until I know more about what's supposed to happen and who the characters are.

 

So this past weekend, after not writing or revising or anything for two months and getting more and more stressed and freaked out every day, I finally just started writing the first thing that popped into my head.  It feels disorienting to be writing aimlessly, but wonderful to be writing.  I know a lot of writers write everything that way, but I find the idea of having things planned out very comforting.  I'm not even sure what this is going to be, but so far I am liking it a lot.  It's kind of fun to be surprised.

 

:)

The History of the existence: An Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary to my blog!

Here is my very first blog post, on December 9, 2005:  MY HUSBAND ALMOST DIED TODAY!!.  How's that for a catchy title?  Spoiler:  He didn't, really.

Even though I have imported this entry here onto Blogger, it was originally written on MySpace.  Remember MySpace?  One of the things I liked about it (compared to Facebook) was the option to write and share a blog.  I had seen several friends write occasional blog entries and on that particular day, since something exciting had happened, I decided to do one myself.  It was quick and easy, and unlike setting up an actual blog, you didn't feel any kind of obligation to keep up with it.  A lot of friends posted one single entry and then stopped, a lot posted just two or three times to communicate specific things going on.  MySpace was the casual hookup of the blog world.

Back then I wrote blog entries once or twice a month with personal updates; writing about looking for a house to buy, or turning 40.  Then I started write entries just to be silly or funny.  Then I started sharing my photos.  A lot of my friends would leave me witty and sweet comments, which unfortunately are mostly lost now that people have jumped ship on MySpace.

I started this Blogger blog in early 2007 and imported all my MySpace entries (some of which the formatting went slightly wonky).  My title on MySpace was The Story of e, which I quite liked, but it wasn't available here so I settled for existence of ellen.  For a while I was posting blog entries both here and on MySpace, but as time went on, fewer and fewer people used MySpace, so at some point I bailed on MySpace too and just posted here.

So.  Five freakin' years!  I am simulaneously impressed and appalled with myself.  In the past half decade, blogs have gone from being a fairly unique way to keep a public journal to being practially obligatory.  Corporations use blogs as marketing tools, news organizations use blogs as legitimate sources, blogs are trendy and fashionable.  

Well, MINE is not trendy or fashionable.  A lot of the people who read my blog on MySpace did not make the leap to Blogger with me, and though I do have a few loyal readers, some of whom never leave comments *waves at Jacki* and some of whom leave comments that are sometimes better than my actual blog entry *waves at Angella*, I don't have a whole lot.  I feel like I started on a whim and just kept going, with no real focus.

Five years is a long time, and it makes me think.  Why did I start writing a blog, really?  I missed writing, and I wasn't writing anything.  Writing this blog made me remember how much I love to write, and I think was instrumental in leading me back to a life of writing.  Why do I keep writing it now that I have begun writing fiction?  I do like keeping a web journal, and I do like the friends I've made in the bloggy world, and I do like writing things other than my novel (especially right now, as I am revising and not really writing). 

However, I think I've fallen into a bad habit of only writing about what's easy, and not really being true to myself.  I have been, sometimes unconsciously, afraid to be honest.  I don't want to make anyone feel bad, or piss anyone off, or lose any of the small amount of readers that I do have.

Well, fuck that.  I am almost 45 years old, time is a-wastin', so my new attitude about this blog is NO FEAR.

I Did It

I finished my novel!

I started thinking about it seriously last May (2009), making notes and character sketches and a vague plot outline.  I intended to start writing right away, but couldn't find the internal fortitude to take that intimidating first step.  Then I decided Nanowrimo would provide the butt-kicking that I required, and I started actually writing on November 1.  By November 30, I was 50,000 words in.

And apparently overwhelmed and burned out, because I basically couldn't write anything for months afterward, despite obsessing about the novel.  In June I finally got back to work, and now here I am, at just over 70,000 words, at THE END.

I am simultaneously really proud of myself, and excited to get going with editing/revising, and also extremely sad.  It's surprised me, but I've walked around for the past couple of days feeling positively bereft, and a little weepy.  These characters have been walking around in my head for over a year, and I miss them!

I've decided to skip Nanowrimo this year, even though I was looking forward to it and had already started planning a new novel, because I just can't stand the thought of pushing my current work in progress aside, even for a month.  I'm going to print out the whole thing -- first sentence to last sentence -- and start revising.

But, I did it!  I feel like I can now officially call myself a writer.  I'm a novelist.  Yay, me!

A Novel Approacheth

The good news:  I am almost finished with the first draft of my novel!  I'm not there quite yet, but the end is is in sight.

The bad news:  The further along I get the more I realize I'll need to change when I revise.  Draft number two will look pretty different than draft number one, I think.

The good news:  I love the thought of revising and editing and proofreading and cleaning up and making better!  I have so many ideas of what to change, and I can't wait to get started.

The bad news:  It'll have to wait, because...

The good news:  Yay, I'm going to do NaNoWriMo again!  Woot.  A whole month of feverish writing, and not much else!

The bad news:  Oh  no, I'm going to do NaNoWriMo... again.  A whole month of feverish writing, and not much else...

Honestly, I'm having such a great time writing. Last year I did so well with the deadlines that NaNoWriMo imposed, I want to give it another shot, but this year, I am planning to write a Young Adult novel.  They are typically a bit shorter, so if I can hit 50,000 words in November I will basically have a completed novel (assuming I can get to the end of my story in 50,000 words, anyway).  So my goal for November is to write the entire first draft.

I have an idea that's been lurking in the back of my head for a few months now, about a gay teenager who lives in a very small rural town.  Her family and her community are homophobic, so she keeps her gayness a secret, and feels bad having to lie to everyone about who she is.  She quietly works at a crappy job while secretly saving up money so she can move to a city and finally come out.  I'm still working out the details, and I don't even really have an outline yet, but I'm excited about it.

I can't express how much of a difference writing has made in my life since I started last November.  I remember a year ago, already thinking about it, and wanting so much to get going, but so fearful that I couldn't do it. 

Whew.  :)

Shut The Front Door!

As George Constanza said on Seinfeld:  I'm bustin', baby!

Whatever was preventing me from writing (writer's block? going through a natural process?  bad karma coming back to bite me in the butt?) is gone, and I am now back at work on my novel.

All I can say is:  WHEW.  What a relief!

To celebrate, here is my favorite photo of me, ever.  I am the wee baby and my sister is holding me.  As you can guess from her hair and frosted lipstick, this is in 1966.  Her husband walked in the room with a camera and saw us smiling at each other.  Awww.  Wanting to capture the moment, he said HEY to get us to look over at him, but he startled us, and got this pic instead.  Which is possibly even better than some boring photo of a smiling baby, don't you think?

I love how the little bit of drool makes my lips look shiny like hers.  :)

Can you see the family resemblance?

My Novel

Holy crapmuffins, those two little words make me so happy. :)

I am lost, though. Since I wrote the first 50,000+ words in November, I haven't been able to write more, and I haven't been able to write anything else, either. I've even had trouble writing this blog. And I LOVE writing this blog!

Also, since November, I haven't enjoyed reading, which for me is extremely unusual. I've started a bunch of books halfheartedly and then abandoned them fairly quickly, despite the feeling that I should have liked them.

I've only read two books since November (and, for me, that's practically like saying I've only had two baths since November); one was Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Loved it loved it loved it, I can see why it was a bestseller. It's a memoir about a woman's personal journey towards self-love and self-knowledge. That sounds like such a cliche, but it really came along right when I needed it and I just couldn't read it fast enough. And here's how much of a book snob I am: I bought a used but still pretty new-looking trade paperback copy almost a year ago at a flea market for $2. As it turns out, the previous owner marked the pages by turning down the corners, so there's dozens of pages that have those little diagonal creases that so offend my delicate book-loving sensibilities. When I finished the book, I waited for a good Borders coupon to show up in my email and then I went and bought a brand new, beautiful, uncreased copy.

The second book was Dead In The Family by Charlaine Harris, the tenth book in the Sookie Stackhouse series. What can I say? Apparently I find southern people and vampires comforting.

I've been doing research about writing, and the various different processes that writers have for accessing and nurturing their creativity. In an interview Anne Rice said that her process typically is to think about and research her characters/plot for months and months, as long as a year, then to spend a relatively short amount of time writing very intensely and carefully, then one quick revision and she's done. She said she finds herself being very drawn to things that inspire her during her thinking period; movies, books, tv, people, places, whatever. Then during her writing time she isolates herself from anything that might be distracting, and focuses solely on writing.

Of course, there are many many writers - the overwhelming majority, I'm sure - who say that the only way is to write regularly, every day, like it or not. Elizabeth Gibert said in a TED talk that she thinks that creative brilliance strikes occasionally, but you can't control it or depend on it, so you'd better be there and be ready; if you do your part and show up regularly, it'll (hopefully) do its part and show up eventually too.

I've been trying to force myself to sit down every day and write, but I just have not been able to. I can't even explain it. Sometimes I'll look forward to it during the day, but then when I get home I just... forget, like it just falls out of my head. Sometimes I remember, but don't want to, and then I feel bad for being lazy.

I've been trying not to beat myself up over this. I've been trying to think of this as figuring out what my "process" is. I think part of my problem is the stupid voice that has lived in my head since I graduated college with a fresh naive enthusiasm for writing, and then failed to write, at all. The decades passed, and the voice got louder and more abusive. Really, thinking back honestly on this past November, and remembering how hard I pushed myself during NaNoWriMo to write 50,000 words, I'm not sure I really gave myself enough credit. It was such a joyful and intensely emotional experience, rediscovering something so very dear to me, I'm not sure I really let myself feel it.

So I am trying to stop putting pressure on myself, and just give myself room.

Could someone please give me a guarantee that I am not going to die or become disabled in the next year or so, and that I do in fact have plenty of time? Thanks in advance :)

Broken

I think my head is broken. I don't hear any bolts or shards of metal rattling around in there, but maybe that's just because it's mostly empty, or filled with those non-biodegradable packing peanuts.

I have not been writing. What's wrong with me? I love writing! I miss writing. I am close to the end of my novel, and the thought of finishing it makes me so happy. The thought of editing and revising it makes me happy, too! So why am I not working on it?

After NaNoWriMO ended, I did write a few times during the first couple of weeks of December. But then I got extra busy with Christmas stuff, and then the week of Christmas I was in a retirement home in GA, away from a computer. When I got home I was busy with miscellaneous stuff like going to a funeral, and I was also just really tired and a bit stressy. But now I am back into just regular old life, and I still haven't written.

Part of my problem is that my work schedule varies so much. I would love to get into a daily routine and do the same thing every day, I think that would make things a lot easier for me. I could set a time and write at the same time every day, and get into a habit. But I leave home anywhere from 7:30am to noon, and get back home anywhere from 5:30 to 10:00pm. I really hate that about my job, actually.

The horrible thing is, I really want to write and I know it would make me happy to write. I finally figured out what bliss it is for me, but am I doing it? Nooo. And here's what my stupid head is doing to me: for the past couple of weeks I've been having nightmares, just about every night. Mostly public restroom nightmares, of course, because that's almost exclusively what my bad dreams dream are about. I've had dreams of dark, shadowy cavernous restrooms with no actual toilets to be found anywhere, huge mazelike abandoned factories, people vomiting, having to make my way down unsteady metal stairs rotted away with rust, accidentally walking through foot-deep sewage. Ugh. Shut up, head, I already know I should be writing! My head is just being MEAN.

Here's the extra stupid part. I look forward to writing, when I'm in the car on my long commute, when I'm at work, when I'm in the grocery store,  I can't wait to get home and get some writing done, and hang out with my characters.  I can't wait to see how the things I have planned for them actually end up happening. But then when I'm at home, somehow, it doesn't occur to me. It's not that I keep putting it off to finish the laundry or watch a movie or whatever, it actually doesn't even come to mind, I just completely forget. Until it's too late, like when I'm on my way to work again, or when I wake up at 4am after a bad dream. Seriously, my head is broken!

However, for the next three weeks I actually do have the same schedule (that never happens), so I am determined to start a pattern. TODAY. I had a pattern going during November. I guess I should say I want to start a nice, happy write-y pattern, not a bad stupid nightmare pattern, which is what I've got going now.