The End

Fifteen years after a horrifying dream left its imprint on my psyche, 9 years after I used that dream for a short story assignment in college, and 4 years after my attempts to edit that story ballooned into a novel of proportions beyond my skill set, I have completed the first draft of The Bloodsong Swords.

It is gloriously flawed and virtually unreadable. It is wrought with redundancies, with instances told rather than shown, with cliché turns of phrase, and info dumps. But within that are magical moments. Characters with yearning. Unique settings. There is a story that wants, indeed demands, to be told. 

My goal is to weed out all of the mundane and amateur and present to the world a version of this story worth telling. I feel obligated to do justice to the people and places that have lived in my unconscious mind for all these years. There is a lot of work left to do and I will admit that I am dreading the mountain of rewrites. There are points of view to eliminate, scene after scene in need of fresh envisioning, an entire restructuring.

Typing "The End" is only the beginning. I am up to the task even if I do feel like I'm in over my head. I've come to enjoy the writing process that once terrified and frustrated me. I can finally call myself a novelist. Up next: published novelist.

Still In The Game

Hello, readers. Obviously, it has been quite a long time since I posted an update. Don't worry. I am still in the game. In fact, I'm more motivated now than I have ever been. I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in January. My focus has been dedicated to my brand new family and my new identity as a mother.

Becoming a parent completely altered my perception. Things that once mattered to me have now become nothing and things that once were nothing now mean the world. Caring for a brand new human being that relies on me for just about every single need has really put life into perspective.

My family comes first. My writing comes second.  Everything else is obligatory. I've cut out people, places, and things that don't jive with my current priorities and energy. I want to be the best woman I can be as a role model to my son. This includes following through on my passion for story-telling and becoming as successful as my talents merit.

I am currently working on two novels and a short story that I am entering into a genre contest this autumn. I recently attended a 90-minute seminar on creating an e-book. I have plans to build a website. Unfortunately, this blog falls to the wayside quite easily. Since I don't yet have anything to offer besides my personal insights, it doesn't seem quite as urgent.

I plan to post some free stories very soon. I will likely be revamping more of the design of this virtual space in the very near future. It is all very exciting! There is a lot to do and I have the greatest motivation that life can provide--a son who has already developed a fun and dynamic personality that I love beyond measure. 

The Finish Line

If you have been reading this blog for any number of months then it will be no news to you that I have what I call a discipline problem. I set goals then wait until the last possible minute to achieve them. If I miss a goal, I extend the deadline. Perhaps it’s a learned behavior from my formative years as a bright student in sub par public schools. It was never necessary for me to put any major effort into the work because I could do everything it took in the last few days and come out of the challenge with top grades.

The glaring matter at hand is my goal to complete the first draft of my novel by, well, yesterday. This obviously was another instance where I put my goals to the wayside in favor of less scary and less intense activities.

Let’s face it--writing fiction is difficult.  Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or diluted. Throwing your mind, your body, your consciousness into a fictional dimension, completely immersing your thoughts and actions into an abstract reality, is completely disorienting. My experience is such, at least. Maybe it isn’t that daunting for some. Maybe those writers can easily switch their frame of being from fiction to reality with more ease than I can. If so, I applaud and admire them.  However, it takes a lot of energy and fortitude for me. 

I don’t believe in excuses, only choices. And it was my choice to be lazy with writing in January. I know that specific choice was not helpful for publishing my book. But hey, everyone needs a hiatus now and then. It’s behind me. I got it out of my system. It is time to quit my sightseeing detour and move forward down the path. The finish line is in my sights.

The Secrets of a First Time Wrimo

November was a long and bumpy road. As you probably noticed, I have been very quiet of late. My head was down and my mind fully focused on reaching my goal of 50,000 newly written words for National Novel Writing Month. I achieved my goal! The real world was dead to me. Only my imagined world was worthy of my attentions. I ended November with 50,066 words and won my very first NaNoWriMo.

I hope that nobody thinks my pretty little web badge means that this was easy for me. It was one of the most challenging things I have ever done. I wasn't sitting pretty at my desk all month, whistling a tune, and typing away while blue birds fluttered around my head and small woodland creatures applauded around my feet. It was painstaking, terrifying, and absolutely insane!

I will preface this by saying that I bent the rules and wrote a novel that I started over the summer. What can I say? I’m a rebel. I already had one complete chapter of 8,711 words. I did not apply that chapter toward my final word count. I will also say that while I had 15 of the characters already in mind, they were nothing but faces, names, and basic motivations. In some cases, they were only names.

Week One, 7,229 words:  The first week was strange. I thrust myself into unfamiliar territory. I did not write a single word on the first day. I had stage fright. I wasn’t sure what to do other than to type.  On day two, I cranked out over 4,000 words. “This is easy,” I thought. “50,000 words will be no problem at all.” How I lied! The rest of the week I putt-putted like an old jalopy. By the end of the week, I was 4,000 words below par. One unexpected side effect to plunging headfirst into a fictional reality was the dreams. Every night I dreamt such vivid and lively dreams that when I awoke, I felt as though I never slept at all.

Week Two, 7,506 words:  I spent week two staring at a brick wall. My characters would not speak to me. They would not speak to each other. My fictional world was a gray haze and my plot made no sense whatsoever. Every word I typed felt clunky and forced. I was as a child lost in a mammoth grocery store crying out for her mother. I learned that a week two slump is common among Wrimos.  This knowledge did something to boost my ego but that boost was very short lived. By the end of the week, I was 7,000 words below par.

Week Three, 6,889 words:  Week three was a famously raucous pity party with full on streamers, balloons, and pointy cardboard hats. “I’m probably not going to make 50,000 words,” I told friends, family, and coworkers. “But it’s okay,” I said with a brave face, “I have a better sense of my story and more words than I did before.” Inside me was a big ugly ball of disappointment. It stared me in the face and spat out insults. I considered cheating. If I added my previously written chapter to the word count, I would be sitting pretty. I chose not to. I couldn't bring myself to sully the process. I pressed on despite my anxiety.

Something miraculously profound happened inside me on Sunday November 20^th. The labor pains stopped and I held in my arms my screaming infant novel. He stared up at me with eyes of wonder. I looked down at him and I knew exactly who he was and what he wanted to say. I embraced him close to my chest and rejoiced. “I am a writer,” I said. It no longer felt like a partial lie. I am a writer. I vowed to reach my goal. If not for myself, then for my story and all the glorious people and places therein. By the end of the week, I was 14,000 words below par.

Week 4, 28,442 words:  I cracked my knuckles and got to work. This was it. I had nine days to scrape out as many words as my fingers could type. I literally ate and slept my novel. I shut off my phone and ignored my messages. I woke up hours before work and typed. I toted my notebook and scribbled during the bus-and-two-trains commute to work. I scribbled while scarfing down lunch.  I scribbled some more during my commute home. In the evenings, I typed up what I wrote during the day and typed some more. I typed until my eyelids weighed a ton and my mind was swimming. I allowed myself 5-6 hours a night for sleep and those hours turned out more dreamful and less sleepy.  I tossed and turned. My characters that a few weeks prior wouldn’t talk to me now talked nonstop.  “Shh, I’m trying to sleep,” I said. “But we have business to conduct,” they whined. At one point, I literally forgot how to spell “pour.”

I’m pretty sure I hallucinated that weekend. I saw things and heard things that likely were not there.  If it weren’t for my boys in the red Indian head sweaters, the Chicago Blackhawks, I would be wearing a straight jacket right now. Hockey was just about the only thing rooting me to reality (they have the third best record in the league right now. Go, Hawks, go!). On November 30^th, I still had 6,125 words to go. I made a giant pot of strong coffee and went to work. By the evening, I hit the magic number and sighed a massive sigh. I cracked open a bottle of wine, poured a glass, and validated my word count.

I am extremely proud of what I have achieved. My novel is by no means finished and by no means publishable. This shitty first draft still requires at least another 50,000 words. After that, I will begin the long journey of editing. I plan to have a version to share with the world by August 2012. Writing a novel is no longer a distant hope. I have evolved. At long last, I am living my dream!

Preparations

Its a cool and gloomy day here in Chicago. I'm off of work and attempting to self motivate. 

I've not been writing much as I've been fighting off a nasty cold virus and a mysterious painful pulled neck muscle (mysterious because it happened out of nowhere. Perhaps it's the Universe's way of telling me to slow down, relax, and stop letting things get under my skin). I have a short story in progress and the ladies of my writer's group (Moxie!) are expecting more pages of that very soon.  And of course the omnious shadow of NaNoWriMo looms over me. November 1st is only five short days away and I'll begin my crash course in speed writing.

For those of you unfamiliar, National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short) is a not-for-profit endeavor by the Office of Letters and Light: "A fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to creative writing." The goal is to write 50,000 new words in just 30 days.

I don't like to fly blind. I'd rather be prepared. I research and read into almost everything I attempt. Based on my findings I've created a few simple plans of action to cross that 50,000 word finish line. It's a three prong plan, "pacing, structure, and caffeine."

The first is to stick to a strict day to day word count of 1700. That way I have a small and attainable daily goal that will keep me on pace.

The next part is to write out on index cards all of the scenes I need for the novel and arrange them in some kind of preliminary order. This way if the white page begins to threaten me, I can pick up the next scene card and continue rolling. That's what I'm putting together today. Some bones.

And lastly, I plan to stock the pantry with lots of coffee. 

Well, lots to do, lots to do!  I better get to it.

Why The Sacrifice Is Worth It

Writing is a solitary activity. Do it consistently and your laptop will become your best friend. You’ll clasp your notebook like a security blanket. You’ll wear black for days at the loss of your favorite pen. You’ll eat many meals out of Styrofoam containers. You’ll forget what household chores are.  And you’ll spend little to no time with the people you love.

You’ll receive angry texts, curious emails, and plenty of phone calls asking, “what’s up with you?” or “where have you been hiding?” If you’re lucky, you’ll explain that it’s nothing personal, that you've been committed to your writing goals, and your loved ones will accept that and proudly support you.  If you’re unlucky, feelings will be hurt and ties will unbind. You may even find yourself half a pint deep in a tub of ice cream asking “is all this worth it?”

The answer is incontrovertible: YES.

Everyone has dreams and desires, goals and plans, but few have the courage to restructure their lives in the profound ways necessary to achieve them. One day, with a copy of your book in hand, you’ll look around and notice those standing with you. Those loved ones believed in you, stood by you, and comforted you during your self-imposed isolation. You’ll owe them undying gratitude and be all the richer for it. 

Baggage has no place in a writer’s life besides on the page. I can no longer focus on what was. I’m taking baby steps on my path with eyes locked on the future. I’m planting seeds, making connections, and watching new life grow. I’m listening to that quiet voice deep inside me that yearns to tell stories. It grows louder with each day. I simply refuse to feel guilty about dancing to my own tune. 

I’m offering a sincere and heartfelt thank you to every single person out there that is supporting my dream. If you’re reading this, you’re definitely one of them. THANK YOU.

The Truth About Discipline

I love writing.  I truly do.  The process of creation and discovery feeds my soul.  Imagination rules my existence.  What I have a problem with, however, is discipline in my craft.  It is often a challenge for me to fit in quality writing time. 

I was always a good student in school.  I received top grades in college.  However, I did tend to procrastinate a lot on my writing assignments.  I know how to work and make the most of my time when I’m at the keyboard.  My issue isn’t that the time doesn’t exist or that I don’t desire to work.  I do fear the white page.  I do fear that the work will be horrible.  These are common writer’s issues that I’ve already learned to deal with.  So really, I’m not exactly sure what the reason is for my apprehension. 
 
I have a job four to five days per week in order pay my bills and rent, eat food and get to and from my job.  That leaves me with 48-72 hours per week that can be dedicated to my work, minus chores and of course sleep (one of my favorite activities; dreams deeply inspire and inform my work).
 
So, what is the deal?  I chalk some of it up to inexperience.  I have never worked seriously on a novel length project before (unless you count the 100+ page manuscript I worked on before studying fiction writing.  It is horribly written but conceptually golden).  It takes a lot of courage to jump into a project and make mistakes.  I have to constantly remind myself of my “shitty first drafts” mantra.  Am I simply a coward finding her courage?  Doubtful.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be walking down this path in the first place.  Perhaps all I need is some time and consistency.  So far I have been consistent, however slow the pace may be. 

If any other writers out there have advice on how they push themselves to get their work done, I’d love to hear it. I’m always willing to learn and try new techniques.