Tag Archives: writing progress

The middle of Octember.

Image by Natania Barron. CC BY SA 2.0

These -ember months do seem to pile up rather quickly, don’t they?  Last week I went away to the West Coast, spending some time with family. I don’t know what it is about me, but every single time I make a trip like that I somehow think I’m impervious to jet lag. The truth is, I’m terrible with jet lag. Eastbound is nuts. It’s almost been a week and I still haven’t acclimated, not even close. So the last few nights I’ve been up well past 2 AM, then up again at 3 AM with the little girl. So lucidity is not exactly my strong point at the moment.

Anyway, in spite of all that I’ve still managed to find the time to write. I’ve had to give up on the novella, half because the novel won’t leave me alone and half because I know I can’t give at the time that it deserves. I hate having to say no about something, to walk away. But that’s one of the realities of being a grown-up! You really have to learn how to manage your time. Or else nothing gets done. I spent the bulk of yesterday working on taxes and putting together a family budget. I much would have preferred to do something creative. But thankfully, even though it was late, I got my thousand words written.

This past weekend we visited the coast, where my in-laws live. On the ride home I had a chance to speak to my husband about the novel and some of the frustrations I’ve been going over in my head. At first, I really thought the love story was going to be central to the book. But then it sort of fizzled. It’s a whole lot less about falling in love, and a whole lot more about letting yourself fall in love. The relationships in the book don’t define Kate, she isn’t better because she’s dating or not dating. She’s not a romantic. As she says in the last scene I wrote last night, she’s gotten to the middle of her 30s without having a relationship that lasted longer than a year. And at the end of the book instead of jumping head over heels, she just meets someone that for the first time she can see herself staying with. Michael helped reiterate what I already knew: the book isn’t about romance and squishiness. It’s about music and confidence and overcoming the obstacles preventing Kate from being true to herself.

Anyway, the book is nearing the end. It’s almost at 70K and that’s without the supplementary articles, emails, conversations, and snippets that are going in later. Likely it’ll bring the size up another 10K once it’s done. I was dreaming about an interactive app. Cart, horse, etc.

Kate spends the first half trying to get over Tom, who she briefly had a thing with–but after years of pining for him. He gets born again. They both, for the mean time, beat addiction. I think I like this scene the best. They’re in Paris, about to go on stage, and for the first time they actually sit down and talk about how hard it is to move beyond, to tour without drugs and to face the people they used to be.

He sighed, looking down at our twined hands. “It’s hard. It’s… I mean, I want to be able to let go. To let God take care of it, to make me new. You understand that more than anyone, I think, even though you’re not… exactly practicing.”

That was a mild way of putting it.

“I know what you mean, at least,” I said.

“I just… do the shadows ever go away?” he asked. “Ah, shit. You’re the last person I should ask, considering what you’ve gone through.”

“We’re a pair,” I said. “But in answer to your question, I don’t think so. I don’t think we can ever rid ourselves of the shadows. We just have to learn to live with them. Eventually, maybe—hopefully—they just become part of the furniture after a while. You’re not struggling to stay in the light every damned day like some strung out vampire. You wake up one morning and, for the first time, you don’t think about it.”

“And if I fail?”

“You can always start again. But, and I can speak from experience, it’ll be harder. It’s like starting from level one all over again in Super Mario Brothers. No extra lives. No save state.” That was, perhaps, the best metaphor I could have ever given him.

He perked up a bit, his eyes getting a mischievous glint to them. Forget that it was also his “I’m horny and I’m about to jump you” look. It was still endearing. I had to battle a thousand memories and haunted strains of songs I’d written about him, pining away like some lovesick teenager. I hated how long I’d taken to let him know how I felt, and hated even more that we’d never manage to get together. Not really.

Our was not a love of the ages, that’s for sure. I was pretty much at my worst when I was with him, and likewise for him. At the time, moderation just wasn’t in our vocabularies.

We walked slowly back to the venue, his arm around me.

“There is something I noticed,” he said as we rounded the corner and the breeze picked up. “About your songwriting. I mean, I  know I’m not exactly Mozart when it comes to composition, but you’re changing.”

“I am?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing, none of the songs are about me.”

I laughed. “Not directly.”

“Well, it’s the first album you’re not writing love songs to me, cleverly hidden–or hate songs. They’re about bigger things. Better things.”

I felt embarrassed to be so transparent, but grateful that he’d been able to see through my creative guise.

“You know,” I said. “Three years ago… that’s what I wanted. More than you in bed or you as a boyfriend or whatever. I just wanted you to notice.”

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “We all notice. You’re—what’s it that James calls you?—the fulcrum. That’s it. Your the very center, the sun. We’re just the planets in gravitational pull.”

“You’re totally mixing your metaphors.”

“Which is why I don’t write much, of course. I’m just the pretty voice.”

I squeezed his waist and felt, for probably the first time since we’d broken up, that we understood each other. That whatever had passed between us as lovers had changed; we’d managed the near impossible: we’d become friends.

Titles, Tentacles, and Trust

Image: CC by Stephane Giner via Flickr

Explosition: in a narrative, the presence of excessive exposition. i.e. expository barf

Well, 80K has been surpassed. This is good. This is very good. And as I plunge into the last few chapters, I’m realizing I do have more to say in this space. So I’m thinking the draft will be around 95K now… give or take.

I have a tentative new title: Mother’s Ink. Or Inkwell. It’s become the center of the story, really (ink that is), and has even lent itself to my own version of the undead. (This is momentous! I’ve never had the undead in a novel before. I feel like I might have leveled as a writer. They even scare me.)

The hard part is keeping a firm grasp on all the strands in the story. The final climactic scene has taken a great deal of think time to sort out. I need certain people in certain places as well as certain artifacts in certain places, and trying to orchestrate that has proven rather difficult. But last night’s late thought session (I tend to think out most of my novels in bed before falling asleep or driving in the car listening to Classical music) I figured out 95% of it. That other 5% is still up in the air, um, literally. But I think I can get there.

Two Things I Loved: Okay, so there’s 10K of stuff since the last post. That’s a lot of stuff. So I get to cherry pick. I loved the interplay between Dinah and Ash (though it needs some work) and I loved bringing Dev back into the “real” world. The latter was painful and awkward and so wonderfully anti-romantic and unsatisfying. Which is just how I wanted it to be.

Two Things I Loathed: The exposition. It’s everywhere. Both of the narratives I’ve been writing in have come to the point where they are with People of an Informative Nature (TM). They are realizing things, learning things. And while that information is essential to the over all plot, it does slow things down. For me.  And there’s more than one instance of expository barf, so that counts for more than two things.

Best Quote of the Day:

“What color are the stones, Ash?” Corin asked. “The ones along the top.”

Ash squinted. “Is this a trick question? ‘Cause I don’t have time for—”

“Just answer me. What color are they?” Corin pressed.

“Ain’t no color. It’s empty.”

“Empty?” Dinah laughed.

“What do you see, Dinah?” asked Corin.

“The rubies are brilliant,” she said. “The most brilliant I’ve ever seen. True red, as deep as blood.”

Corin nodded. “Precisely. She sees it. We cannot. Do you know why, Dinah?”

“Because you’re men and simply can’t appreciate the nuances of refined aesthetics?” she tried, but knew it was a lame attempt at humor in a mirthless environment.

Worst Quote of the Day: (especially Dev’s “don’t take her, just take me” bit; ugh)

“Miracle. It sounds like a nightmare. I’ve seen what those things are capable of,” Marna hissed. She was angry—spitting mad, as her father might have said. Dev missed that about her, that temper. It had been years since he’d seen it.

“You and your Brennada friends, my dear, have meddled in business quite beyond your ken,” the Sib warned. “Do not presume to tell me.”

“Let her go,” Dev said, standing, taking a step toward the Sib. He didn’t know what he would do to stop hean, but just listening to heas voice was making him ill. “Do what you want with me—I don’t care. Just don’t bring her into this.”

The Sib laughed. “Ah, so noble! But I’m afraid I can’t do that, Devinder. She has proven surprisingly valuable for all of her mundanity. We thought she would lure you from your journey, though were were mistaken, in a way. Still, she certainly prevented your death, which was to our benefit. But it seems there are other men prepared to be snared on her behalf. You do have a way, Ms. Bashkin.”

Thoughts of the Day: Really, it’s just been novel fever around here. Not thinking terribly clearly on any front, and probably won’t until the draft is finished. I’ve been pondering that last scene a great deal, and that’s about it.

Around the Bend: Big boss fight! Cue music! Cue dancing! Cue freaky squidlings and undead sorcerers! This stuff is gettin’ real, I tell ya.

(Image CC by Stephane Giner via Flickr)

Glut, glut, glut.

I am trying to be candid here.

I have too many words.

Not counting finished drafts, I have somewhere around 230K of unfinished business. This is either work in process (currently I am writing two separate books) or words that need to be edited. This morning I thought I’d total it up, for reasons of amusement. But now? Looking at it I’ve got to wonder what the hell it is I’m getting at.

This started when I got frustrated editing a first draft. Then I decided to do something else; which lead to something else… which means, ah, what the hell?

Self: Stop this grumblefest. You need to look on the bright side.

Glutty McGlutterson: Wha? Like, the fact that I’m writing and that’s something and I should keep my chin up, buster, and dance with rainbows and dragons and flying horses?

Self: Um, no, not exactly. Since when have I ever called you buster?

McGlut: Ugh, you always do this.

Self: Do what? Force you to accentuate the positive?

McGlut: I’m going to start calling you Pollyanna.

Self: Seriously. Remember that 10,000 hours thing? You’re being a writer. Not an editor. So you’re writing.

McGlut: I can scarcely think where to go.

Self: You were on a roll.

McGlut: *sigh* That peksy past-tense.

Self: Oh, grow up! Just sit your ass down and write. Stop complaining. You are a professional.

McGlut: A professional word-vomiter.

Self: Better than the other way.

McGlut: … true.

Self: Consider the current project. Marketable, single person narrative… just focus on that. The rest will come. Or it won’t. And you’ll drown to death in words.

McGlut: *glub, glub, glub*

Writing with the darkness.

This week’s writing has been more difficult than others, and not because of the usual reasons (laziness, business, distractedness). While I’ve slowly made progress from 0k to 4K (about 2K from the chapter end) it’s been laborious, to say the least. Though I’m writing from a draft, I know what’s going to happen, so technically I shouldn’t be having issues.

Except I am. And it’s all because it’s so damned dark.

Fantasy tends to fall to either side of the extreme: light and hopeful, or dark and mournful. Or at least, it’s light peppered with enough dark that the contrast leaves you a bit heartbroken.

And I have to blame myself for this predicament, because with Peter of Windbourne I really wanted to take the last draft, completed some three years ago, to another level. I wanted to complicate the characters and relationships more, shake up the alliances, and use a broader brush to pull in the shadows. I wanted it to grow up. As a result, scenes that were once a little depressing, perhaps, are all the more dark, and it’s made a tough haul for me.

Typically this kind of thing doesn’t bother me. I dealt with darkness a great deal in the last few books. It may be that it affects me more this time around because this story is the first story I ever completed, and I know the characters more than any others.

So, this week’s writing has been in fits and starts. I typically finish a chapter a week, sometimes more. But it’s been all herky jerky, and distracted. Happy funny things on Twitter are so much better than writing about the destruction of a kingdom, and the inability of even remarkable people to do anything to save it. Perhaps it’s that hopelessness that’s getting to me… it’s quite likely.

The destruction of hope isn’t a pervasive theme in the book, but it’s one that I wanted to write more about in this draft. I think that helplessness is important especially in relationship to our world. I have a really difficult time wrapping my head around the kind of hopeless injustice that occurs around the world–violence to children, families, cultures–and this is my way of dealing with it, with commentary.

Because heroes can’t always win. In fantasy we are programmed to think that heroes, if given the right tools and spells and time, can save anyone. But sometimes they can’t. For all the flak that Tolkien gets, I think that was the greatest gift he gave the genre (even if it is so often ignored). Sometimes the hero fails. But in that moment of darkness, out of that despair, comes such a rich possibility.

Anyway, talking to a few people about the issues, the advice has ranged from “carry on” to “don’t write about it”. I am moving foward, albeit slowly. Because if I stop writing about the things that matter to me, if is stop telling the stories that are difficult, I compromise one of my core beliefs. Holding a mirror up to nature, and all that. In reality I may not be the bravest of beings, but in text I can forge on further than the boundaries here in my world…

Ringing the WIP.

I’m working on something right now, something I started during my horrific cold the last few weeks. I’m purposely taking a bit of a break from AGC (no worries, Alderpod listeners; I have plenty of chapters yet to read, so y’all won’t notice the difference) to work on this WIP, which is a project I’ve actually been contemplating since I started my undergraduate career a decade ago (how did ten years pass?!). At that point, I’d written thousands of pages of writing, but had yet to complete a novel; that came years later, with the end of the YA novel, Peter of Windbourne (unpublished… may never see the light of day, but we’ll see). The current WIP is pure, unadulterated fantasy, except when it itsn’t, and for the first time ever, it’s told in the first person.

With The Aldersgate, of course the challenge is juggling so many voices. Six-to-eight in the first novel, getting tone right, etc. But it’s all third person, as is Pilgrim of the Skies, so there’s still a comfortable distance. However, this WIP is not. It’s an uncomfortable proximity. I’ve written short stories, and even poems like this, but I’ve never undertaken a whole novel.

What gets me is that she follows me around all day. It borders on creepy, but I’ve been spending so much time in my protagonist’s brain that I can’t just turn her off when I want. I’m in the shower, she’s talking; I’m trying to sleep, she’s illustrating her opinion like some old radio station that I can’t quite get in clear. Never have I had a single character so invade my daily doings, prevent me from sleep, and snap me into moments of “huh?” so frequently.

This is also the fastest I’ve ever written a novel in my life. When her story starts going, I can’t write it fast enough. I literally had a snap of revelation the other day in which all the major events of the novel unfolded in front of me in a brief and frenzied burst of energy. Everything. Down to frightening detail. (Not that I had no idea where it was going, but I did have some pondering to do on some subjects…)

Unlike the other non-Aldersgate novel I’ve worked on in the last few months, the book I wrote for NaNoWriMo, nothing feels forced this time. I’ve gone back and tried to read bits of Pilgrim of the Sky, and some of it is good. But plenty was me just sitting, spinning my wheels, contemplating my navel, and trying to churn out the daily word count.

Yesterday, my WIP stood still. The line went dead.

So today, I’m dragging my feet, hoping for the call. I’ll be ready.

Anyone else ever experience this sort of thing? Or am I showing signs of the crazies again….