IWSG December, 2017, As it Was and How it Is

It's IWSG Day.  The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. IWSG is the brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader. Co-hosts this month:Julie Flanders, Shannon Lawrence, Fundy Blue, and Heather Gardner.  To read posts from all other members, click here

I walked outside looking for the newspaper at 6:00 this morning. It was dark and the moon was still full on high, glowing pale through a light cloud cover. Somewhere in a tree behind the house an owl gave a couple of low hoots. I walked up the driveway shivering, remembering a similar morning seven or eight years ago when there, out in the first breath of morning, the traffic hiss on the two-lane highway a quarter-mile away traveled on chilled air. Like today, a faint breeze rattled the remaining paper bag oak leaves, and I’d stopped to drink in the world, the quiet, the peace, the smoke drifting out of my neighbor's chimney. If it wouldn’t take me forever to find it, I’d search for the post I wrote about that frozen moment, all my writing then so in tuned to the present.

Bursts of description are no longer my practice, those brief essays, definable instants fashioned into the blog posts that prodded me along in my writing life. Sometimes, I miss the sense of accomplishment attained via a five-hundred word spurt. Now it’s all about the long haul. First the idea, then chapter-the-chapter-by-chapter grind. A hundred million edits, critique partners, writing group reviews. Almost incomprehensibly, years have gone by and my focus remains on the same two projects. 

As I write this, the sky through the shadow trees across the road brightens to a peach grey. A teenage neighbor has slouched-walked down his driveway. He stares at the ground, his hands deep in his cargo pockets while he waits for the air-brake hiss of the school bus, for the yellow doors to split open and swallow him into day. Around me, the cast iron radiators clank, the house pops as it settles, the air vent  in the kitchen kicks on with a whine. Commuters have begun their short-cut travels by our house, taillights glowing red behind them. Day has begun. Before long I’ll have to get ready for work. I've done nothing on my projects today. But I do have this. Evidence of a short haul and it's been fun. Tomorrow I'll put my head down and write.

Wishing you all wonderful holidays and blessings in the new year.

No, No, NaNo. IWSG November 2017

It's IWSG Day.  The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. The brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader.  To read posts from other members, click here. This months co-hosts:

Tonja Drecker, Diane Burton,  MJ Fifield, and Rebecca Douglass.

Today's optional IWSG Question: Win or not, do you usually finish your NaNo project. Have any of them gone on to be published?


November sweeps in here amid the yellow leaves of the black birch trees, the in-and-out light from storm clouds scuttling across the skies. I’ve transitioned from my back-room writing desk where I freeze in the winter to the living room at the front of the house. There, sixty-year-old cast iron heaters keep my hands warm enough to type. My writing table is positioned in front of a window and when not concentrating, I watch squirrels scavenging for acorns and black walnuts while the last of the rusty pine needles float down. We live on a busy street. I’m an early morning writer and now, the sun comes up so late I have to turn on the light while I’m working which makes me feel exposed. The other day, a neighbor I rarely see said, “I see you in your front window when I leave for work. What the heck are you doing there?”  

“I’m writing,” I said and it’s true. But these days, I feel like a fraud.

November. The month during which many with drive, ambition and more creativity than me jump into National Novel Writing month, aka NaNoWriMo or NaNo for short, while, I as usual, do not. Actually, I gave it some thought this year. I’m an inch into a new project. No—a centimeter. For me, that means thinking time. Do I really have a story? I can see the beginning, perhaps the end, but there’s a whole lot of pondering to be done to flesh out the middle. Without a clear idea, I couldn’t possibly get fifty thousand words written in thirty days. I marvel at those with the focus and planning to do so.

 

And then there’s this. I’m weary. Can I do it again? Can I spend years working on another book that will only remain stored for oblivion on my flash drive?

Confession time. Each November, I feel left behind in the writing world. When I dared myself to try to write a novel seven years ago, I had no idea how hard it would be. Nor did I understand what a struggle it would be to improve oh, just about everything related to my writing while working on my second, third and fourth attempts.

Then there’s the reading. So many talented authors out there. The three novels I’ve read and loved over the last month alone have me wondering if I have it in me to create a story good enough to raise an agent’s eyebrows. 

This month things become grey and drab and my feelings mirror the weather. During November, my most insecure insecurities rise up like leftover Halloween ghosts. I’m getting older. I’m running out of time. What do I leave behind if I never publish a book?

Gloom and doom, baby. I know this is just the pre-winter blues. Nonetheless, I leave Nano to those with stronger hearts.

What's your NaNo experience been like?

IWSG October 2017 - Writing Real

 It's IWSG Day.  The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. The brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader.  To read posts from other members, click here.

This month's option question? Have you ever slipped any of your personal information into your characters either by accident or on purpose?

I rewrote a scene the other day in which my character has an overwhelming shock. To make it feel real, I channeled two of my own experiences. The first? A day at work when someone got into my face in a way-over-the-top, completely unprofessional way. Since I was at work I couldn’t say what I was thinking, nor could I give into my impulse to lunge over my desk and throttle the—well, let’s use the word "antagonist." Somehow, I managed to keep my voice low and calm, all while my head threatened to explode and my vision got blurry. Blood pressure on high, I believe.

To that, I mixed in memories of fainting. I don’t make a habit of it, but there’s some kind of low blood sugar/pressure disposition in my family to faint. Similar to what happens to people before they get a migraine or seizure, I get a warning when I’m going to faint–an out of context feeling of intense dread. If that happens and I don’t get my head down fast, my vision starts to go wonky, dark stains drown out the light and, plop, I go down. Here’s the interesting part. I dream when I faint. I also get sick afterwards. 

I used those two examples in the following scene. You be the judge. 

“You think Ed had something to do with Trevor?” Marnie felt as if her organs had swollen, as if they’d burst out of her skin. The shed in front of her dissolved into black splotches. Afraid she was about to pass out, she squatted, ducking her head between her knees, bile bitter at the back of her throat. She fought for control but darkness carried her through mist and fog to a different land, a place where Trevor and Angelique still slept safe and alive in a tent behind her grape arbor.  
She had no idea how long it was until she became aware of the grass inhabiting the space between her feet, or Rosalie's strong arm holding her up off the ground. "Deep breaths," her sister said. Keep your head down. Let the blood get back in there."
Marnie lifted her head, repeating her earlier question. "Ed had something to do with Trevor?" Her voice sounded tinny. As if she spoke into a empty can.

Rosalie pushed her head down again. “I don’t know. I have no idea what that backpack was doing there. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It threw me, but Vinnie and I both thought it made no sense to upset you until we had some idea what it was all about.”

As she crouched in front of Rosalie’s shed trying to fathom the discovery of her son’s missing backpack, she remembered the night she'd encountered Ed at the movies so long ago. Unable to control it any longer, she retched, losing her dinner. Rosalie held her head, her hands cool on Marnie’s hot forehead as she pulled herself up from her knees, coughing.

(Google is wonky today! No matter what I tried to do, I could not get that third to last paragraph to indent.)
 

How does your real life color your writing?

Slash and Burn Baby! IWSG September 2017

 It's IWSG Day.  The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. The brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader.  To read posts from other members, click here.

My lesson for this month? Not to let words get in the way of the story. Just when I think I’m there, really there, I see my exquisite stunning, clever, creative too many words slo-o-o-o-w the narrative. Cut, cut, cut.

 

It really is true. When you take a breather from your manuscript you find all sorts of issues. Honest to God, I thought this one was done. But now I see. As lovely as the metaphors are, I have to backspace over them if they aren’t doing anything. If a sentence isn’t adding to a scene, I need to acknowledge it and delete it. Tough love, baby. Killing my darlings? Oh yes. I've become a slasher. If the paragraph doesn’t propel the reader to ask, “Golly, gosh, what’s going to happen next?" I'm taking a razor to it. I’ve found scenes I’ve agonized over that, after multiple edits, have become superfluous. I can’t pretend I don’t twitch before I do it, but finally I get there. Sayonara baby. Adios. Bye, bye.

A confession? The poet in me loves descriptive language. But the same way a poem needs to be pared down to its essence, I have to shave extraneous words from my novels. I’m learning the hard way (as in, agent rejections) that if there is one scintilla of something in there that might lead to a yawn, it’s time to kick that flowery padding to the curb. 

Sigh.

It’s been a lot of work lately and my toes are getting sore.