early to rise

During these mad days of projects, lists, and what-should-we-do-with-the-children-today-so-they-don’t-burn-the-house-down, I have come to realize that as far as writing goes, I have no time. Literally.

So, in the spirit of my zealous and adorably overly-ambitious sister-friends, all of whom I love dearly, I am writing up a list of things I have “on my plate,” as they say. (Gosh, how I hate that term. Give me a harsh glare if I use it again).

1. Finish my book (duh).
2. Find and secure a job, which actually pays money (duh).
3. Actually work at the job I find (AND I must insert a *final* duh once more. Gosh, how I hate that word, “duh.” Give me a wilting stare if I use it again).
4. Clean the house (or at least play at wafting about with a broom).
5. Launder the never-ending piles of clothing.
6. Play with/do projects with the kids (this should probably go further up on the list, but I suppose the numbers here aren’t necessarily in order of importance).
7. Paint certain parts of the house that need painting desperately (woodwork, half-done windows, the manic yellow color in my study that I habitually, and uneasily, stare at).
8. Clean up the yard, rake, etc.
9. Finally finish up the compost pile so that it’s usable, so that I discontinue my ritual of simply throwing all those apple cores and whatnot out the kitchen window (What? The birds eat them, you know. And the deer).
10. Run/bike/otherwise move my relatively inactive, lazy self.
11. Finish sorting out our stuff that we don’t need/use anymore, and give it to Big Brother/Big Sister.
12. Clean out the storage space in the basement. (Ha. And, ha. You’d laugh, too, if you saw it).
13. Finish ripping wallpaper off the walls in the bathroom in the basement.
14. Volunteer at the local non-profit.
15. Attend Arts League meetings.
16. Squinch my wet hair up in strange ways before bed, so that I wake up to a bad hair day the next morning (What? It helps my creative flow, apparently, to look somewhat like Einstein).
17. Discover the cure for cancer.
18. Facilitate world peace.
19. Stop using so damned many parenthesis.
20. Cease making useless, boring lists and posting them on my blog.

I mean, do you see what I’m getting at?

Frankly, I don’t know how people do it. Manage time, that is. But I do have a solution for #1, anyway. And that is…(drum roll)…get up early!

I know. It’s not rocket science. But truth be told, I hadn’t entertained the thought before, mainly because I wasn’t certain that it would work. I thought I might just opt out, just sleep through that dark, hazy, sort of dreamy and still time of morning. But, the truth is, that is my best time. My most creative and prolific time. It must be taken advantage of.

And, if I get THAT done early on in the day – if I feel as if I’ve accomplished THAT – well, the other things might just fall into place, non? I think I might have stumbled onto something, here. The old writer-gets-up-at-five-in-the-morning trick.

It might even make me healthy and wealthy, too. Although, I sincerely doubt that it will make me any wiser. More likely, it’ll just make me cranky and haggard. But with a soothing cup of tea, and a silent, hopeful room, I might be able to get some serious work done. And see the sunrise, to boot.

it’s my story and i’m sticking to it

The first draft? Of my book? The one I fought with? Day and night? And also, wooed with all the unrequited love of a lonesome mother hen at a wooden egg? And even smooched, a little? Is done.

*crickets*

Um. So, now what? After the inevitable and (admittedly) obnoxious show of patting myself on the back and bragging to all of my friends, now comes a sort of wilted sigh. And with it, a slight stepping away.

Oh, I was gung ho, initially. I began my re-writes with gusto and confidence, my swagger on in full regalia, incorporating my readers’ edits, adding whole paragraphs to particularly weak sections, attending to detail and fleshing out character history, correcting consistency issues and toning up dialect, etcetera, etcetera, and so on, blah, blah, blah.

Soon I found that my finger hesitated as it hovered over the Word icon on my desktop, and in that final instant – that microsecond of decision fighting indecision – I would instead move the mouse over two inches and click on the Outlook icon – or worse, Firefox. (shiver).

I found myself coming up with reasons why I couldn’t look at it, at any given minute. I’m tired. I’m hungry. My creative spirit isn’t as it should be, right now. The moon is full, and you know what they say about that. My finger hurts. The new episode of House Hunters is on soon, and I need to see it. You know, in case I need to buy a house. Or something.

The plain fact is, I need the distance. I know it’s good for me. It just makes me slightly nervous, as I’ve stopped and started with this manuscript so many times, and I’m a-feared it might be awhile before I go back.

Hence, I’ve made a small kind of personal deadline with myself. By the end of the year, it will be in halfway decent shape, enough so that I might feel comfortable starting to contact agents. This is my plan, and will remain my plan, so long as we both shall live.

It’s a good one, no? Better than the other plan of taking a step back, then another, and then running off in the other direction to cavort with all the other projects I have rolled up my sleeve. And believe you me, there are plenty in there. In fact, my sleeves are getting rather cramped and bulky with projects. People have stopped me on the street, asking why my arms  are all bunched up all over the place. “Oh, those are projects. Just waiting,” I say. “I’m going to cavort with all of them, once my book is ready.” And then they walk away slowly, periodically glancing back at me in concern and discomfort.

…Are you still with me?

I’m grateful to have finished the thing at all, frankly. It has been some time – since the birth of my last child, which was three and a half years ago. So, it’s been three and a half years. (See how I worked that out? Pretty tricky. Math has always been my strong suit. Not really).

The very fact that I made my FIRST deadline, which was end-of-summer for the first draft, still has me falling silent in amazement. Aside from finishing it, I think the thing that stuns me more is that I actually made a personal deadline. I stuck to it. I have stick-to-it-ive-ness, which is an adjective I thought I’d never, ever use in describing myself. (Actually, I never thought I’d use that word at all. Sorry. And also, sorry for all the parentheses).

I would encourage any writer who is having trouble getting back to a draft to incur readership to get things rolling again. It was the one thing that absolutely SAVED me, the one thing that got me re-writing – the insistence of a dear friend who wanted to read it. He wanted to read it. In every e-mail message he wrote, he added at the end, “OH, and by the way. When am I going to get to read your book?”

Well, it played on my – oh, vanity, I guess you could say. But also…well…isn’t the point of the whole writing thing having someone read it? Just the thought of someone else reading it gave me the courage and hope and chutzpah to carry on with it. I started from the beginning again, re-wrote like a crazy person all the way through what I had down already, and then the momentum carried me through to the end. I would recommend this to anyone facing an incomplete and languishing manuscript. It was inspiring. I am grateful.

And, I’m grateful for my delightful muse, who still pesters me with her gorgeous face, and sometimes even comes out fully from around the corner so that I can see all of her – all her limitless energy, encouragement, and design. There could be worse things than this. It’s work. And I love it. This is the life for me.

all of the people, all of the time

Here’s a thing.

What happens if you write something, and it gets read by someone whom you know and love, and that person becomes upset because they believe you are writing about them, and that you’ve made them sound less-than-appealing?

And here’s another thing.

What if they’re right?

What happens when a writer writes on his or her own life, tells the truth in all ugly detail, lets loose and really conveys life and all personal experiences? Do people categorically get hurt? Do lines get crossed, without fail?

I’m not sure what to make of this. And, I’m also not sure what the answer is. Certainly, writers have historically written on their own family drama. Look at Eugene O’Neill, for God’s sake. You can’t get much more autobiographical than that. And, how did his family react? Were they mortified? Humiliated? Did they take the next boat to the Virgin Islands, to live their days in hovelled seclusion?

No. I think they pretty much stayed in Connecticut and continued on with the alcohol and morphine.

But, what is to be done when one has the need to tell a story – and the story happens to be based on a real experience? Do we, as writers, have to edit to the point of a safe anonymity?

I feel as if, when I write, I don’t want to edit myself, and I don’t want to leave anything out, for fear of the possibility of offending someone. But at the same time, I DON’T want to offend anyone – that is, anyone I know personally. I could give a rat’s ass if I offend a stranger. (In fact, bring on the offended strangers. It only means I’m hitting on an emotion, rather than just emptily harping around).

I suppose that you can’t please everyone. And if you write in the same cordial manner that you would, say, champagne-toast a newly-married couple, then you might be well-received and politely applauded, but at the same time you might be oh-so-bland – like white bread slathered with unsalted butter. Me, I’d rather be Lobster Fra Diavolo. Or maybe, a really well-seasoned jalapeno popper. (Mmmm…excuse me a moment, while I go get a snack).

The bottom line, I suppose, is to write from deep in the pit of your stomach, with as much self-possession as possible. And, if someone gets offended in the creative process, then maybe apologize. And move on, while staying true to the illusive muse, the creative process, the reason we all do this in the first place.

Which is…why, exactly?

Not to offend, not to call somebody out, not even to practice pseudo-self-analysis by getting your panties all in a-dither.

But to simply convey your own personal truth and perception of the world, and to connect with at least one other person in this matter.

And, hopefully, everyone on earth will be happy with that.

writing in the wind

I’ve been running lately. Or, should I say, run/walking. That is, I walk for 5 minutes, and then run for 1 minute.

Hey – give me a break. I JUST started. And have to say, it’s an amazing thing, this running. It’s so very Zen-like, and, as my dear runner-friend told me (who runs marathons, by the way, so she should know), the brain is trained as much as the body. So, if I am getting tired too quickly, I can train my brain to step beyond my body. Hurdle over it, even.

It seems to work.

Another interesting phenomenon I’ve found is that, especially when I’m not intent on looking at the stop-watch (a tiresome habit, that), I find myself writing in my head. To the pace of my feet – in rhythm. It’s almost like writing music, each syllable in sync with the tapping of each foot as it hits the pavement.

I’ve (thump)
been (thump)
run (thump)
ning (thump)
late (thump)
ly (thump)
Or (thump)
should (thump)
I (thump)
say (thump)
walk (thump)
run (thump)
ning (thump)

Aaaand scene.

(I’ve been adding “Aaaaand scene” lately in my posts. I like it, apparently. I actually stole it from a friend, who I’m sure doesn’t mind if I use it here. At the risk of being vexing, though, I’ll try not to use it too much).

While walking, the words come much more gently, and I can think paragraphs through, although they are, for the most part, lost when I get home. It’s all part of the Buddhist thing. It’s art, temporarily.

I almost feel like bursting out aloud in verse, just to solidify the whole impermanence of it all. You know, words wafting away into thin air. I will likely NOT remember all the clever turns-of-phrase, the startling revelations, the unpredictable profundities. (Ha ha).

But damn it (I think, as I traipse down the street), all you birds and squirrels had better stop and listen now, because SOMEONE is going to hear this stuff. If not, I’m just some insane lady walking along talking to herself.

As opposed to some insane lady walking along talking to birds and squirrels.

In all honesty, I DON’T talk aloud while I’m walking (and now you can breathe a sigh of relief). Rather, I am, at times, chattering in my head – which is actually not Buddhist in the slightest bit, so I don’t know where I get off calling it that.

However. Sometimes in the quiet moments, the moments when I’m just in my body, focused, when my brain turns itself off and I’m just there, watching my arms pump, and feeling my breath coming in delicious gasps, and keeping my gaze up – in these moments, I am, frankly, not writing, not talking, not chattering, but simply just being. And this is the moment that is true artistry.

And clears my head for more writing, once I’m at home.

I tell you, it’s a beautiful thing.

assorted thoughts from the dillettante

I’ve been talking about it on my *Other* blog (the one from the wrong side of the tracks), so might as well beat the dead horse here. I’ve come to the decided conclusion that:

A) Writers love everything.
B) Writers are the gatekeepers of vast and varied and often useless information
C) To be a writer, one should strive to be a dilettante, in a most refreshing and resourceful way
D) I over-think everything. (This last is my own personal reprimand to myself, so please ignore).

I am no longer feeling apologetic for the variations present in my life, such as they are. There are simply too many wonderful things around in the world to be explored, and I will not shirk my curiosity for fear of straying from some make-believe niche that someone (quite possibly myself) told me I cannot do without.

My primary loyalty is to my own thoughts and ideas, so I will continue to spout them forth – much to your chagrin, perhaps – so that I might have a place to air out everything in a relatively constructive way.

That being said, this continues to be my “writer’s blog,” so I’ll continue from that perspective. But other things might wander their way in, and I’ll certainly welcome them and let them stay. Perhaps give them a snack, and a cup of tea. And then get back to the business of writing, and writing on writing, on topics such as:

A) The journey of a first-time novelist
B) The blog, and its benefits in curing writer’s block – which might bring me to…
C) Writer’s block, and its contemptible behavior (Right now it’s running around throwing all my things on the floor and laughing mercilessly. Oh, wait. That’s my children).
D) Harnessing the imagination
E) Creating infuriating alphabetized lists, with seemingly random list items
F) Rambling on and on, when the post has obviously played itself out
G) I promise you, this is the last you’ll hear from me on this subject

Aaaaaand scene.

a novel and a play walk into a bar…

(Quite obviously) I haven’t written in a very long time. Why, you might ask? Well, for three very good reasons. And I’ll share them with you. Time. Time. And, umm, time.

Did I mention time?

I have none. Well, barely any. Between children, managing the house, looking for work, and teaching, I am finding little to no time for my dear, wee blogs. Of course, I am making the time, now. I need this. Need to write. So, here I am again.

Last night I woke at about 3:30 a.m. from a vivid dream of a play I was writing. I wrote about five or six scenes in my head while lying there, until finally I got up, traipsed into my study, turned on the computer, and got everything down. Then – back to bed.

Yes, I am writing in the middle of the night. Before the rooster crows – or even has time to stretch his cranky little wing. Hey – a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

So, needless to say, now I am all a-swoon over this newer project of a script. I’ve always loved writing dialogue, and I do have a theatre background, so it really comes as no surprise that this might be the subsequent chapter in the life of me (no pun intended). Of course, this means that now I might have two projects going on. As in, simultaneously.

Can I do that?

I mean, have people done this? Have you? I feel as if I really can’t, somehow, since my long-suffering book is still not complete – not even the first draft. But what do I do about all the ideas I have for the play? Should I jot them down as I have them, while still plugging away at the other? I’m interested to know if anyone else has gone through this experience.

I haven’t, honestly. Usually, I only work on one personal writing project at a time. Professionally, I can do multiple projects without a problem, but for some reason, when it comes to my own fiction, I have a difficult time. Or, maybe I don’t. I don’t really know. I’ve never attempted it, actually.

Perhaps it might be all right, I tell myself. I’ll just need more time management skills, which, as you might have surmised by now, are an issue with me at this moment. Yes, my daughter will be going to preschool, soon. Yes, my son is in school all day. Yes, I do have time at night before bed, and also during Liv’s naptime.

And of course, there is always the middle of the night. Before the cranky rooster rises. (Or, am I the cranky rooster in this scenario? Maybe I will be, if I continue up that particular road…)

All I can do, then, is hope that the novel and the play become grand friends, or at least manage to summon up any amount of compatibility with one another. I do hope they can co-exist, because I would like them both around. At least, for awhile, until they really become something on their own, and can stand on their own two feet.

And then, maybe I’ll begin on that book of essays I’ve been thinking about…

experience versus imagination

Drawing from what I’ve got stored in this old body and soul of mine, I manage to bring forth some sort of wedge of humanity, sliced up and fanned out on the plate in a way that might be understood. But, where does this come from? Am I touching on aspects of my own life, what I’ve experienced, the things I’ve done, people I’ve met? Or is there something else, something bigger from which I’m drawing?

Of course, judging from my current manuscript, one would come to the instant conclusion that I am writing exclusively from my imagination. After all, I’ve never been a princess, never played the harp, never ridden on the back of an enormous bird, never dressed up as a man and run away from home. I don’t know any talking fish or gorillas, I’m not entirely familiar with the fairy world, and I’ve never been to a desert that whips up a frenzy of pink mist.

Still, I am relating and involved in my characters’ experiences. I’m there with them, as I flesh out the words. I know where they are, and can feel them. So, quite obviously, this is the imagination at work. But how can I make it real, if it’s not an experience that I’ve had?

Write What You Know, They say. But, what DO you know? And how did you acquire your knowledge? I know that I get a lot of my thoughts and processes from a lifetime of reading, and imagining. But is there more?

I very much love the idea of the collective consciousness, and that the myths of generations past are with us – in our bones and blood. I love thinking that I am a part of a grand pattern of humanity – that we are all collecting, borrowing, learning, and creating anew from all of those who have been before us, and all of those who are with us now.

Perhaps this is part of the imaginative process, that piece that allows us to create freely, without direct experience or know-how – that lets us feel expert in things that we have not attempted physically, but that we know innately as being part of the human experience.

Not to negate actual experience – of course, this is also essential. I believe I get the honest characterization from my own personal feelings, my reactions and motivations, and just from being me – a woman in a modern world, with a strange sensation of being alive for centuries.

And I feel as if I’ve been here in this world forever. Is it because of imagining? Or do I have a kind of pull to people past before me? Is there something bigger going on, allowing me this odd empathy, this almost dream-like, almost real feeling of being around 100 years ago? 200 years ago? 1,000 years ago?

So, what do I know? I know what it is to love, to fight, to give up, to weep, to fear, to feel passion, rage, desire, joy, and sorrow. To feel. Could this be enough? Is it necessary to have more, in order to create a believable manuscript? Does one need to travel extensively, to experience what one is writing about, to know the truth of something in order to successfully relate it?

I think, yes. To an extent, one does need to know the truth of something, in order to believably process it into words. For example, if one is to write about alcoholism, one most likely must have known an alcoholic, or to have experienced the results of alcoholism in a relationship. Otherwise, there might be a risk of stereotyping, or the conveyance of some kind of standard representation that smacks of unreality. Being dishonest in writing is a killer. Not knowing, or having experienced, something that one is trying to relay can be dangerously ineffective. And if even one thing is unbelievable, it’s possible the reader will lose trust in you, and lose interest in the entire enchilada.

What, then, is the balance, here? Where do I get off writing about all this weird stuff, never having experienced or directly known what I’m conveying? Who do I think I am, anyway?

There is indeed a balance to be struck, and a way to honestly tell a story, no matter how different it might be from your own life. There are writers who do their research physically, who travel or interview or study. We all must do this, to an extent. But much of what we already know can be laid out before our fellow humans, and can be understood and related to, in a very deep and meaningful way. Sure, I need to know what I’m writing about. But as long as I’m honest in what I’m projecting, sincerely telling my version of the truth, then I believe I can make that connection – as I connect with ancestors past, myths of old, and generations of story-tellers.

I want to be a part of the endless circle, which guides and fulfills, and allows me to experience the delicate, crazy balance of this creative world. This is what I want to be. This is what I want to do. So, here I am, being it and doing it, and hoping that the ages of my ancestors will guide me, and that this paradoxical life of chaos and order will allow all the honest words to float down and fall into place.

rejection as a lifestyle

I’ve had my fair share of rejection in my life. I used to traipse around the Boston area, auditioning here and there for parts. Probably, I was a little out of my league. In fact, in the words of the Magic Eight Ball, it is decidedly so. Fresh out of college, quite “green,” no experience in the professional theatre (as an actress), and with many stars, and a stray eyelash or two, in my eyes, I picked my audition pieces with the aplomb and insight of a politician dealing crack.

Still, I hoped for the best, and bravely strode to the doors of one such audition, piece in hand (or in my head, actually). It was Emily’s last monologue in Our Town, a role I did not ever play, and although I did play Mrs. Webb in my high school production, that mere fact does not mean that I was capable of producing an efficient rendering of the scene. In retrospect, let’s just say I was a little ill-prepared.

But it was a serious monologue, and I produced it poignantly, I imagined, PAR cans in my face, to the faceless souls out there watching. I finished. They said, “Thank you.” I turned and pushed open the double doors, and as they swung closed behind me, I heard them burst into laughter.

Yes. Laughter.

Oooh, that killed me. I think that might have been the proverbial straw, although I should have brushed myself off and kept going. But I think, at that moment, I somehow felt that I just didn’t have it in me. I couldn’t do it anymore. It felt personal.

Of course, being a writer, one faces rejection all the time. Every day. It is an aspect of the writing life that is reliable, like an old coat, like that pair of “go-to” jeans. Some people even sort of thrive on it. Or at least, make it into a joke.

My old college professor, and mentor, of sorts, told us he used to wallpaper his room with all the rejection letters he received. They almost became sort of badges of honor for him. All those rejections. All those submissions.

I’m not sure why I don’t submit more. I have many articles and essays that, if only fleshed out and worked up, might amount to something. It’s always the last thing on my to-do list, the editing and researching and sending out of material. I sometimes wonder if maybe I have a fear of rejection. Or fear of success, which is even more puzzling. Maybe I have a fear of rejectful succession. I think that’s probably the case.

Pseudo-self-analysis aside, I think sometimes rejection is our greatest friend, as writers. It can really give us a fresh look to our writing – it can give us Perspective and Objectivism. It can also give us a major migraine, but that can easily be solved by a good sound nap and the formulation of a long heated letter stating why said rejecter is talking out of his or her ass. (Shredded right afterwards, of course).

I do think rejection can be constructive, especially if the criticism is given that way. I am reminded of a graduate writing class I took, where one of my fellow students declared, “I don’t like your story, and I don’t know why.” (Believe me, HE got an very heated, unsent letter later on that evening). Some criticism is not helpful, nor is it necessary. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?

I don’t expect much in the way of personal feedback from magazines, journals, publishers, etc., who have rejected me. I mean, these hard-working people have their share of relentless reading to do – much of it crap, in all likelihood. So I don’t expect a small novelette in response, for goodness sake.

Still, it is difficult not to take it personally, at times. Writers - and all artists, I think - must have the ability to shake off negativity, and keep heads up and egos in place. At times, writers must appear to have monstrous, in-your-face, stocking-up-at-the-all-you-can-eat-counter-and-then-going-for-seconds types of egos, that continually need to be fed; that need the affirmation, the nod, the, “Yes, you’re doing great! Yes, you are GOING places!” In actuality, I think writers are some of the most insecure people around, needing the boost that comes with encouragement and positive feedback.

I’m not sure I’m insecure. I might be so insecure that I am secure in it. Or that I just don’t see it, because I’m so deluded. Hopefully it’s neither one, and I happen to be someone who is developing a secure sense of self (but if delusion is the case, than how would I know)? I’ll tell you, no matter what state of self-possession I might be in, I surely need to get back to it, and start sending stuff out again.

I’m adding in here a letter I found in an old box of my childhood writings, which I must have received when I was eight years old. It appears that I had sent in a poem to the publishing company Ramapo House, and they were kind enough to send me a rejection letter back, which my parents astutely kept. It’s my first one. * sniff *

“Dear Mary:

Thank you very much for your wonderful poem. We have hung it up in my office and everyone who visits my office will read it.

You are a very good poetess. You should save a copy of all your poems and perhaps someday a publisher will print them in a book with your name under them. When I see lovely poems like this I am sorry that our company only publishes textbooks for schools!

Thank you again.”

Thanks, Ramapo. Maybe someday a publisher WILL print them in a book. With my name under them, and everything. I can only hope.

december thoughts

I should be writing Christmas cards, but frankly I’d much rather be here in my darkened study, whiling away the time spinning words around. It was a long, sort of difficult day, with my six-year-old boy having a bad cough, and so not being able to romp around in the snow outside.

It kept us quite house-bound. We did a lot of playing, some arguing, some movie-watching, some running around like crazy people, and generally climbed the walls until bedtime.

Now I relax here in this comfortable seat and relish the silence. Funny how such life, such energy and immersion can be so stimulating and exhausting at once. I love these small people so dearly, and yet breathe a small sigh of relief once the house is quiet for the evening, and I can once again write in peace, with no interruptions, with no noise, no questions or incessant tappings on the shoulder.

I think about the new year coming, and hope that I can get some good work done – that this new year brings a snap of newly starched sheets to my rather burdensome creation, this book, this relentlessly unmade, rumpled bed of a project.

I know I speak harshly of it, for which I do apologize, book. I do love thee. But you are becoming heavy on my back – although I suppose that is my perception of you, and not at all a reflection of you personally. I think, actually, I’m putting all these feelings on myself.

For one thing, it is NOT good practice to give myself deadlines. It just makes me feel all the more despondent when I don’t meet them. For example, I was bragging talking to my friends and acquaintances about how I thought it would be completed by the end of this year. HA.

(Isn’t it funny how life always deals out a blow after one has been bragging? “Oh, yeah? Take that!” says Life, as it fills up your glass with a dose of humility, plopping in a tablet of irony, for good measure. And you are sorely humbled. And also sort of embarrassed. And wanting to just slink away home with a blanket over your head, for a nice cup of tea and some good old fashioned self-pity. What? You don’t do that? Ah. Well. ANYWAY).

In essence, I hope the new year brings all good things – a hope, I suppose, all people around the world have. But, what of this new year? What if it doesn’t deliver? What if I simply don’t have the time to finish? What if I am constantly bombarded with interruptions, with parenting, with the day-to-day happenings that constitute a bustling and living household?

If I am to make any head-way on this project, I fear I must schedule – a thing I really hesitate doing, because it’s another sort of added pressure. But if I don’t, if I just let the whole thing go where it wants to, I’m afraid that I won’t get enough done. So, here is a tentative schedule, tied up with a nice red ribbon, just in time for Christmas:

Writing times:

6:30 a.m.: I can get in about a half an hour to 45 minutes, if I start this early. It might be worth it. If I could just get out of bed.

1:00 p.m.: When Liv naps, I write. ON THE BOOK. Write for one hour, or until she wakes up.

8:00 p.m. -10:00 p.m.: After everyone is in bed, write – blogs, book, whatever I am inspired to do.

Of course, there are always those days when I’ll have more time, and also some days less. But this might be a good, basic plan for those “regular” days, when we are all running on our daily rhythm, and buzzing about knowing where we are going, and when we are getting there.

It seems like it might work out. It’s worth a try.

D’ya hear that, book? I’m with you on this. I’m on your side. I want you to be whole, complete, happy, read, loved. I am your partner, your hand to hold, your wooer, your teammate – your mother, for God’s sake. Don’t abandon me, not yet. Stick with me through this frisky, wild-eyed new year.

Let’s make it a good one.

quote of the week: go proof yourself

“I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”
- Oscar Wilde

This editing process is something else. What else exactly, I just don’t know. But I’m continuously asking myself if I should be so…persnickety. Especially at this stage of the game.

If I find something overwhelmingly mediocre within the text, I just can’t leave it the way it is. But this isn’t just true with my book. It’s true of everything I write. Even blog entries. Even e-mail messages. I can’t abide for misspellings, grammatical errors – (of which I’m sure I’ve made a few and just completely missed, friends. So no need to cite examples) – or just plain dull, blasé, trite, old rubbish that most likely fills the pages of my work anyway, no matter how much I go over it again and again.

But it is true that sometimes, completely by accident, I’ll stumble upon the absolute perfect omission, change, or addition, which tops off the piece nicely with a warm, extra large cherry. One small change might make the difference between yawns-ville and sheer music. (I hesitate to call anything I write musical, but I find that sometimes my writing gets into a sort of rhythm, and that’s why I use the analogy here).

This insistence for pristine word usage might hinder me. One would think. But fortunately, most of the time I can tune out that drill sergeant in my head, and just focus on flow. Or not focus, as the case may be. Interestingly, I find that the more unfocused I am, the more prolific I become. Certainly this must be the case for many writers, who let go of their egos, as it were, and simply let that flow happen, arriving from wherever it might have been earlier. (The moon? Thin air? Saint Tropez)?

Of course, there is always time for Super Proofing later. And, by God, I’ll be there to do it. Until I fall over when the commas, adjectives, and infernal character-name-change-fiascos smack me down, and my eyes roll back, as I murmur, “An editor…I need an editor…and please be gentle, I beg you…”

No, the sorry old words don’t actually knock me over. But there are lots of times I want to knock them over, thank you very much.

Truthfully, does it matter where the commas go, or how much that sentence needs to be re-written, if it’s causing so much wailing and wringing of hands? I’ll tell you, if the sentence creates that much of a problem, just do away with it. Even though one might love it. Even though it seems crucial. If it seems crucial, it’s probably not, and one should just get rid of it. Haven’t we all heard that old standard piece of advice?

I must interject here that I actually don’t have such a foul relationship with words, as you might think from reading this piteous, often violent rant. I do, most of the time, waltz with them, play them some soft music on the violin, send them daisies, and otherwise cultivate them into happy oblivion.

The fact remains, however, that I must learn to let go of hazardous, problematic sentences. And paragraphs. And scenes, even. But not get caught up in editing so much that I am in danger of imploding.

And I guess I’d better actually finish the first draft – and then march on toward greater things. Like proofing – again.

Oh, my.

Do you have a certain process you use when editing a draft? Do you allow yourself to go back and proof and edit before your first draft is complete? Do you work in order (first draft, edit, second draft, edit), or simply write/edit whatever you might feel like writing/editing, at that moment?