I've been telling my readers that my delay in posting is the need to let my shoulder heal and all the anxiety around getting my younger one into school. I haven't lied to anyone either. My shoulder did go through a rough two weeks, and my daughter has been -- until the last three months -- frantically resistant to going to school. Working with her on this point has been a mind-numbing exercise in guesswork, until she finally decided that being a big girl with her friends was more exciting that being stuck home with Mom. But these two reasons are the surface reasons.
The deeper reason is: I'm scared.
I posted the last couple of chapters before I felt mentally ready to do so. At the exact moment of posting, they felt very ready. I felt very ready. And then in the morning I woke up with regrets, with "Aw, crap -- I forgot"'s, with a vague, relentless sense that I had let myself, my readers and the story down because the chapters hadn't been honed enough. Within this story, I have a lot of plates in the air now, many of them emotional. It's impossible for me to keep track of them all within the first couple of drafts. There's so much to consider now as we reach not only the end of the physical journey, but of the emotional one -- or really, at least a plateau the characters can work from.
I'm scared I will miss something important. I'm scared I will drop a major ball. I don't know how else to manage this but to write it slowly and carefully, so I don't. And that requires concentration and quiet and time -- something I'm kinda short on when my shoulder aches and I'm getting two kids into the new school year, and the spouse is convinced that once the kids are in school, I'll gladly keep the house spotlessly clean (there's a lot more to this issue, but for now I'm not going into it here). And so I can only do what I can do, which is how I've written this thing so far, and I'm afraid at this stage of the story it's just not enough.
I had performance anxiety before, but not anything like this. This is making not want to write it at all, until I have a sense that no one is actually looking and I can do this in peace. Frankly, I'm embarrassed and ashamed of the last couple of chapters. Action-wise, they are correct. What happens in them is what happens. But in terms of craft, I feel like they're crap. I feel like I'm going to drown in dropped balls and missteps and lost details. Things reviewing the story as a whole could catch, if only I'd done that. But it would have taken a year, and then who would have lost interest first: the readers, or me? I don't know. And I've learned more than I could ever detail by doing this. I can't regret learning what I have, or gaining the understanding and skill I have, that I didn't have at the beginning of this story.
I just feel, suddenly, like I'm screwing up. As I said yesterday, I'm not where I though I would be in the story. And now I feel out of sync with my own vision and I know it shows. I feel like I'm putting incomplete (read: imperfect) work out there because of my deadlines. I have that hamstringing feeling that If I Just Had Enough Time...Because in the end, this really is about the work not being perfect. Is anyone's work ever perfect? Do you suppose authors at the top of the NYT Bestseller list struggle with this sense too? I'm wondering if this what they mean when they say the work is never finished, it's just done.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Friday
I gave my arm a good rest this week, and it feels much better. I'm now typing again, and it's beginning to feel bad.
Damn it.
Onwards and upwards anyway -- my mouth is too big. The kids start school on Monday, and already I am baking gluten-free stuff for them to accommodate the first day. Kindergartners in Fang's class get to hunt around the school for a gingerbread man, and so of course I am now scrambling to find a viable recipe and make some up, without it looking like I'm doing this because it is supposed to be a surprise. I've got a late night ahead of me on Sunday.
Today will be my first contact with Pickles' teacher, since she's a fourth grader. There's not too much prep at that age, other than warning the teacher off about using flour tortillas for science projects and please FFS you really do need to tell me about classroom events so I can provide her with food, because no, it's not all right for her to have to sit there and watch everyone else have fun. Having a food allergy or intolerance does not automatically mean they don't get to have fun too and it just has to suck to be them.
Er...sorry. I've had some run-ins with care providers in the past,who were insulted that my child had the nerve to have a food issue on their watch -- like we owed the care provider a better immune system than that!
Why yes, I did tell her to take a flying leap, why do you ask?
Anyhoo, it's time to start all that up again. But you want to know something really nifty? The GF community has made such terrific strides is making the food industry aware of the condition and the diet that mainstream companies like Land of Lakes and Betty Crocker are now producing mixes and recipes and such. Yay!
The next step is to educate educators that YES YOU DO HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS. It's not an anomaly. And you think we have it bad? The kids with shellfish and peanut and soy allergies -- real, honest allergies -- are so much worse off. Poor kids can't even eat at the same lunch table as their friends. GF kids just need to not eat wheat, rye and barley. The kids severely allergic to peanuts can't even be in the same room!
Story-wise, I'm bogged. I'm seriously bogged down. This was supposed to be about a whole gang of people, and it's really come down to just two. I like it that way, and it apparently reads fine from what readers have told me, but it's not where I thought it would be. Weird, that. Stories have a way of working themselves out, but it's unexpected and maybe disappointing to a few people. I don't know. I guess I just have to finish it first.
I did read over a great deal of it, several chapters back, and it works pretty well until the latest ones. The problem here is that I have serious story fatigue and its beginning to show. So I am delaying posting and taking my time. But I can't work on it right now. I have a bum arm, kids starting school, and immediately right now, an office full of kids designing tombstones for the front yard.
Rar.
Damn it.
Onwards and upwards anyway -- my mouth is too big. The kids start school on Monday, and already I am baking gluten-free stuff for them to accommodate the first day. Kindergartners in Fang's class get to hunt around the school for a gingerbread man, and so of course I am now scrambling to find a viable recipe and make some up, without it looking like I'm doing this because it is supposed to be a surprise. I've got a late night ahead of me on Sunday.
Today will be my first contact with Pickles' teacher, since she's a fourth grader. There's not too much prep at that age, other than warning the teacher off about using flour tortillas for science projects and please FFS you really do need to tell me about classroom events so I can provide her with food, because no, it's not all right for her to have to sit there and watch everyone else have fun. Having a food allergy or intolerance does not automatically mean they don't get to have fun too and it just has to suck to be them.
Er...sorry. I've had some run-ins with care providers in the past,who were insulted that my child had the nerve to have a food issue on their watch -- like we owed the care provider a better immune system than that!
Why yes, I did tell her to take a flying leap, why do you ask?
Anyhoo, it's time to start all that up again. But you want to know something really nifty? The GF community has made such terrific strides is making the food industry aware of the condition and the diet that mainstream companies like Land of Lakes and Betty Crocker are now producing mixes and recipes and such. Yay!
The next step is to educate educators that YES YOU DO HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS. It's not an anomaly. And you think we have it bad? The kids with shellfish and peanut and soy allergies -- real, honest allergies -- are so much worse off. Poor kids can't even eat at the same lunch table as their friends. GF kids just need to not eat wheat, rye and barley. The kids severely allergic to peanuts can't even be in the same room!
Story-wise, I'm bogged. I'm seriously bogged down. This was supposed to be about a whole gang of people, and it's really come down to just two. I like it that way, and it apparently reads fine from what readers have told me, but it's not where I thought it would be. Weird, that. Stories have a way of working themselves out, but it's unexpected and maybe disappointing to a few people. I don't know. I guess I just have to finish it first.
I did read over a great deal of it, several chapters back, and it works pretty well until the latest ones. The problem here is that I have serious story fatigue and its beginning to show. So I am delaying posting and taking my time. But I can't work on it right now. I have a bum arm, kids starting school, and immediately right now, an office full of kids designing tombstones for the front yard.
Rar.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday
I was going to haiku this morning's entry, but my shoulder hurts too much to think that well.
The mystery of the house fire is solved: a 'flammable liquid' thrown at the house when the current owners weren't in residence. See, the thing about having a lodge in an area where everyone who lives there year round can hardly stay afloat, is that you are throwing your privilege in their face. No one likes to be treated like a stupid, penniless local. People take offense, and they get their revenge.
The a/c is allegedly being repaired today. If we don't see anyone by 10am this morning, we're getting on the phone until someone does show up. Meantime, I'm going to have to heat up the house by doing the laundry and dishes. I can't put it off any longer.
And the story, which I've had to put off for three days now while we escaped the house and the girls camped in my office because it's so cold down here? Maybe I'll even manage the story again.
For now, though, it's upstairs again for more ibuprofen. It would be nice if I could take this shoulder to a doctor. But I can't really afford to pay $25 for a 90 minute wait, all for the privilege of being told my insurance company doesn't believe treating this is medically necessary and so I can just go home and tough it out. Meantime, other people in other countries can go to the doctor without fear of being ripped off and know they will be dealt with fairly and their shoulders treated properly. Overseas I would be a patient. Here, I am a wallet with legs.
And that's all my politics for now.
The mystery of the house fire is solved: a 'flammable liquid' thrown at the house when the current owners weren't in residence. See, the thing about having a lodge in an area where everyone who lives there year round can hardly stay afloat, is that you are throwing your privilege in their face. No one likes to be treated like a stupid, penniless local. People take offense, and they get their revenge.
The a/c is allegedly being repaired today. If we don't see anyone by 10am this morning, we're getting on the phone until someone does show up. Meantime, I'm going to have to heat up the house by doing the laundry and dishes. I can't put it off any longer.
And the story, which I've had to put off for three days now while we escaped the house and the girls camped in my office because it's so cold down here? Maybe I'll even manage the story again.
For now, though, it's upstairs again for more ibuprofen. It would be nice if I could take this shoulder to a doctor. But I can't really afford to pay $25 for a 90 minute wait, all for the privilege of being told my insurance company doesn't believe treating this is medically necessary and so I can just go home and tough it out. Meantime, other people in other countries can go to the doctor without fear of being ripped off and know they will be dealt with fairly and their shoulders treated properly. Overseas I would be a patient. Here, I am a wallet with legs.
And that's all my politics for now.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Road Trip #1
So the air conditioning went out on Thursday night, and of course it did, because it's muggy and August and therefore completely unbearable here in the DC area. There's a good reason foreign governments have always considered DC a tropical posting for their diplomats. It just plain sucks to be here in August.
Naturally the a/c went out, and even better! The part necessary won't be available until tomorrow.
We've been sweating it out since then, which really means we're driving around a lot. The car at least has a/c. And so yesterday on this lark we ended up driving out to West Virginia to see my husband's family's old hunting lodge/vacation home -- and I use those terms loosely. It had a roof and four walls and a semi-operational bathroom and that's it. Not even potable water. But after 18 years of marriage, I had never actually seen the place. So why the hell not, on a day when it's too hot to stay home and too miserable to go anywhere outside? So we went. He hadn't been there in 25 years.
Like most things 25 years later, it was completely different. For one thing, it was burnt out. From the looks of things, a kitchen fire or a kerosene heater fire had taken out the entire backside and interior of the little house. It was abandoned, sitting forlorn and alone on its little hill. It was originally built in the 1920's -- we think -- a little four-square stuck on a shaved-off top of a hill, with a barn and fields on the other side of the little dirt road (now barely paved). All of that is overgrown. My husband says the barn collapsed while he was still being dragged up there on weekends, but what is now forest was once fields and ponds where he dug up the fossils that now litter our display shelves for them. Not everything that happened up there was boring and mildly threatening to a child.
The family friend who shot the furnace was, of course, but I digress.
The girls loved seeing this little piece of their father's history, so that they could get just that much of him into perspective. They peppered him with questions and made him tell stories until he was cross-eyed. It made me remember that we don't experience our parents as people until long after they have need of it, and that this is one of the cruel realities of parenting. You're everything to them, but you are also nothing. And it's necessary, so that they can become themselves unencumbered.
We're taking Grandma out to dinner today.
Naturally the a/c went out, and even better! The part necessary won't be available until tomorrow.
We've been sweating it out since then, which really means we're driving around a lot. The car at least has a/c. And so yesterday on this lark we ended up driving out to West Virginia to see my husband's family's old hunting lodge/vacation home -- and I use those terms loosely. It had a roof and four walls and a semi-operational bathroom and that's it. Not even potable water. But after 18 years of marriage, I had never actually seen the place. So why the hell not, on a day when it's too hot to stay home and too miserable to go anywhere outside? So we went. He hadn't been there in 25 years.
Like most things 25 years later, it was completely different. For one thing, it was burnt out. From the looks of things, a kitchen fire or a kerosene heater fire had taken out the entire backside and interior of the little house. It was abandoned, sitting forlorn and alone on its little hill. It was originally built in the 1920's -- we think -- a little four-square stuck on a shaved-off top of a hill, with a barn and fields on the other side of the little dirt road (now barely paved). All of that is overgrown. My husband says the barn collapsed while he was still being dragged up there on weekends, but what is now forest was once fields and ponds where he dug up the fossils that now litter our display shelves for them. Not everything that happened up there was boring and mildly threatening to a child.
The family friend who shot the furnace was, of course, but I digress.
The girls loved seeing this little piece of their father's history, so that they could get just that much of him into perspective. They peppered him with questions and made him tell stories until he was cross-eyed. It made me remember that we don't experience our parents as people until long after they have need of it, and that this is one of the cruel realities of parenting. You're everything to them, but you are also nothing. And it's necessary, so that they can become themselves unencumbered.
We're taking Grandma out to dinner today.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Two Confessions
Want to hear the first one?
I love to garden. I love the smell of the dirt and the feel of it in my hands and planting the seeds and the plants growing all around me. I love seeing all the flowers and vegetables all blooming and ripe and ready. I love it.
Want to hear the other confession? I suck at it.
Oh, well. It makes me happy, and I keep trying, and so there you go. It is what it is. The worst thing of course is that cheesy metaphors are everywhere and it's almost required that I use this to make a Point about Something Important. Really, no. I'm not going there. I'm just thinking about this because I'm irritated that my pumpkin vines are only producing male flowers. The vine needs to produce both genders in order to get a pumpkin going, which probably says something about the nastiness of my so-called garden soil. Does fill dirt count as soil? Probably not. Thus, no punkins this year.
Figured out the snap pea thing though! That's a first for me, so there's something. That, and dwarf cukes. Not bad for a poseur who doesn't know what the hell she's doing.
The other reason I'm thinking about gardening today is that the Spouse is making noises about wanting to xeriscape the front yard. Now, we have a Colonial style house in a Colonial style neighborhood, white pickets fences and the whole 9 yards. Everyone else in the entire neighborhood has a grassy front yard of some disposition or another, because that's how it's done around here. This being a neighborhood with an HOA, we gotta do it how it's done or they gangs up on us and floods us a mailbox with Letters. So I'm casting around for ideas on how to make the Spouse's dream of never again using the $400 lawnmower come true, while also keeping the mailbox free of the dreaded Letters (I'm waiting for HOA's to discover the Howler -- then we're really bleeped). So, it's out and about on the IntarWeb to find formal Colonial garden ideas. I figure if we keep the requisite amount of grass on the yard -- there's always a Requisite Square Footage -- we should be able to get it down to weed-whacker-size so it's like, what...10 minutes of mowing? Swishy-swish and we're done.
Ironically (in the HOA's eyes, not ours), he wants to keep the backyard mostly grass so the kids have somewhere to play.
Should I talk about writing today? What's to talk about? The story has taken over my life, rules my every thought, and makes me really yell-y. And my shoulder hurts. I pulled something.
Ta-da! Updated.
I love to garden. I love the smell of the dirt and the feel of it in my hands and planting the seeds and the plants growing all around me. I love seeing all the flowers and vegetables all blooming and ripe and ready. I love it.
Want to hear the other confession? I suck at it.
Oh, well. It makes me happy, and I keep trying, and so there you go. It is what it is. The worst thing of course is that cheesy metaphors are everywhere and it's almost required that I use this to make a Point about Something Important. Really, no. I'm not going there. I'm just thinking about this because I'm irritated that my pumpkin vines are only producing male flowers. The vine needs to produce both genders in order to get a pumpkin going, which probably says something about the nastiness of my so-called garden soil. Does fill dirt count as soil? Probably not. Thus, no punkins this year.
Figured out the snap pea thing though! That's a first for me, so there's something. That, and dwarf cukes. Not bad for a poseur who doesn't know what the hell she's doing.
The other reason I'm thinking about gardening today is that the Spouse is making noises about wanting to xeriscape the front yard. Now, we have a Colonial style house in a Colonial style neighborhood, white pickets fences and the whole 9 yards. Everyone else in the entire neighborhood has a grassy front yard of some disposition or another, because that's how it's done around here. This being a neighborhood with an HOA, we gotta do it how it's done or they gangs up on us and floods us a mailbox with Letters. So I'm casting around for ideas on how to make the Spouse's dream of never again using the $400 lawnmower come true, while also keeping the mailbox free of the dreaded Letters (I'm waiting for HOA's to discover the Howler -- then we're really bleeped). So, it's out and about on the IntarWeb to find formal Colonial garden ideas. I figure if we keep the requisite amount of grass on the yard -- there's always a Requisite Square Footage -- we should be able to get it down to weed-whacker-size so it's like, what...10 minutes of mowing? Swishy-swish and we're done.
Ironically (in the HOA's eyes, not ours), he wants to keep the backyard mostly grass so the kids have somewhere to play.
Should I talk about writing today? What's to talk about? The story has taken over my life, rules my every thought, and makes me really yell-y. And my shoulder hurts. I pulled something.
Ta-da! Updated.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Excelsior!
I'm having fun with a Superhero Catch-Phrase Generator this morning. It lets me say things like,
I am the Mighty Vitamin-Fortified Conqueror of Ill Will!
or,
I am the Robust Bio-Mechanical Power Drill of Vengeance!
Oh, yes. It's all good times from here.
I am the Mighty Vitamin-Fortified Conqueror of Ill Will!
or,
I am the Robust Bio-Mechanical Power Drill of Vengeance!
Oh, yes. It's all good times from here.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Oh, I just want to sit and zone today. Just relax with a bottomless cup of coffee in front of the computer, and surf from blogs to Christmas Tree sites (we need a new one badly!) to fansites to Photobucket and back again. And then do it again.
Fat chance.
...
...
And if I add anything else here, it will just be complaining, or detailing nothing, so I'll just shush and get on with it. *wink*
Fat chance.
...
...
And if I add anything else here, it will just be complaining, or detailing nothing, so I'll just shush and get on with it. *wink*
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Routine
So, today's the day I can no longer avoid it. I have to fish or cut bait with this practice story.
It is, conceivably, somewhere I can just leave it. The two leads are together. I can just stop if I want to. I might disappoint some people, but one's imagination can fill in the blanks by now, if that's what I need.
But I'm not sure it is. I think I personally might need to see this through to the end, to my own satisfaction. I know that I have finished a section of the overall piece, but I'm thinking that I need to go ahead and write the rest of what's lurking in my head.
While this might seem like a no-brainer, it's actually not. Because while I do this, I'm not writing original work, and therefore there is no hope for me to get paid.
On the other hand (there's always another one), with a little tweaking I could probably turn this into original work, and it's teaching me a lot about handling a large plot. So it's hardly time wasted.
You can probably see where this is going. I'll do it, but I think a bit more slowly and carefully. I've felt for the past several months like this story has become my life, and anything I do outside it is dream-time, to borrow a concept. It's just taken over everything I have, and I'm not entirely comfortable with that either. That is probably the biggest source of my disquiet: I have not created time to work on it and then time for everything else. No boundaries, no time management, no routine, no schedule. I'm really good at chaos. But I stink at creating routine. There is something about it both comforting and punishing, and I have no explanation for that outside of petty self-indulgence. Might as well call a spade 'a spade' and get on with fixing it.
So I'm trying to figure out The Routine this morning so I can finally get on with this thing. I've heard tell that routines actually stimulate the brain. This will be pretty much my first time, so I'll let you know.
It is, conceivably, somewhere I can just leave it. The two leads are together. I can just stop if I want to. I might disappoint some people, but one's imagination can fill in the blanks by now, if that's what I need.
But I'm not sure it is. I think I personally might need to see this through to the end, to my own satisfaction. I know that I have finished a section of the overall piece, but I'm thinking that I need to go ahead and write the rest of what's lurking in my head.
While this might seem like a no-brainer, it's actually not. Because while I do this, I'm not writing original work, and therefore there is no hope for me to get paid.
On the other hand (there's always another one), with a little tweaking I could probably turn this into original work, and it's teaching me a lot about handling a large plot. So it's hardly time wasted.
You can probably see where this is going. I'll do it, but I think a bit more slowly and carefully. I've felt for the past several months like this story has become my life, and anything I do outside it is dream-time, to borrow a concept. It's just taken over everything I have, and I'm not entirely comfortable with that either. That is probably the biggest source of my disquiet: I have not created time to work on it and then time for everything else. No boundaries, no time management, no routine, no schedule. I'm really good at chaos. But I stink at creating routine. There is something about it both comforting and punishing, and I have no explanation for that outside of petty self-indulgence. Might as well call a spade 'a spade' and get on with fixing it.
So I'm trying to figure out The Routine this morning so I can finally get on with this thing. I've heard tell that routines actually stimulate the brain. This will be pretty much my first time, so I'll let you know.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Well, it didn't work. Didn't get the chapter really finished, and didn't manage the bathrooms or the vacuum either.
I did manage most of the chapter, and some dishes, and made some potato salad and did some laundry. I also kept a five year old and a six year old amused for the most of the day, went to the grocery store for potatoes (and I'll be going right back again today for the cilantro I forgot, and a turkey and a leg of lamb -- might as well pay the sales tax only once).
But I'm not getting into that 'groove', that sense of the story being something I'm documenting instead of making up. There is a sort-of otherworldly story zone I can access sometimes -- only, regrettably, tantalizingly sometimes -- that brings me so fully into the story that the thing will write itself. I looked for it yesterday.
But that's just not how the little bastard works.
No, it demands that I sit and zone doing nonsense things in front of the computer for an hour before it will peek out of my subconscious and let me in the Super-Secret Decoder Doorway to Magic, or whatever. In other words, I have to be relaxed to access it. And it's not relaxing when I have a few brain cells listening out for small children (who are painting and running in and out of the house with the paint on their feet) and a husband who works from home too, and the phone, and the dryer so I know it's time to fold 500 or so towels. But I'm too tired at night to write the way it really pleases me to write.
Lordy. I just read that over. Do you think I complain enough? I'm not entirely sure...
Anyway, today -- again -- I do have a plan: pick up my oldest from camp and listen to all her stories and see all her pictures and projects, and feed her. I don't expect to get to too much story today. Today is Pickles' big day.
:)
I did manage most of the chapter, and some dishes, and made some potato salad and did some laundry. I also kept a five year old and a six year old amused for the most of the day, went to the grocery store for potatoes (and I'll be going right back again today for the cilantro I forgot, and a turkey and a leg of lamb -- might as well pay the sales tax only once).
But I'm not getting into that 'groove', that sense of the story being something I'm documenting instead of making up. There is a sort-of otherworldly story zone I can access sometimes -- only, regrettably, tantalizingly sometimes -- that brings me so fully into the story that the thing will write itself. I looked for it yesterday.
But that's just not how the little bastard works.
No, it demands that I sit and zone doing nonsense things in front of the computer for an hour before it will peek out of my subconscious and let me in the Super-Secret Decoder Doorway to Magic, or whatever. In other words, I have to be relaxed to access it. And it's not relaxing when I have a few brain cells listening out for small children (who are painting and running in and out of the house with the paint on their feet) and a husband who works from home too, and the phone, and the dryer so I know it's time to fold 500 or so towels. But I'm too tired at night to write the way it really pleases me to write.
Lordy. I just read that over. Do you think I complain enough? I'm not entirely sure...
Anyway, today -- again -- I do have a plan: pick up my oldest from camp and listen to all her stories and see all her pictures and projects, and feed her. I don't expect to get to too much story today. Today is Pickles' big day.
:)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Aaannnnnddddd...
One helping of breakfast later and I'm feeling a little saner. Funny, how HALT works: Hungry? Angry? Lonely? Tired? For me, it's almost always hungry that does it.
Anyhoo, for anyone wanting to know, today is Day Two at the older one's summer camp, and I haven't heard from anyone about anything, even after the vicious thunderstorms of last night, so I'm very excited. I hope I hear only, or at least mostly, good things when we pick her up tomorrow morning.
Today's writing, like every other day's writing, is going to get done (if at all) in between five loads of laundry, two loads of dishes, four bathroom cleanings and the vacuuming of 2,800 square feet of residence. I have no idea how I'm going to accomplish that, because my usual instinct is to forget the housekeeping and do the writing. But there are people living here with me who feel it should be the other way around.
Which brings me to the idea of protecting my writing time. Actually, the appropriate question is, "What writing time?" I write in-between: In-between doctor's appointments, in-between grocery runs, in-between requests for snacks and meals and the need to put something in the dryer and the bathroom gaining sentience and attacking us. I write four or five sentences, and flip the burgers. I write two more, and help with homework. And so on. Of course my work would be better if it wasn't like this. But life has to be lived anyway, regardless of my ambitions. Instead of complaining, I thought I'd make a stab at working it out -- and I have no idea if I will feel this hopeful about it even tomorrow, or even this afternoon. I can only do what I can do, in this moment. For better or worse, that's how I operate because if I don't do it that way, everything spins loose.
So, with that in mind, today's plan is to pound out the rest of the current scene this morning, and then vacuum and do bathrooms. If I can manage that, I'll consider myself very accomplished.
There is another blog I like to read, not for the fabulous recipes, but purely for the author's attitude. Her keyword is Yes. I really like the possibility of Yes. Yes to getting all my stuff done today.
Anyhoo, for anyone wanting to know, today is Day Two at the older one's summer camp, and I haven't heard from anyone about anything, even after the vicious thunderstorms of last night, so I'm very excited. I hope I hear only, or at least mostly, good things when we pick her up tomorrow morning.
Today's writing, like every other day's writing, is going to get done (if at all) in between five loads of laundry, two loads of dishes, four bathroom cleanings and the vacuuming of 2,800 square feet of residence. I have no idea how I'm going to accomplish that, because my usual instinct is to forget the housekeeping and do the writing. But there are people living here with me who feel it should be the other way around.
Which brings me to the idea of protecting my writing time. Actually, the appropriate question is, "What writing time?" I write in-between: In-between doctor's appointments, in-between grocery runs, in-between requests for snacks and meals and the need to put something in the dryer and the bathroom gaining sentience and attacking us. I write four or five sentences, and flip the burgers. I write two more, and help with homework. And so on. Of course my work would be better if it wasn't like this. But life has to be lived anyway, regardless of my ambitions. Instead of complaining, I thought I'd make a stab at working it out -- and I have no idea if I will feel this hopeful about it even tomorrow, or even this afternoon. I can only do what I can do, in this moment. For better or worse, that's how I operate because if I don't do it that way, everything spins loose.
So, with that in mind, today's plan is to pound out the rest of the current scene this morning, and then vacuum and do bathrooms. If I can manage that, I'll consider myself very accomplished.
There is another blog I like to read, not for the fabulous recipes, but purely for the author's attitude. Her keyword is Yes. I really like the possibility of Yes. Yes to getting all my stuff done today.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Showing my work to people has left me with a certain level of performance anxiety. I completely own that this is my garbage I need to learn to deal with. But it's left me a little (ok, a lot) nervous about actually doing the work and completing the story. I said I would never serialize again. What I now know I meant is, I will never again show anyone incomplete work.
What was I thinking?
I have that very typical anxiety: now that I'm getting to the end, what if people don't like it, and don't like the way I've written it? It's very beginner-ish, isn't it, to admit that? And another thing: That sounds pathetic. I know it. I know I need to just suck it up and work, and screw what people think. Well, we'll have to live with me being a big baby, then.
Basically, what happens in the story is what happens, irrespective of me, or the readers, or the guy down the street. That's just what happens. That's never the part I'm nervous about. I know what happens.
No, I'm having to adjust myself to acknowledge that other people also have ideas and expectations and hopes for the story. This is running up against my almost crippling emotional need to seem pleasant at all times -- because I'm insane, really -- and it's what's creating the performance anxiety. It's not that I begrudge anyone their opinion or the expression of it to their friends and neighbors if they choose. Hell, if they're talking about my story, they're at least talking about my story! As far as I am concerned they can knock themselves out!
But it is a new and somewhat withering atmosphere to work in. If I want publication I have to learn to deal with this. But maybe timing really is everything. I've shown unfinished work, essentially in its first draft, to a lot of people. I'm not ungrateful that they have fallen all over themselves to tell me how good it is, and how much potential it has. How can anyone be ungrateful for that? But when I lose confidence, I tend to worry that it will come across as though I'm not grateful, or I don't believe people, the implication being: if I don't take so-and-so's praise and live by it, I'm being a big jerk because I'm just a comment whore.
People, all writers are comment whores. So are actors and directors and painters and sculptors, even chefs. No one creates in a void. As I pointed out to someone the other day: specific praise is nice, but did you actually like it? Did it seem good to you?
I know what I was thinking. I was thinking I write too slow and that people would lose interest if they had to wait for the whole thing to be finished, or worse yet I would lose interest waiting for the whole thing to be finished. So I rushed chapters out there, and people have graciously told me they love it, and I grew rather addicted to that praise, and now there's the threat my fix won't ever happen again and--
Insane. Batshit Crazy. Now I understand the need to trust not only myself, not only my characters. I needed to trust them and me and my readers, that all three of us would show back up at the right time in the right way, if the story was compelling enough for all of us to do so. I'm not angry that I'm learning this lesson at this point, because what the hell -- at least I'm learning it. At least, I hope I'm learning it. Time will tell. No, I just wish things a little different.
I wish I wrote faster, and I wish I wasn't nervous.
What was I thinking?
I have that very typical anxiety: now that I'm getting to the end, what if people don't like it, and don't like the way I've written it? It's very beginner-ish, isn't it, to admit that? And another thing: That sounds pathetic. I know it. I know I need to just suck it up and work, and screw what people think. Well, we'll have to live with me being a big baby, then.
Basically, what happens in the story is what happens, irrespective of me, or the readers, or the guy down the street. That's just what happens. That's never the part I'm nervous about. I know what happens.
No, I'm having to adjust myself to acknowledge that other people also have ideas and expectations and hopes for the story. This is running up against my almost crippling emotional need to seem pleasant at all times -- because I'm insane, really -- and it's what's creating the performance anxiety. It's not that I begrudge anyone their opinion or the expression of it to their friends and neighbors if they choose. Hell, if they're talking about my story, they're at least talking about my story! As far as I am concerned they can knock themselves out!
But it is a new and somewhat withering atmosphere to work in. If I want publication I have to learn to deal with this. But maybe timing really is everything. I've shown unfinished work, essentially in its first draft, to a lot of people. I'm not ungrateful that they have fallen all over themselves to tell me how good it is, and how much potential it has. How can anyone be ungrateful for that? But when I lose confidence, I tend to worry that it will come across as though I'm not grateful, or I don't believe people, the implication being: if I don't take so-and-so's praise and live by it, I'm being a big jerk because I'm just a comment whore.
People, all writers are comment whores. So are actors and directors and painters and sculptors, even chefs. No one creates in a void. As I pointed out to someone the other day: specific praise is nice, but did you actually like it? Did it seem good to you?
I know what I was thinking. I was thinking I write too slow and that people would lose interest if they had to wait for the whole thing to be finished, or worse yet I would lose interest waiting for the whole thing to be finished. So I rushed chapters out there, and people have graciously told me they love it, and I grew rather addicted to that praise, and now there's the threat my fix won't ever happen again and--
Insane. Batshit Crazy. Now I understand the need to trust not only myself, not only my characters. I needed to trust them and me and my readers, that all three of us would show back up at the right time in the right way, if the story was compelling enough for all of us to do so. I'm not angry that I'm learning this lesson at this point, because what the hell -- at least I'm learning it. At least, I hope I'm learning it. Time will tell. No, I just wish things a little different.
I wish I wrote faster, and I wish I wasn't nervous.
Friday, August 7, 2009
It's Friday! Only two more working days til the workweek starts!
*snort* So you can see where my attitude is today. My oldest is about to embark on her very first trip to sleep-away camp. We drive her over on Sunday and pick her up on Wednesday, and I am already beside myself with worry. I should mention here that my children, and indeed the whole family, have Celiac Disease, which rather than burden you with Science, just means she can't eat wheat, rye or barley. In cafeteria terms, this can be a nightmare. The camp people have assured me they can handle special diets and so we've decided to trust them at their word.
That, and there's a salad bar at every meal.
A little cross contamination won't do too much damage; she's been gluten-free for 7 years now and is as healthy as a horse. She can manage all right and they'll call me if she gets really sick. They sort of have to! But I'm not going to deny her a normal 9 year old's existence because her digestive system works a little differently. And as she grows we both have to learn to handle these situations anyway.
So it's off to the store for flip-flops for the showers at camp, and finding flashlights and arranging rides to the camp and all that stuff. My equally brilliant younger one is just glad the sister will be out of the way for a few days. As long as she has someone to play with, she couldn't really care less. No jealousy, at least not until we start to drive away. Then, yeah. Probably!
And the Celiac thing is a nice way to avoid my real fears, the ones all moms get, that our babies will not have a fabulous time and will come home in tears because the other girls were mean or just exclusive or our children just didn't really hit it off with anyone. Having been that daughter myself, who wasn't cool and wasn't popular and didn't know how to make friends easily, my daughter's upcoming trip is dredging up all of my stuff.
My older daughter is a social diamond. She's the kid the teachers put new students next to, because she is compassionate and funny and loves meeting new people and being helpful and kind. She is f'ing brilliant, is my kid! And she'll do just fine at camp. The only wreck here is me. She'll be fine. I'll be fine. It'll be fine.
Just fine.
*snort* So you can see where my attitude is today. My oldest is about to embark on her very first trip to sleep-away camp. We drive her over on Sunday and pick her up on Wednesday, and I am already beside myself with worry. I should mention here that my children, and indeed the whole family, have Celiac Disease, which rather than burden you with Science, just means she can't eat wheat, rye or barley. In cafeteria terms, this can be a nightmare. The camp people have assured me they can handle special diets and so we've decided to trust them at their word.
That, and there's a salad bar at every meal.
A little cross contamination won't do too much damage; she's been gluten-free for 7 years now and is as healthy as a horse. She can manage all right and they'll call me if she gets really sick. They sort of have to! But I'm not going to deny her a normal 9 year old's existence because her digestive system works a little differently. And as she grows we both have to learn to handle these situations anyway.
So it's off to the store for flip-flops for the showers at camp, and finding flashlights and arranging rides to the camp and all that stuff. My equally brilliant younger one is just glad the sister will be out of the way for a few days. As long as she has someone to play with, she couldn't really care less. No jealousy, at least not until we start to drive away. Then, yeah. Probably!
And the Celiac thing is a nice way to avoid my real fears, the ones all moms get, that our babies will not have a fabulous time and will come home in tears because the other girls were mean or just exclusive or our children just didn't really hit it off with anyone. Having been that daughter myself, who wasn't cool and wasn't popular and didn't know how to make friends easily, my daughter's upcoming trip is dredging up all of my stuff.
My older daughter is a social diamond. She's the kid the teachers put new students next to, because she is compassionate and funny and loves meeting new people and being helpful and kind. She is f'ing brilliant, is my kid! And she'll do just fine at camp. The only wreck here is me. She'll be fine. I'll be fine. It'll be fine.
Just fine.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Herbs and Break Time
So today's project is designing one of my character's pharmacopoeia.
I've hit this point in the practice story where I can reasonably break it off into another chunk. I think, if I'm going to tell a story about approximately 10 years of a person's life, I need to break that down into manageable chunks. So I sort of envisioned it as a trilogy, and I think I can safely start us off on Part 3 now. of course I haven't mentioned that yet. There is the small part of me not so sure. But the Journey part of the story is really over now, so there's no point in hanging around in a story with that title. I don't know. It'll work out as I write it, I guess.
Meantime, one of my leads is an herbalist whose skills are about to come into play, so I am having to drop everything for a couple of days and look some stuff up. It's also a nice break from actually writing prose. My brain is feeling a little rickety narrative-wise. I know what happens next, but I'm a little worn out for getting that on the page. I don't know why either, unless Julia Cameron is right and sometimes the well runs dry. Either way, I can't write a character knowing her herbal business if I don't have at least a rudimentary understanding as well. Nothing huge, mind you. I don't need to train as a homeopath. Just enough that I know not to have her give some well-known poison as a cure!
I'm reminded of the late, great Rodney Dangerfield, who when asked if he would leave the hospital soon after his heart surgery, noted that if it went badly he'd be out fastest of all. Bless him, he was right, too.
So I'm trying to put together a cheat sheet for myself as a way of drilling this somewhat dry information into my head. It's interesting, but I'm having trouble retaining it because there are no human beings involved. My mom called me right: I only care if there's a body attached. A clinician, I'm not.
Onward, the power of the internets! And, um, some books and stuff too!
And one non-sequiter little zinger courtesy of the late Paul Lynde: asked if one tips in a motel the same as a hotel, he asked, "For half an hour?!"
Go watch old 'Hollywood Squares' episodes and enjoy for yourself.
I've hit this point in the practice story where I can reasonably break it off into another chunk. I think, if I'm going to tell a story about approximately 10 years of a person's life, I need to break that down into manageable chunks. So I sort of envisioned it as a trilogy, and I think I can safely start us off on Part 3 now. of course I haven't mentioned that yet. There is the small part of me not so sure. But the Journey part of the story is really over now, so there's no point in hanging around in a story with that title. I don't know. It'll work out as I write it, I guess.
Meantime, one of my leads is an herbalist whose skills are about to come into play, so I am having to drop everything for a couple of days and look some stuff up. It's also a nice break from actually writing prose. My brain is feeling a little rickety narrative-wise. I know what happens next, but I'm a little worn out for getting that on the page. I don't know why either, unless Julia Cameron is right and sometimes the well runs dry. Either way, I can't write a character knowing her herbal business if I don't have at least a rudimentary understanding as well. Nothing huge, mind you. I don't need to train as a homeopath. Just enough that I know not to have her give some well-known poison as a cure!
I'm reminded of the late, great Rodney Dangerfield, who when asked if he would leave the hospital soon after his heart surgery, noted that if it went badly he'd be out fastest of all. Bless him, he was right, too.
So I'm trying to put together a cheat sheet for myself as a way of drilling this somewhat dry information into my head. It's interesting, but I'm having trouble retaining it because there are no human beings involved. My mom called me right: I only care if there's a body attached. A clinician, I'm not.
Onward, the power of the internets! And, um, some books and stuff too!
And one non-sequiter little zinger courtesy of the late Paul Lynde: asked if one tips in a motel the same as a hotel, he asked, "For half an hour?!"
Go watch old 'Hollywood Squares' episodes and enjoy for yourself.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Snappy title here...when I think of one.
What follows is my own personal version of a pep talk. I have no idea why I have the insatiable urge to say this to myself in public, but I do. Just bear with me. What the hell, it's my blog after all...
I love being a martyr.
I don't mean it in the sense of getting myself blown up so I can enter Heaven faster. No, I like the psychological martyrdom, that allows me to crawl up on a Cross while not actually doing anything worthwhile with myself. Specifically, the kind of intellectual maneuvering that allows me to think I'm trying to achieve something, when in fact I'm hamstringing myself by setting up goals that are too lofty, or by making clearly ludicrous assumptions about how my background leaves me unsuitable to write.
Listen, if part of Tom Clancy's prep was selling insurance out of his garage -- and trust me, he did -- then surely as a former business writer I've got a shot too.
It's taken me 25 years, but I have finally managed to acknowledge that I am more frightened of success than failure. If I succeed at something, then I have to step up my game again, and work again, and risk failure again. Holy crap, I have to do it all over again!
But if I insist that everything I do means nothing, then I never risk my efforts actually meaning something. If I insist that I have no skills, then I never risk that I do have them and that I'm wasting them needlessly. Worse, this mindset allows me to ignore that as I practice doing things, I can actually get better at them. Hell, some things may even get easier!
Admittedly a lot of things won't, damn it.
But when I insist I can't do something, for whatever creative reason I cook up, I don't have to discover whether I am right or wrong. I can just martyr myself to my fear and stay cozy. Mmmmm...cozy.
I'm not too proud to admit that's a viable option. It really is. I can be just as good a person deciding not to pursue this as I will be if I do. Of course, I will be an unpublished person, and that's enough to make me think twice. I don't want to get to the end of my life and have my only accomplishments be changed diapers and a mean chicken enchilada (no, it's really mean -- I can't work out the heartburn thing yet). I just...I don't want discomfort and I don't want calcification. So something has to give and I think for today it's the refusing-to-fail thing.
I love being a martyr.
I don't mean it in the sense of getting myself blown up so I can enter Heaven faster. No, I like the psychological martyrdom, that allows me to crawl up on a Cross while not actually doing anything worthwhile with myself. Specifically, the kind of intellectual maneuvering that allows me to think I'm trying to achieve something, when in fact I'm hamstringing myself by setting up goals that are too lofty, or by making clearly ludicrous assumptions about how my background leaves me unsuitable to write.
Listen, if part of Tom Clancy's prep was selling insurance out of his garage -- and trust me, he did -- then surely as a former business writer I've got a shot too.
It's taken me 25 years, but I have finally managed to acknowledge that I am more frightened of success than failure. If I succeed at something, then I have to step up my game again, and work again, and risk failure again. Holy crap, I have to do it all over again!
But if I insist that everything I do means nothing, then I never risk my efforts actually meaning something. If I insist that I have no skills, then I never risk that I do have them and that I'm wasting them needlessly. Worse, this mindset allows me to ignore that as I practice doing things, I can actually get better at them. Hell, some things may even get easier!
Admittedly a lot of things won't, damn it.
But when I insist I can't do something, for whatever creative reason I cook up, I don't have to discover whether I am right or wrong. I can just martyr myself to my fear and stay cozy. Mmmmm...cozy.
I'm not too proud to admit that's a viable option. It really is. I can be just as good a person deciding not to pursue this as I will be if I do. Of course, I will be an unpublished person, and that's enough to make me think twice. I don't want to get to the end of my life and have my only accomplishments be changed diapers and a mean chicken enchilada (no, it's really mean -- I can't work out the heartburn thing yet). I just...I don't want discomfort and I don't want calcification. So something has to give and I think for today it's the refusing-to-fail thing.
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