Tomorrow, my sister is taking me PEN shopping! Yes, I'm excited about it. I haven't written with a pen in so long, and that's something I'm changing, practicing and relearning the proper way to compose with pen and paper.
I'm pathetically happy about that.
I'm also pathetically happy about what The Great Tea Debacle has done for me. I always considered myself a disciplined writer, one who could start, excute and finish full-length novels. I've written 12, after all, and In An Ageless Sky is #13. But the one thing I didn't do before this contest sprang forth (that'll teach me to challenge Pete after hearing how he and Lori challenged each other in the past), was write DAILY without fail.
Most of us have some form of "life" and often that gets in the way of a lot of things. Work, life, hobbies, the need for food and sleeping - these can all take up space that make you go ahead and take a "day off" from writing now and again. And I was one of those writers who could talk herself into not writing "just today" to take a break. Then "today" would turn in to "okay, I'll pick it back up next Monday". One day off writing turns into another, then the next one is even easier. Only that don't get no novel done!
Sure, it does eventually, as my 12 novels will attest. But it's slower, like a novel and a half a year (when you add in edits and polishing) and that's no career in writing!
So when I realized that, during this Tea Debacle, I'd been writing EVERY. DAY. I was made quite happy. I'm even writing during times I'd normally sit on the couch and stare at the TV for no good reason.
Pathetic? Okay, I don't mind that label. I'm a happy pathetic!
And here's something even more pathetic:
Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.
Cracked it open, cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now,
Just now I cracked it open,
Cracked it open just now.
It was leaky, it was leaky,
It was leaky just now,
Just now I found it leaky,
It was leaky just now.
Used it anyway, used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now,
Just now I used it anyway,
Used it anyway just now.
Stained my fingers, stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now,
Just now I stained my fingers,
Stained my fingers just now.
Tried to blot it, tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now,
Just now I tried to blot it,
Tried to blot it just now.
Made it messy, made it messy,
Made it messy just now,
Just now I made it messy,
Made it messy just now.
Tried white-out, tried white-out,
Tried white-out just now,
Just now I tried some white-out,
Tried white-out just now.
I can't read it, I can't read it,
I can't read it just now,
Just now I cannot read it,
I can't read it just now.
Tore the paper, tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now,
Just now I tore the paper,
Tore the paper just now.
Word count suffered, word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now,
Just now my word count suffered,
Word count suffered just now.
Tried a pencil, tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now,
Just now I tried a pencil,
Tried a pencil just now.
Lead keeps breaking, lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking, just now,
Just now my lead keeps breaking,
Lead keeps breaking just now.
Used a curse word, used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now,
Just now it I used a curse word,
Used a curse word just now.
Must keep writing, must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now,
Just now I must keep writing,
Must keep writing just now.
Found a new pen, found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now,
Just now I found a new pen,
Found a new pen just now.
Showing posts with label The Great Tea Debacle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Great Tea Debacle. Show all posts
Friday, November 16, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
My Dearest Prudence
Day 12 and the work continues here in Castle Debacle. This weekend past brought a change to our routine. Whilst my fellow inmates were slaving away, padding their word counts and performing their daily chores, I was allowed out into the Courtyard.
There was a festival there, but I was put to work rather than feasting, and thusly no further words were attained. But lo, my efforts of the week past were fruitful, and my words they did multiply.
And now I am back inside the Castle walls, once again slave to the writing.
I think of you daily, dearest Prudence, and write with continued fervor so that I may see you again soon. Each evening, I am lulled to sleep by the sounds of the distant foghorn as it warns passing ships away from the dangers of the cliffs. Each morn, I awaken to the thick fog rising up from the ocean below.
There is talk of a ship, a great ship coming to us from the northland bringing us paper and pens with which to write. Many find this a foolish rumor. A trick, to confuse and befuddle us away from our keyboards. But I’ve heard talk, whispers in the night, that the ship is real and should arrive within the month.
‘Tis foolish talk indeed, my dear Prudence, but such that I cannot fully ignore.
Still, even as I sit at the keyboard, striving toward the tea, the words vex me. Oh how they vex me so! I see them in the night, when my eyes have closed for slumber. They taunt me during the waking hours, when meals or daily chores keep me from setting them down.
But take heart, my dear, for the words are serving me. Slowly, with great determination, they are serving me well.
Soon – very soon my Prudence – we shall drink tea together again.
There was a festival there, but I was put to work rather than feasting, and thusly no further words were attained. But lo, my efforts of the week past were fruitful, and my words they did multiply.
And now I am back inside the Castle walls, once again slave to the writing.
I think of you daily, dearest Prudence, and write with continued fervor so that I may see you again soon. Each evening, I am lulled to sleep by the sounds of the distant foghorn as it warns passing ships away from the dangers of the cliffs. Each morn, I awaken to the thick fog rising up from the ocean below.
There is talk of a ship, a great ship coming to us from the northland bringing us paper and pens with which to write. Many find this a foolish rumor. A trick, to confuse and befuddle us away from our keyboards. But I’ve heard talk, whispers in the night, that the ship is real and should arrive within the month.
‘Tis foolish talk indeed, my dear Prudence, but such that I cannot fully ignore.
Still, even as I sit at the keyboard, striving toward the tea, the words vex me. Oh how they vex me so! I see them in the night, when my eyes have closed for slumber. They taunt me during the waking hours, when meals or daily chores keep me from setting them down.
But take heart, my dear, for the words are serving me. Slowly, with great determination, they are serving me well.
Soon – very soon my Prudence – we shall drink tea together again.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Dear Prudence
Day 9 of my captivitea.
My cell mates continue to taunt me with bizarre word counts and tales of all-night writing sessions. Some of them have been allowed to dine lavishly on massive manuscripts and bloated numbers, while the other inmates and I are fed difficult work schedules and teething babies.
Although I’ve made my own progress in spurts and stammers, I nevertheless must write something daily in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.
And Tea.
In an attempt to disgust them, I continually post comments and blog almost daily. The other day, I severed my connection with AW, ruining their plans to distract me. I had hoped this would strike terror in their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, I fear it will have no impact on their word count reports.
Bastards!
Thinking I was gaining ground, I checked my word count. With glee I noticed it swelling, growing in size and complexity. Only then did I realize my opponents were also still writing, still adding words and bloating their manuscripts.
And still I write.
The other inmates and I believe the only way out is to write, to add words to our own manuscripts and form a bridge to the outside world. They say there is no escape. They say there is no Tea. Only time will tell.
I cannot give up hope. I cannot let them win this battle of wits and wills!
Take heart, Prudence, for I shall prevail. The gallows are not yet built (they say it’ll take another 21 days or so, since they’re using elmer’s glue instead of decking screws)
I will continue to write, Prudence. I will continue to fight.
And I’ll Tea them all in Hell !
My cell mates continue to taunt me with bizarre word counts and tales of all-night writing sessions. Some of them have been allowed to dine lavishly on massive manuscripts and bloated numbers, while the other inmates and I are fed difficult work schedules and teething babies.
Although I’ve made my own progress in spurts and stammers, I nevertheless must write something daily in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.
And Tea.
In an attempt to disgust them, I continually post comments and blog almost daily. The other day, I severed my connection with AW, ruining their plans to distract me. I had hoped this would strike terror in their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, I fear it will have no impact on their word count reports.
Bastards!
Thinking I was gaining ground, I checked my word count. With glee I noticed it swelling, growing in size and complexity. Only then did I realize my opponents were also still writing, still adding words and bloating their manuscripts.
And still I write.
The other inmates and I believe the only way out is to write, to add words to our own manuscripts and form a bridge to the outside world. They say there is no escape. They say there is no Tea. Only time will tell.
I cannot give up hope. I cannot let them win this battle of wits and wills!
Take heart, Prudence, for I shall prevail. The gallows are not yet built (they say it’ll take another 21 days or so, since they’re using elmer’s glue instead of decking screws)
I will continue to write, Prudence. I will continue to fight.
And I’ll Tea them all in Hell !
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
My Penmanship is a Wreck!
A year and a half ago I had elbow surgery, where they snipped off the tendon at my elbow, then moved it to another spot and reattached it. Before that, my handwriting was really bad. In fact, all my life my penmanship was atrocious, much to the frustration of many a teacher.
My hand would cramp up, it could take me most of the night to crank out a report for school and make sure it was legible. And when I’d write fiction, it was a long, slow process.
Since the surgery, nothing has changed as far as my handwriting goes. I still cramp up, the whole hand and forearm hurt after just a few minutes, and I really can’t use a pen for more than signing my name or filling out a check.
And that’s where I’m lying.
I can. If I practice, relearn how to write and hold a pen, and give myself permission to suck at it for a few months.
My surgeon and my physical therapist said I could use a pen, that the tendon was just fine, and nothing I did could ruin their hard work. What I had to do was change the way I held a pen, and practice.
I’ve come to realize, and admit, that I’ve been using excuses, like “It hurts to hold a pen for more than a few minutes.” And “My handwriting is terrible, I’d never be able to read what I wrote to transcribe it.” Along with “My thoughts come out too fast, my fingers need a keyboard to keep up.”
Bullshit.
Today I found this site, with excellent advice on retraining your handwriting. Interestingly, they mention the wrong way to write is to use just your HAND, while the proper way to write is to use your hand, arm and shoulder. What makes that interesting is that Pete also mentioned when he writes, he seems to use his arm and shoulder when he does. I’d never heard of that before.
There’s also an interesting aspect for the Writer. When you write by hand, as a Writer, you’re forced to use completely different writerly “muscles”. You cannot write as fast as you can think, but that’s the point.
You also cannot hit the backspace button, or use spell check. That is also the point.
I find when I’m writing on the computer, sentences come flowing out of me in stammers. I’ll know what I want to say for about a paragraph, but then I have to pause and consider the wording for the next one. Then another spurt, followed by a pause. Typically after a page or three, I stop and read over what I wrote, contemplate it, then make some changes.
Writing by hand slows you down to the point of really thinking about your words, your pacing, your next move. You’re more apt to try out a sentence in your head three or four ways before putting it down. On the computer, I’m more prone to spewing it out, then hitting the backspace, trying it another way, deleting, trying it again.
I think writing by hand forces the writer to think more. To consider.
I’m not suggesting those of us who type it out aren’t thinking, or considering. And I’m not going to say we’re typing out crap. No, certainly not. I’m typing this, and it isn’t crap (I heard that!)
But I have a dream – and that’s to write by hand again. Not every novel, not every time. I do, however, need to reclaim that ability. I need that option, for those times when I’m without the computer, or my eyes are so sick of seeing a screen, and watching a cursor blink.
This weekend I’ll be away from the computer, so I’m going to bring a notebook with me and try working on the penmanship, adding to my Tea Debacle novel. And I’m going to keep practicing, working on the techniques on that web site. I’m going to find a good pen, and reteach myself how to write.
And I’m going to hand write my next novel.
And I’m going to win, because I am a leaf on the wi – hmm, maybe I need a new quote.
My hand would cramp up, it could take me most of the night to crank out a report for school and make sure it was legible. And when I’d write fiction, it was a long, slow process.
Since the surgery, nothing has changed as far as my handwriting goes. I still cramp up, the whole hand and forearm hurt after just a few minutes, and I really can’t use a pen for more than signing my name or filling out a check.
And that’s where I’m lying.
I can. If I practice, relearn how to write and hold a pen, and give myself permission to suck at it for a few months.
My surgeon and my physical therapist said I could use a pen, that the tendon was just fine, and nothing I did could ruin their hard work. What I had to do was change the way I held a pen, and practice.
I’ve come to realize, and admit, that I’ve been using excuses, like “It hurts to hold a pen for more than a few minutes.” And “My handwriting is terrible, I’d never be able to read what I wrote to transcribe it.” Along with “My thoughts come out too fast, my fingers need a keyboard to keep up.”
Bullshit.
Today I found this site, with excellent advice on retraining your handwriting. Interestingly, they mention the wrong way to write is to use just your HAND, while the proper way to write is to use your hand, arm and shoulder. What makes that interesting is that Pete also mentioned when he writes, he seems to use his arm and shoulder when he does. I’d never heard of that before.
There’s also an interesting aspect for the Writer. When you write by hand, as a Writer, you’re forced to use completely different writerly “muscles”. You cannot write as fast as you can think, but that’s the point.
You also cannot hit the backspace button, or use spell check. That is also the point.
I find when I’m writing on the computer, sentences come flowing out of me in stammers. I’ll know what I want to say for about a paragraph, but then I have to pause and consider the wording for the next one. Then another spurt, followed by a pause. Typically after a page or three, I stop and read over what I wrote, contemplate it, then make some changes.
Writing by hand slows you down to the point of really thinking about your words, your pacing, your next move. You’re more apt to try out a sentence in your head three or four ways before putting it down. On the computer, I’m more prone to spewing it out, then hitting the backspace, trying it another way, deleting, trying it again.
I think writing by hand forces the writer to think more. To consider.
I’m not suggesting those of us who type it out aren’t thinking, or considering. And I’m not going to say we’re typing out crap. No, certainly not. I’m typing this, and it isn’t crap (I heard that!)
But I have a dream – and that’s to write by hand again. Not every novel, not every time. I do, however, need to reclaim that ability. I need that option, for those times when I’m without the computer, or my eyes are so sick of seeing a screen, and watching a cursor blink.
This weekend I’ll be away from the computer, so I’m going to bring a notebook with me and try working on the penmanship, adding to my Tea Debacle novel. And I’m going to keep practicing, working on the techniques on that web site. I’m going to find a good pen, and reteach myself how to write.
And I’m going to hand write my next novel.
And I’m going to win, because I am a leaf on the wi – hmm, maybe I need a new quote.
Friday, November 2, 2007
I feel like A Writer today!
That might sound strange, but I know some people will understand what I mean. Right now, I'm penning In An Ageless Sky - my Great Tea Debacle competition novel. In this story I'm touching on the time travel issues I mentioned further down this blog, like, last month or something.
That's not to say this is a time-travel story by any means, but the act of traveling through time and "changing" past events to alter future ones does come into play. I have this amazing clarity of mind about the whole issue, too, for the first time in my life I UNDERSTAND how time travel could (although of course it doesn't) function and exactly how (although it doesn't) change would affect everyone involved.
I'm so friggin' psyched about it all. Like that moment you're reading Einstein's Theory of Relativity and suddenly, brilliantly, it all makes sense.
Based on that revelation, and this theory of mine, I've had yet another - completely independent yet equally thrilling - novel idea come into mind. I'll be writing that one next, after this novel is done.
And I've purchased a notebook. The spiral kind, with 200 pages in it. I'm going to handwrite my next novel, re-teach my right hand how to hold a pen and develop the stamina to do so.
I can't even begin to tell you how happy that thought makes me. It recalls the days of my youth, sitting on the bed late at night, with a notebook and pen, frantically (because the ideas were flowing so freely from my young brain) trying to get each sentence written before the next one could stammer out. Stopping only when I was dozing on the page, or my hand was cramped beyond function.
My face would be so close to the notebook, I could smell the ink and would fall asleep with that scent creeping into my nostrils. I loved the feel of paper, like the old books with the cracked spines - how they smelled !
I feel giddy, like a school girl, with thoughts of this novel and the next - - the pure joy of falling so completely into these worlds that they spring to life around me, as real as the one I'm sitting in right now.
I feel like A Writer.
Oh, um . . .yeah . . . You'll all fail. Give up now, yada yada.
Mail me your tea.
That's not to say this is a time-travel story by any means, but the act of traveling through time and "changing" past events to alter future ones does come into play. I have this amazing clarity of mind about the whole issue, too, for the first time in my life I UNDERSTAND how time travel could (although of course it doesn't) function and exactly how (although it doesn't) change would affect everyone involved.
I'm so friggin' psyched about it all. Like that moment you're reading Einstein's Theory of Relativity and suddenly, brilliantly, it all makes sense.
Based on that revelation, and this theory of mine, I've had yet another - completely independent yet equally thrilling - novel idea come into mind. I'll be writing that one next, after this novel is done.
And I've purchased a notebook. The spiral kind, with 200 pages in it. I'm going to handwrite my next novel, re-teach my right hand how to hold a pen and develop the stamina to do so.
I can't even begin to tell you how happy that thought makes me. It recalls the days of my youth, sitting on the bed late at night, with a notebook and pen, frantically (because the ideas were flowing so freely from my young brain) trying to get each sentence written before the next one could stammer out. Stopping only when I was dozing on the page, or my hand was cramped beyond function.
My face would be so close to the notebook, I could smell the ink and would fall asleep with that scent creeping into my nostrils. I loved the feel of paper, like the old books with the cracked spines - how they smelled !
I feel giddy, like a school girl, with thoughts of this novel and the next - - the pure joy of falling so completely into these worlds that they spring to life around me, as real as the one I'm sitting in right now.
I feel like A Writer.
Oh, um . . .yeah . . . You'll all fail. Give up now, yada yada.
Mail me your tea.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Stop! Hey, What's That Sound?
When's the last time you sat down and listened to music, just for music's sake? I mean, we all listen to music, right? But we have it on while we're doing other things.
I listen to music while driving, or working around the house. I have music on while I write, usually, and I love to plug in the ol' MP3 player headphones when I'm out in the garage drilling rocks or outside mowing the lawn or raking leaves.
And, since I have tympania and silence isn't ever silent for me, I often have a CD of chanting Benedictine monks on while I fall asleep. See, my lovely little white noise generator - the only one I've ever loved - finally died one day and they don't make it anymore. So I found the chanting monks to be the perfect tone and register to 'distract' me from the static, so I can fall asleep.
But I can't really remember the last time I sat down, with the purpose of simply listening to music.
The opera doesn't count, because I was watching actors on the stage. And the ballet doesn't count for the same reasons. I'm talking more like going to the symphony, where all you did was sit and listen to the music, letting it take you away completely.
I even have the radio on right now, behind me, at work, as background noise. But I tune it out more often than not - I just need noise that comes from outside my own ears.
Sometimes I feel like that's such a disservice to the music. That we use it as supplemental noise, or background filler. But perhaps that's what music is for, to fill those little spaces, like jello.
Try this, maybe this weekend or tomorrow. Put on some music - doesn't have to be classical, it can be Rob Zombie for all I care - just put it on, sit down, and do nothing else.
Just. Listen.
Hear every word, feel every beat, follow every change in pace and rhythm.
ENJOY the music for the music's sake. Go ahead, give that a try. Put on, heck, go for 5 CDs. You've got time. Plenty of time. It won't interfere with your writing. It's only Day One.
You. Have. Time.
There's no need to write yourself silly in the first day.
There's always room for jello.
I listen to music while driving, or working around the house. I have music on while I write, usually, and I love to plug in the ol' MP3 player headphones when I'm out in the garage drilling rocks or outside mowing the lawn or raking leaves.
And, since I have tympania and silence isn't ever silent for me, I often have a CD of chanting Benedictine monks on while I fall asleep. See, my lovely little white noise generator - the only one I've ever loved - finally died one day and they don't make it anymore. So I found the chanting monks to be the perfect tone and register to 'distract' me from the static, so I can fall asleep.
But I can't really remember the last time I sat down, with the purpose of simply listening to music.
The opera doesn't count, because I was watching actors on the stage. And the ballet doesn't count for the same reasons. I'm talking more like going to the symphony, where all you did was sit and listen to the music, letting it take you away completely.
I even have the radio on right now, behind me, at work, as background noise. But I tune it out more often than not - I just need noise that comes from outside my own ears.
Sometimes I feel like that's such a disservice to the music. That we use it as supplemental noise, or background filler. But perhaps that's what music is for, to fill those little spaces, like jello.
Try this, maybe this weekend or tomorrow. Put on some music - doesn't have to be classical, it can be Rob Zombie for all I care - just put it on, sit down, and do nothing else.
Just. Listen.
Hear every word, feel every beat, follow every change in pace and rhythm.
ENJOY the music for the music's sake. Go ahead, give that a try. Put on, heck, go for 5 CDs. You've got time. Plenty of time. It won't interfere with your writing. It's only Day One.
You. Have. Time.
There's no need to write yourself silly in the first day.
There's always room for jello.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
It's The Great Tea Debacle, Charlie Brown!
It's now Tea Minus - well, whatever time is left between now and midnight, when The Great Tea Debacle begins.
Time to get those notes in order. Time to program the coffee pot, fill the tea kettle, set that chocolate up in neat little rows. And you'd best go potty now, 'cause once this bus gets moving, we're not gonna stop for anyone. (sorry, I was channeling my dad and our family vacations there for a minute)
How do you feel? Any aches or pains? Can you sit at the computer for long hours? Can you hold that pen for 4 weeks non-stop? Is your spouse willing to put up with this? Who's gonna walk the dog?
Did you pick the wrong month to quit crack?
What's your clearance, Clarence?
Okay, deep breath. Almost there. Wait for it.
Wait for it . . . !
Time to get those notes in order. Time to program the coffee pot, fill the tea kettle, set that chocolate up in neat little rows. And you'd best go potty now, 'cause once this bus gets moving, we're not gonna stop for anyone. (sorry, I was channeling my dad and our family vacations there for a minute)
How do you feel? Any aches or pains? Can you sit at the computer for long hours? Can you hold that pen for 4 weeks non-stop? Is your spouse willing to put up with this? Who's gonna walk the dog?
Did you pick the wrong month to quit crack?
What's your clearance, Clarence?
Okay, deep breath. Almost there. Wait for it.
Wait for it . . . !
Monday, October 29, 2007
Strategy, I has it.
So apparently several of my fellow Tea Debaclers have fallen ill. They've got the "crud", as it were, and here we are - 3 days from Start.
I - the one who never gets sick - thought ahead. I figured "whilst I never do fall ill, it would be inconvenient of me to catch the sniffles at the beginning of November." So I decided to go ahead and have my virus last week.
I had the sore throat wherein the only thing I could eat was soy ice cream and Kahlua. I had the sniffles so bad I was forced to sleep with some Kleenex shoved up my nostrils. And yes, my knees ached with that almost-fever feeling that gives you a glimpse of what life with be like when you're 90 and arthritic.
But that was last week. As I said, I thought it prudent to get sick and get it over with, so that when The Great Tea Debacle began, I'd be healthy and ready to go!
That's called Planning, people!
That's a Strategy!
That, shall win me Tea.
I - the one who never gets sick - thought ahead. I figured "whilst I never do fall ill, it would be inconvenient of me to catch the sniffles at the beginning of November." So I decided to go ahead and have my virus last week.
I had the sore throat wherein the only thing I could eat was soy ice cream and Kahlua. I had the sniffles so bad I was forced to sleep with some Kleenex shoved up my nostrils. And yes, my knees ached with that almost-fever feeling that gives you a glimpse of what life with be like when you're 90 and arthritic.
But that was last week. As I said, I thought it prudent to get sick and get it over with, so that when The Great Tea Debacle began, I'd be healthy and ready to go!
That's called Planning, people!
That's a Strategy!
That, shall win me Tea.
Friday, October 26, 2007
I can haz Icon?
Okay, I was over at the Nano site poking around looking for some contact info - and whilst stumbling about - realized they have those nifty-neato-keen participant icons people can put on their blogs and web sites and use in their siggy-lines on forums and such . . . And I thought "Hey, we need one, too!"
Actually, I thought "Crap, I'm bored!" and this was a useful 10 minutes.
So here, and I'll see if I can figure out how to put it on my bloggie.
Actually, I thought "Crap, I'm bored!" and this was a useful 10 minutes.
So here, and I'll see if I can figure out how to put it on my bloggie.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Solitary Tea Drinker
A discussion in the comments section of our Great Tea Debacle page of Official Announcements reminded me of how solitary writing can be, especially to those of us who might not have a black book filled with friends and acquaintances.
Many of us, not just writers, have our lives compartmentalized - in that, we have our Work Selves, our Home Selves, and probably one or two Hobby Selves and sometimes never the twain shall meet. We probably don't socialize much with our coworkers, aside from the usual office BBQ or Holiday Party. Maybe our hobbies involve us with other people, and that's great, but we're less likely to include those folks in our every day business.
More often than not - though there are exceptions - many of us keep our Writerly Selves secret from friends and family. I talk about writing with my one sister, naturally, but never mention a word of it to my mother, stepfather, other sister or nieces/nephew. None of my friends know, and not a single person I work with has a clue I'm a writer.
Writing itself - the development of ideas, plots, characters - is all done inside our own heads, and there's nothing more personal or private than our own thoughts. That's why, if you locked up a writer in a room with no pen, paper, pencil or typewriter, we could still happily entertain ourselves for years and years, working on our novels inside our own heads.
I've said before, that writing is an almost ethereal blending of two polar opposites. It's something very personal, that holds deep meaning to each of us - something that's done in a very private manner from inside our minds to quietly appear on paper, shown to precious few if any until completion - then it's offered to complete strangers in the hopes that masses of the general public will read it for generations to come.
It's true of all the arts, really, except people can usually tell you're a painter, or see you sculpting before it's done, or even hear you play that piano before you perform the concert.
Sometimes I think I'll explode if I can't share when an awesome plot idea suddenly fills my mind - especially when the solution to a situation I'd been struggling with bursts into my head with such clarity and genius, I'm dying to see it come out. But I don't. Mostly it's because something like that is too detailed and convoluted to share with someone without literally boring them to death with detail, and also my sister - who is my reader - doesn't like spoilers.
November is going to be a very solitary month.
It could be a very lonely 30 days.
You're going to be writing your little fingers off, desperate to beat Pete the Chest Thumper, Lori the Wise and Determined, and Kristine the Energizer Bunny.
What about your friends? Your family? With Thanksgiving coming up, aren't you going to want to spend time with them? You've got that big meal to plan, and Grandma is going to want to give you tips on baking those pies.
And do you remember where you put Aunt Edna's lace tablecloth?
Then there's Christmas. You realize, as of November 1st, it's only 54 shopping days away?
Writing can be such a solitary undertaking. No one's going to fault you if you find yourself staring wistfully at those holiday decorations in that box in the basement. If your spouse needs a cuddle - if little Jr. has a rough time at school - if the leaves are piling up in your yard, making you the scorn of the block . . .
There is no shame in mailing the Tea. History will remember you.
Many of us, not just writers, have our lives compartmentalized - in that, we have our Work Selves, our Home Selves, and probably one or two Hobby Selves and sometimes never the twain shall meet. We probably don't socialize much with our coworkers, aside from the usual office BBQ or Holiday Party. Maybe our hobbies involve us with other people, and that's great, but we're less likely to include those folks in our every day business.
More often than not - though there are exceptions - many of us keep our Writerly Selves secret from friends and family. I talk about writing with my one sister, naturally, but never mention a word of it to my mother, stepfather, other sister or nieces/nephew. None of my friends know, and not a single person I work with has a clue I'm a writer.
Writing itself - the development of ideas, plots, characters - is all done inside our own heads, and there's nothing more personal or private than our own thoughts. That's why, if you locked up a writer in a room with no pen, paper, pencil or typewriter, we could still happily entertain ourselves for years and years, working on our novels inside our own heads.
I've said before, that writing is an almost ethereal blending of two polar opposites. It's something very personal, that holds deep meaning to each of us - something that's done in a very private manner from inside our minds to quietly appear on paper, shown to precious few if any until completion - then it's offered to complete strangers in the hopes that masses of the general public will read it for generations to come.
It's true of all the arts, really, except people can usually tell you're a painter, or see you sculpting before it's done, or even hear you play that piano before you perform the concert.
Sometimes I think I'll explode if I can't share when an awesome plot idea suddenly fills my mind - especially when the solution to a situation I'd been struggling with bursts into my head with such clarity and genius, I'm dying to see it come out. But I don't. Mostly it's because something like that is too detailed and convoluted to share with someone without literally boring them to death with detail, and also my sister - who is my reader - doesn't like spoilers.
November is going to be a very solitary month.
It could be a very lonely 30 days.
You're going to be writing your little fingers off, desperate to beat Pete the Chest Thumper, Lori the Wise and Determined, and Kristine the Energizer Bunny.
What about your friends? Your family? With Thanksgiving coming up, aren't you going to want to spend time with them? You've got that big meal to plan, and Grandma is going to want to give you tips on baking those pies.
And do you remember where you put Aunt Edna's lace tablecloth?
Then there's Christmas. You realize, as of November 1st, it's only 54 shopping days away?
Writing can be such a solitary undertaking. No one's going to fault you if you find yourself staring wistfully at those holiday decorations in that box in the basement. If your spouse needs a cuddle - if little Jr. has a rough time at school - if the leaves are piling up in your yard, making you the scorn of the block . . .
There is no shame in mailing the Tea. History will remember you.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Incentive
As if winning gobs of Tea from a bunch of losers, and having the skeleton and muscle structure of a publishable novel to show for it, weren't enough, the Winner of The Great Tea Debacle will have this great and wonderful Award to display on his/her (read: my) web page and/or blog.
So roll up your sleeves, Oh Ye Great Tea Debacle Writers, and get those tea pots boiling !
Okay, then make some tea, and maybe put on a sweater - 'cause we've got a week left to go.
So roll up your sleeves, Oh Ye Great Tea Debacle Writers, and get those tea pots boiling !
Okay, then make some tea, and maybe put on a sweater - 'cause we've got a week left to go.
Friday, October 19, 2007
I hab a toad
Two days ago, I started getting this dry, scratchy throat. "Not to worry," I says to myself. "I never get sick."
That's my mantra - I never get sick. And I don't, hardly ever at all. Each December I have to sell back sick leave because we can only carry over so much from one year to the next.
Whenever I do get the sniffles or a sore throat, I go to work to spread the joy. I figure if I'm gonna feel like crap, I might as well be at work. Now sure, if I have a fever I stay home. But like I said, I just don't get sick.
My constant state of denial serves me well.
So I'm sitting here on a Friday with a horribly sore throat and that otherwordly feeling you get from cold medicines, and I'm happy.
Why? You ask. Well, because it's October 19th. By the time November 1st hits, my throat will be fine, my snot will have run, and I'll be healthy and ready to take on The Great Tea Debacle with vim and vigor. Add to that the fact that it happens to be Fall, and that means grey skies, grey water, and solid rain - the perfect recipe for staying inside at the keyboard, plugging away at my novel.
That old Fall/Winter depression that hits so many this time of year -- when you realize the cheer and color of Summer is long gone, and you've nothing to look forward to now save for cold temps, rainy days, impending snow, Thanksgiving with the in-laws (and all that bickering, burned turkey, Grandma's harping and the baby puking up on the fine linen tablecloth you inherited from your Great Aunt Edna) -- doesn't affect me. I've lived here all my life, grey is my favorite color. What do you have coming? Christmas, and all the dashed hopes, ruined plans and Visa bills.
Wouldn't you really just like to curl up on the couch under a blanket, get yourself some hot chocolate with the little sprinkles on top of your marshmallows, the TV remote in one hand, some cookies in the other, and begin that long, Winter's nap? Your favorite shows are on, and those slippers with the warm, soft fuzzy insides are calling your name.
Go ahead and put down the laptop, close it up, and pull out that book you've been dying to read. Let the rain fall, let the wind blow, just feel the steam from your mug of hot cocoa as it warms your nose. Enjoy the soothing warmth as it slides down your throat, and try not to think about those heating bills to come next month.
How's about some Peppermint Schnapps for that mug?
You know, there's plenty of time to get that novel written. Just kick back, enjoy the early sunsets and long, dark evenings. Maybe knit yourself a sweater for the coming blizzard.
Oh, and if you need my address for mailing all that tea, just let me know.
That's my mantra - I never get sick. And I don't, hardly ever at all. Each December I have to sell back sick leave because we can only carry over so much from one year to the next.
Whenever I do get the sniffles or a sore throat, I go to work to spread the joy. I figure if I'm gonna feel like crap, I might as well be at work. Now sure, if I have a fever I stay home. But like I said, I just don't get sick.
My constant state of denial serves me well.
So I'm sitting here on a Friday with a horribly sore throat and that otherwordly feeling you get from cold medicines, and I'm happy.
Why? You ask. Well, because it's October 19th. By the time November 1st hits, my throat will be fine, my snot will have run, and I'll be healthy and ready to take on The Great Tea Debacle with vim and vigor. Add to that the fact that it happens to be Fall, and that means grey skies, grey water, and solid rain - the perfect recipe for staying inside at the keyboard, plugging away at my novel.
That old Fall/Winter depression that hits so many this time of year -- when you realize the cheer and color of Summer is long gone, and you've nothing to look forward to now save for cold temps, rainy days, impending snow, Thanksgiving with the in-laws (and all that bickering, burned turkey, Grandma's harping and the baby puking up on the fine linen tablecloth you inherited from your Great Aunt Edna) -- doesn't affect me. I've lived here all my life, grey is my favorite color. What do you have coming? Christmas, and all the dashed hopes, ruined plans and Visa bills.
Wouldn't you really just like to curl up on the couch under a blanket, get yourself some hot chocolate with the little sprinkles on top of your marshmallows, the TV remote in one hand, some cookies in the other, and begin that long, Winter's nap? Your favorite shows are on, and those slippers with the warm, soft fuzzy insides are calling your name.
Go ahead and put down the laptop, close it up, and pull out that book you've been dying to read. Let the rain fall, let the wind blow, just feel the steam from your mug of hot cocoa as it warms your nose. Enjoy the soothing warmth as it slides down your throat, and try not to think about those heating bills to come next month.
How's about some Peppermint Schnapps for that mug?
You know, there's plenty of time to get that novel written. Just kick back, enjoy the early sunsets and long, dark evenings. Maybe knit yourself a sweater for the coming blizzard.
Oh, and if you need my address for mailing all that tea, just let me know.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Obsessive Compulsive Slacking
Not too long ago, a writer by the name of Robert Jordan died. A sad occasion, to be sure, but I've heard it said that he was the type of writer who took copious notes. So many notes, that it's possible his next novel could still see the light of posthumous publishing. Good news for his readers.
The other day, my sister and I were discussing this, and she pointed out that - should I pass while in-between novels in a series -- it would be impossible for my 'last' novel to be completed, as I take no notes. Not even she, who lives with me and functions as my best Beta reader, knows what I have in mind. She prefers to read the novels green, without hearing what I have planned ahead of time, because that ruins and/or could influence her thinking as she reads.
It's true, I don't take notes.
I wish I did - I honestly do think they'd be a good idea. And I love notebooks! I have several, some hand made for me as a gift, and several of these black leather bound numbers with a magnetic clasp. I'm drawn to notebooks at the office supply stores, and constantly look for new styles.
Thing is - I'll get a new story idea in my head, and sit down with a pot of Lapsang Souchong, some cookies, a nice micro-fine black gel pen and crack open one of those notebooks . . . then turn into some kind of Wereidiot.
First, I can't use a pen for more than ten minutes before my arm cramps up and my penmanship circles the drain. Second, while I'm not anal-retentive or a neat-freak, my note taking screams for perfect organization. I must have headers, bullet notes, clear, precise and logical points and details.
Basically, what happens is this: Sit down, start writing out character names to get proper spelling. Write the header Chapter One, sit for an hour staring at the lint on the floor, remember what I was doing, jot down some high points, change my mind on the spelling of one character name, rip out the entire page so I can start over.
Yep, can't just cross it out, gotta start over so the notes will be pristine and easy to read!
After a few pages of this, and several re-starts, something will snap inside my head and I'll start inserting lines, crossing things out (like normal humans) and making notes that even I can't read. Then I'll change my mind about the entire plot, need more tea, see something shiny and never open that notebook again.
So, when I become a famous, published author, then die right smack dab in the middle of a series, my readers are gonna be shit outta luck!
But, before anyone think this gives them a distinct advantage in the Great Tea Debacle - fear not . . . For I once penned a 240,000 word epic without jotting down One. Single. Note.
Bwhahahahaha *cough* 'scuse me.
The other day, my sister and I were discussing this, and she pointed out that - should I pass while in-between novels in a series -- it would be impossible for my 'last' novel to be completed, as I take no notes. Not even she, who lives with me and functions as my best Beta reader, knows what I have in mind. She prefers to read the novels green, without hearing what I have planned ahead of time, because that ruins and/or could influence her thinking as she reads.
It's true, I don't take notes.
I wish I did - I honestly do think they'd be a good idea. And I love notebooks! I have several, some hand made for me as a gift, and several of these black leather bound numbers with a magnetic clasp. I'm drawn to notebooks at the office supply stores, and constantly look for new styles.
Thing is - I'll get a new story idea in my head, and sit down with a pot of Lapsang Souchong, some cookies, a nice micro-fine black gel pen and crack open one of those notebooks . . . then turn into some kind of Wereidiot.
First, I can't use a pen for more than ten minutes before my arm cramps up and my penmanship circles the drain. Second, while I'm not anal-retentive or a neat-freak, my note taking screams for perfect organization. I must have headers, bullet notes, clear, precise and logical points and details.
Basically, what happens is this: Sit down, start writing out character names to get proper spelling. Write the header Chapter One, sit for an hour staring at the lint on the floor, remember what I was doing, jot down some high points, change my mind on the spelling of one character name, rip out the entire page so I can start over.
Yep, can't just cross it out, gotta start over so the notes will be pristine and easy to read!
After a few pages of this, and several re-starts, something will snap inside my head and I'll start inserting lines, crossing things out (like normal humans) and making notes that even I can't read. Then I'll change my mind about the entire plot, need more tea, see something shiny and never open that notebook again.
So, when I become a famous, published author, then die right smack dab in the middle of a series, my readers are gonna be shit outta luck!
But, before anyone think this gives them a distinct advantage in the Great Tea Debacle - fear not . . . For I once penned a 240,000 word epic without jotting down One. Single. Note.
Bwhahahahaha *cough* 'scuse me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
