From the Tower

Right now I am full up. There are a thousand little things that I must, a hundred major things that I should do, and my future staring in front of me with a giant question mark.

Remember that feeling when you were younger, that cusp of 19-21 years old, when anything possible? When you knew that you could go anywhere, do anything, be anybody you wanted to be? I admit I missed it some these past few years when I was working for big conglomerate.

But now, here I am standing, no strings attached, with 5 different options for what I can do. And all of them are good. There is no wrong choice. For that I truly feel blessed, but slightly crazy.

Because, and this is the kicker, each one of them makes me a different person.

There is option A: go teach english in a foreign country. I love teaching, having done it in the past as both a part-time and full-time gig. There is something about connecting with the students, helping them break out of the fear of ignorance, and embrace the fact that they can learn, and that the world is waiting for them to discover it. Plus I always wanted to study abroad. I couldn't afford to in college (scholarship kid, intense work-load to get done while the free money lasted) but here is my opportunity. I have a little put aside, enough to get the certifications and pay for a ticket. And really this may be the last time that I could go live in a foreign country for a while as easily as this.

Option B: Stay with the small business I am working for right now. They are a great company, treat me with respect, and even though the pay is low compared to what I could get at other places, I have the opportunity to grow my salary, and set my own schedule, as well as choose what projects I work on, something that most people would kill for. And I respect what they do, the change they make in people's lives is almost tangible. It is amazing to me how ignorant some people are of their financial lives, and without this firm's guidance, many people would be in serious financial straits. This firm is the quiet voice of common sense, helping people plan for the future, overcome past difficulties, and in general make people be able to reach their potential.

Option C: Go with the Fortune 500 company that I interviewed with back in December. After rejecting me for my summer plans, they called back two weeks ago to see if I was still interested, because I am the only who really fits what they want. And while part of me laughs at the irony, the other part of me is confused by it all. Because this job takes the part of what I enjoyed the most about public accounting, and makes it a full time gig. High-speed, in depth, and over the top research of technical issues and finding a practical use, the perfect meld of theory and application. The only problem is that the work life balance would not be so hot. Okay, it would be awful, not as horrible as the last job, but pretty close. And really, I just started bouncing back from that. Also, the pay for the type of work I would be doing is almost insultingly low. I could go out and get a job for less hours, and more pay without even batting an eyelash.

Option D: Move to the beach and get a random job down there. Right now one of my favorite places in the world has ridiculous low prices on real estate. And while the economy is not so hot right now, I could still find a decent job down there, and make a good living. I also have some very dear friends who live around that area who have been begging me to move there. And the thought of being able to walk out of my front door, and across the street to one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen, whenever I want, makes my knees weak.

Option E: Go back to working for my old public accounting firm but in a different department. There is another group at my old company that does forensic accounting, and would pay significantly more (at the higher end of the range of what I can get in the market) and I would work less (about 45 hours a week) The work would be interesting as well, I mean hey, I am investigating fraud. Plus I could stay in my current area, and be able to finally afford some type of real estate, even if its a postage stamp house.

The hard part: each of the above has some quality that I love. And each option would result in a completely different me in a space of three years, from international traveler, to beach-head, to overcaffeinated tech head, to cool faced investigator, to the compassionate small practice accountant who gets invited to everyone's wedding in the town.

Again, I remind myself, options are a good thing. That all those years of sacrifice led me to this, the all-nighters, the exhaustion, the cold hard determination, the little bit of luck, has made this possible.

Now, I just have to decide in the next week. Who do I want to be?

There are a thousand details in every day, that, if missing will cause the whole thing to unravel in our hands. And whether or not we are aware of it, these strands connect us to thousands of others in this world, from the people who drive the harvesters to the executive who decides how to regulate the flow of electricity.

Each link is so fragile. And sometimes I get overwhelmed at the idea. I am a link, another piece, and I rely on others in ways I can't even begin to know. See, there is this romance in our culture about the lone wolf, the one who needs nothing from nobody never. And it always made me scream. Where did his clothes comes from? And his home? And even if he made them himself, where did the knowledge come from?

We all stand on the shoulders of those who have come before us, lifted up to a higher place. But it is our choice, our choice to accept their legacy, and try to mold it to something better. Yes, we can walk away. Things have never been perfect. Or we can stand, look up at the sky, and know that we can reach it if we try.

Sometimes I wonder.

See, I've just realized my writing has become very complicated. I love to craft the layers upon layers of meaning and understanding and emotional structure that leads my reader to the final conclusion that I have wanted to hand them since the first word. One part of me adores that style. It is challenging. It takes focus and concentration to pull it off, and even if people only get one or two levels, they are aware of the depth, and that therefore makes me shiny and smart. *beams*

And yet. And yet. Sometimes it feels all too contrived. That somehow life is both simpler and more complex than that. I am not really capturing what it is like to be alive, and my proxy is nothing more than a clever mannequin that just sits there.

There are certain singers I adore, who while capturing the simplicity of life, hint at its depths. These glimpses, while brief, make me come back to their music over and over again. And I love them for it. For stating truths in their simplicity. In being bold enough to put it out there, that life is not one game of over and under arching structures we build ourselves, but rather of ripples and current of the river of life.

That flow, that is what I really want to capture. I'm closer now than when I started (MMOG help me, anything is closer than that) but I still don't have it yet. Like the unicorn in the forest, or the white buffalo on the prairie, I'm not sure that its something that can be found. Just wish I knew which way to look.

Here is one of my favorite singers from above, the peerless Kate Rusby:

So, I had a duh moment last night. See, I have been wandering around the house and other sundry parts of the earth that comprise my life, for the past month muttering about how maybe I was done with writing, maybe I just didn't have it anymore, and perhaps, perhaps, I should hang up the ole writing cardigan. Because it wasn't fun anymore, there was no overwhelming "Wheee!" when I thought about sitting down to write. I was in a funk.

But, silly me, I had forgotten one simple rule of writing: "Novel eats your brainssss!" I knew that the dnn had taken a lot out of me (see posts from January 08 onwards) but I couldn't link that exhaustion with my ennui at the thought of writing. I had forgotten how it wipes you out, how it makes anything resembling complex thought look like hot pokers aimed straight at your eyes.

Luckily for me, my subconscious had not forgotten. It had slipped my conscious mind a note with the scribble, "Take a month off, when we finish. We are going to need a full month." And having survived many years by accepting that type of random advice from the iceberg part of my brain, I said sure.

Of course, part of me was scoffing. A full month, come on. When I wrote the 150k book, I only took off two weeks, and then I edited the thing twice, back to back. Why did I need a full month for just a 76k book? Let me tell you, the subconscious was right.

I realized last night, that this novel is 150k novel in 76k words. I pushed myself to use every paragraph, every scene to do at least two things, sometimes three. All the while I ratcheted up the complexity of the writing as well, adding more in-depth characterization, and a layering of plot with thematic questions, like a cake gone wrong. Even now, I quiver at what I have done.

Now that the end of April is three days away, my brain is finally coming back. I opened up the file last night, for the first time in weeks, and started to poke around. And you know what? Some of this stuff ain't that bad. Is it the novel in my head, not even close. But does it come close in parts? You bet.

And that one chapter, the one where I thought my soul was being ripped in two to write it, I just read through it again, and it works. Which is such a relief I can't even begin to describe it. Because if that scene was broken, I don't think I could have fixed/faced it again, much less the rest of the novel.

On top of the happy feeling, I had a fit of inspiration last night, and wrote a flash fiction piece, entitled "A Letter to Araby", which I think ironically, is one of my better short pieces. And I enjoyed it, I loved playing with the flavor of the words, the way they moved together on the page. It was like all the players were back in the play of my brain, doing their part to make a great performance.

So, yes, I still want to write. Not anything loud, overwhelming or bombastic. Just a quiet warmth at having the love return.

Yes, I know that's only shouted after the white smoke, but whatever, the Benedict has landed. Viva Papa Benedictus!

So I realized I never did an update of the metrics for the month of March. Without further adieu:

New words for the month: 15k (DNN)
Total new words for the year: 40k (DNN)

April has been an interesting month. I have had a lot of things that I needed to do for RL, so I knew that it would be a slow month writing-wise. Maybe just a thousand or 2k for the month, I thought naively back on the 1st. The thing I was not expecting was the post novel ennui.

It's strange that I always forget about this phase. Every time I complete a big writing project, and know that I indeed do have rough draft, my brain decides to check out from all serious writing. I can hardly string more than five sentences together, and all I can do is wonder why I ever wanted to write. It's like a small voice insisting that I have the talent of five year old with crayons.

You might have guessed, I have written bupkiss this month. Nice ole goose egg. Nada on the new word count, and not looking good for the rest of the month.

As they say, this too shall pass. Just in the last few days, I felt my brain start to come back, and last weekend, I was able to do some free writing with friends. (Zombie slam poetry, so much fun). Its weird, though, because this is the first time that I have actively been trying to grow a novel while finishing a novel at the same time. Usually I just had the next project lined up, ready to go.

This next novel, bgfhbb, is me trying to go for more depth. So I have been reading outside books about random crap, and trying to pull it all together into a narrative that wraps around these topics but actually is about something else. Yes, I sometimes hate that my subconscious likes to pretend its clever. A straight-forward is going to be next novel, if I have any say.

But its growing me in skills, and I don't want to be the writer who writes the same story over and over again. I want to see new worlds, new povs, new ways of living. That takes stepping out in the dark, and knowing that the light will come.

And then there is just this short story I have been aching to write since I saw this video on youtube:


Sigh, it will happen. Just have to give it time right?

Other than that, things are going really well. Working 40 hours a week really agrees with the ole body. I have woken up smiling more in the past month than the past three years, and having energy on the weekends to do more than just laundry and pay bills is wonderful. I even saw a movie last night, Smart People, which was really funny, but ultimately flawed film.

Hope your week is great!

So yes, I am stopping work on a hundred things to write this post. Why? One, because I need a break from being Mr. Responsibility. Two, I think my brain has had enough time to put itself back together again to form a response that would make sense to the outside world.

Here we go.

In a previous post I mentioned that I had read a book that completely blew me away. The things the author did were wild hopes of what I thought writing might be able to do. But just like daydreams of being able to fly or turn invisible, I didn't think it was possible.

The book is The Waves and its by Virginia Woolf. And to steal a formula from Diane Duane, this is a story of life told by six points of view that become one. But that's not very helpful. Let me try to break it down further.

When we feel true emotion, we feel a hundred things at once. That place in our gut, our heart, our mind, are linked together, and across all of them images run, and sensations, and states of being. And it happens in a split second.

Remember, when someone you loved received horrible news, and all they could do was say "Oh." But you knew, just knew from the way that word was wretched out of their very body that they had felt an emotion so deep that there were no words for it. Nothing could convey that which had just happened to them. Their world had shrunk, grown a bit darker in one part, and that although new avenues would eventually open; this, this part of them was going to only be a memory for this moment onward. And there was joy in the remembering of the person, and sorrow at the loss, and rage at what had caused it, and jealousy at those who walked by on the street who had not felt this loss, and hope that maybe they could become that person again, and a thousand other emotions piling one on top of the other all at once, that can't be captured.

I want to write that emotion. I want readers to feel that, to understand and go to that same level. And I thought it was a pipe dream. Because writing is words, and by my very own definition, this is an emotion that cannot be captured with words.

But Virginia Woolf, oh Woolf, she does it. How, you ask? By forming a giant tapestry of experiences that link back onto each other, that when you reach the final line acts as the tying thread that snaps the picture into view and you are left feeling that emotion.

And how does she form this picture? She destroys the plot structure. Yes, things progress chronologically on the surface of the text, but when you go down another level, you can feel time flowing in the opposite direction. A masterful, a beautiful, an amazing echo of the title of the book. And if you even go down another level, there is this sense of one, the inner understanding. We don't ever grow up in a sense, we just receive experience, and that person who we were when we were six is still there inside the person we are when we are sixty. We can remember the smell of leaves in the summer sun as we sit in a hotel lobby.

She repeats image after image in this book. And, of course, being the master she is at the art, they are amazing, evocative, and gain more depth the farther you read, the more you understand the people. One is Rhoda's image, a nightingale dipping a wing in a pool of depthless water surrounded pillars. Another is Susan's nature calm, the green warmth of the earth.

There are so many other things that this novel does, developing characters without the cheap characterization techniques, stream of consciousness that is lyrical (in the true sense of the word), comprehensible, and never too much, and an unbelievable rhythm to the words that wash over you, keeping you in their grasp long after you close the book.

Maybe at another time, I will try to come back and go deeper, but this, this is what made me write that in the last post. Honestly, this is the type of book that makes me want to write period. Thank you Virginia Woolf, may wherever you be, be full of peace.

So many things to accomplish, and while the weekend was fun, I am definitely behind. So all this means that posting will probably be sparse for the next week or so. :(

So I have had two or three ideas for a blog post for days now, and I can't seem to make up my mind which one to do.

See, I just finished two amazing books. Really, they are fantastic. One completely blew off the top of what I thought writing could do, and I am still kind of stumbling away from it with a "holy crap, what was that that just hit me" grin on my face.

The other book was so timely, and had so many good insights about what my next book is going to be about that I literally could only read two pages at a time before scribbling ideas down. In the course of reading thiss book, the NN by the way has achieved a new moniker. As I started to flesh out some ideas for it, I realized the scope of this thing was massive. It has earned the name Big Giant Fat Heavy Baby Book, or bgfhbb for short;). I somewhat shudder at the size of it, but really after constricting myself with da new novel, I am excited to play with a bigger canvas. I promised myself no limit on povs, no limit on plot layers, I'm just going to open the throttle and let this thing fly down the highway.

Those are the ideas on the reading inspired front. On the writing front, I just finished the narrative line clean up on the final part of dnn. And while I still think that my endings are my second weakest part of the plot, right behind beginnings, I think I am finally starting to get a very meta, fuzzy feeling for what works for me. And this ending is a whole lot better than some of my previous ones. H'okay, let me tell, so much better that I actually smiled. And I also realized that you have the ending and the wrap-up and the two don't have to be the same thing. That was a relief.

Also, I have found some really good music recently, and I feel like I should revive notes in a minor chord, and doing a whole bunch in a row to cover them.

As you can see, my mind is a hot mess. But at least I can rest now, and send out the da new novel to alpha readers this weekend. Yayay! Another step closer to submission.

Dear Self,

Do not, and I repeat, do not eat a multitude of jelly beans, edit a pivotal emotional scene, read about the gory details of the frontlines Bosnian crisis of 1992, and then fall asleep. The dreams will not be fun.

Sincerely,
Your subconscious

P.S. That whole part with you freefalling through a shelled city was completely unnecessary

There is nothing that can make you feel stupider than going back and reading what you wrote. You see what's on the page, you know what's in your brain, and you wonder what the heck happened between the two. It's not that its not just missing a few things. Its like they are two completely different worlds.

Remember that narrative thread thing I was yammering on about the other day? Well right, this cleanup is all about just getting the narrative thread right. Forget rhythm, screw style, whatever about character development, let's just get the story engine running. As you can tell, the joys of this revision have lifted me to new heights;) Just so you can see what I mean, here's a lovely example of my story*:

Rabbit eats the grass, (is there more than one rabbit, oh whatever, we can thin that herd later), grass comes up out the earth (seriously, "comes up", what sort of verb choice is that, are you a second grader), the earth needs water (and captain obvious just entered the building), water comes down in rain (hello, you just repeated the word come in the same paragraph, and on top of that its a sucky verb) and whales swim through the ocean that floods across the land, and only one rabbit survives (umm, right, how did we get to whales, and wtf with rabbits, was that really necessary?, and where did the ocean come in?).

Scribbled note to self at end of scene to use when I revise:
So right, obviously, I can't develop the rabbit's character if we have whales flying out of nowhere, flooding plains that . . . Oh crap, I haven't set up the plains have I? And when did the plot transform into a survival theme?


Right, so in the revision I have to go back and fix that narrative line, or at least hint that there is some sort of logic in the story. It goes something like this:

Bunny fufu sits on the ground eating grass. The grass comes up (seriously, still can't get rid of that verb?) out of the earth, the earth as all things needs sustenance in the form of water (so over the top, but at least acknowledging obviousness and trying to be ironic, good bones, good bones). It rains.

But where does the rain come from? (Ahh a connection, we might get there yet.) It comes from the process of evaporation, water rising from the ocean into clouds that are then blown across to the plains where they dump themselves on the ground (too much exposition, completely boring, but again, bones there, we can work with bones, thin air not so much). And in that ocean that the water left a whale wonders, where does the water go? Why did it leave him? In angry jealousy, he calls upon the Poseidon, who sends the whales up into the clouds, with giant rain storm and slams the plains with a flood of epic proportions. Rabbits wiped out, except one, who now represents Demeter in an all out war between the gods.


See, not so hot on the whole "le arte" thing, but you the reader can follow it. I can work with that. And there is some interesting stuff added, focus being placed on multiple levels, while still not losing people. This type of work is basically what I have been doing for the past four days. Taking dull, deathless, unfollowable prose, and turning it into dull, deathless, readable prose. Not so much fun on the GLS scale of writing, but necessary nonetheless.

And that ends my session of kvetching:D

But now, I just really have a desire to write that rabbit's story . . .;)

*Please note that da new novel is most definitely not about rabbits, though they do make a cameo. And, unfortunately, the whales were cut in an earlier version. The earth and ocean are, however, key background pieces, even though the ocean is more of a metaphysical symbol, and oh that I was making up that last part.

Tags: da new novel, the craft

Right now I'm whipping the last 20k+ of da new novel into a conclusion shape. And as I was chopping away last night, I realized how much my revision process has changed. Strike that, evolved.

See, for me revision is all about trying to unearth the story from the words. And sometimes you have to push the words away, and sometimes you have to use more to pull the story up out of the them. Its all about the narrative line. And I know that's one of my catch-phrases, and I throw it around a lot, but really, its pretty much been my obsession since I stumbled across the concept.

Its like there is this thread that winds through everything. It touches character, and theme, and setting, and plot, but its not them. Its the lifeline the reader needs to have to make sense of the story. I guess you could call it the focus. And as long as I get the narrative line right, I can go back and fix the other stuff later.

As I was editing last night, it was like unpacking the narrative line. Sometimes it was there, but barely visible, and I had to hard line the points where it got lost, accenting the bread crumb trail. Come dear reader, take another step into the forest with me;). But sometimes, there just weren't any bread crumbs at all, and I had to go back and add them, figuring out how to keep the trail visible, while still creating the tension.

Its hard work, trying to hold the focus of the story in your mind, while sifting through all those words. And to help, I am listening to roiling techno and power ballads. Yes on a novel that's unofficial motto was "over the top and keep going", this is the music of revision. So it might be a bit cheesy, and at points over done, but don't deny the urge to pump your glowsticked fist in the air, and rock out. It's exactly how I want the reader to feel: swept away, and gasping for breath at the end.

(Sorry for the visuals, it was the only version of 10,000 maniacs cover that was any good.)


Anyways, if you need to find me, I'll be the kid with torn jeans, ratty t-shirt, and wide grin on his face, waving his shining hands in the air;)

It's done. Da new novel has reached those two important words. The End. No more, no more story to tell in this world. And I am so happy.

But this time is so different. I mean I feel great and happy, but its not the wild enthusiasm that soaked me when I finished my first novel. Its not even the jubilation and energized rush I felt when I finished writing Night Watcher. This is just a warm burning in my chest. Purring, exhausted, drained, but smiling lazily. Sooo good.

I'll have to go back with a chainsaw and hack the last 20k into something readable, but the structure is there. In some ways the ending turned out exactly as I first imagined it. So wild, considering how this story went down on the page. And even as I typed this ending, it came with more than I had envisioned. There was just this overwhelming hope, this feeling of peace that saturated the ending, even though so much happened to these characters. For once I think I've got down the whole character arc thing on a deeper level, I mean I felt the change as I typed these final scenes, how their pov on the world had become radically different from the opening. That was awesome.

I love this novel. I really do. In some ways, this is probably the most revealing honest thing I have ever written. I'm somewhat terrified what my alpha readers are going to see, because they are keen people, and can put the pieces together. But on the other hand, that was the only way I could make this work, by going to that place deep inside and spinning it out onto the page. It's done, it's done. It's done.

And only one more week until I can shout Hallelujah.

Wow, and wow again. I just reached 70k last night on da new novel. And as you know Bob;) I was planning on 80k for the final number.

And my rough drafts? Always come in short. Usually they are missing about 5k, which I then expand during revisions. Because the farther I get into writing, the more compressed my writing becomes. So really, I am feeling that I might have the end within 4k. Perhaps by the end of this weekend.

Wow! The thought of finishing this beast is so overwhelming, I can hardly keep the smile from exploding across my face. I know that I will probably have to spend the rest of March going back and hacking the final sequences into some sort of sense, but man oh man, let me tell you, some of the stuff that happened are ideas I never thought about and are so wild and wonderful that I can't wait to see how my alpha readers to respond.

All right, I am going to go stand in the corner and squee for a few minutes and then get back to work;) Hope your Friday is going well!

So I have noticed a trend in the last few entries that I have been whingeing an awful lot. Which might lead you to believe that I am depressed. And when I thought about that for a second, I started to laugh. Really loud:D

See, quitting the insane job was the best thing I have ever done. I am a little bit stressed out right now, but its because I am doing things I want to do. And let me tell you, there is nothing sweeter than staying up half the night figuring out something you care deeply about and makes you smile in glee when you realize how cool its going to be when you make it work.

Its sorta of like this song:



Unfortunately the real music video for this song is NSFW, but hilarious if you have a chance.

One of my main goals after quitting crazy job, was to get back the sense of fun in my life. Really, I am so fortunate, and sitting on the sofa wrapped in a blanket contemplating my issues is borrrrinnngg. So I'm not perfect? And? Doesn't mean I can't rock out, and smile and enjoy people and things.

I can keep working on my issues, but I'm enjoying life as well. Out in the sun, running through fields with tall grasses, and flicking off the ticks with a giant smile plastered on my face. That is who I want to be.

A second post on the same day? Wonders never cease. Okay technically its tomorrow, but I haven't gone to bed so by pillow time its still the same day;)

So what has me up at this hour, perusing the internets instead of tucked warm as a bug in my bed. Jealousy. Ahh, didn't see that one coming, did you?

See I was reading this interview with a *new* & *upcoming* fantasy talent who just published his first sff novel. And in his answers, he said he was still in college. In fact he is currently attending the same college I graduated from. It was like a kick in the teeth. Here was this kid, who I had never met, accomplishing the impossible.

It wasn't until I took a deep breath, that I realized something. This writing thing, it's damn important to me. See when you have a dream, and you know its a long term dream, you sort of numb your hope. Publishing will happen, one day. Submissions will be accepted, and secret handshakes given and I will be one of the litterati and the words that tumble from my lips will be both wise and funny and etc. Perfect daydream. And you can keep the pain the down, the fact that it hasn't happened yet, with this sort of anesthetic of this future vaguely coming.

Then something like this comes along and slaps that happy right out of ya. All the restraint you spent the last five years gathering together poofs in a cloud of green envy, the understanding that you are growing and developing and that every story is getting better, and that really aren't you glad that early stuff is deeply buried in your trunk, never to be seen by the public?

No, no, no, screams that voice. It is better to suck and be published.

The other half, the sensible side, accepts it. I know that there are no shortcuts to anyplace worth going (thanks Beverly Sills for that). The type of writing career I want, freedom to explore and craft stories that are off-beat and on the edge of genre acceptability, have to have that polish, that high level of skill to be published. And if I did write to "the market" and get published, I would hate every minute of it. Not because writing to the masses is wrong. I love people. Its just that is not what makes me want to write.

And if I wrote for reasons that weren't mine for long enough, it would burn the desire out. Because you can't abuse yourself like that. It only leads to heartbreak, for me at least. Every single time I have ignored that small voice inside me, it has been one hell of a ride to get back to happy. Why take the detour with something this important?

That freedom, however, to choose your own way is the most frustrating and awesome part about this writing journey. Knowing that it can be whatever you want it to be as long as you are brave enough, and willing to work hard for it makes me want to sing from the rafters. But sometimes, sometimes, I get tired. And I would love to be published by the one of the big 5 (Tor, Daw, Bantam, Eos, Del Rey), to have that validation that I am producing something worthwhile. Not art. I'm not that stupid, but something readable.

So yes, I am a little bit over it now, but wow, you know what it feels like when a scab has been picked off? Yeah, it feels like that. Luckily the intratubes are here all night . . . ;)

Sooo, I have been quiet again for a bit. As you guys probably can guess, real life has popped up its head. I basically spent this week putting the pieces back together again. Its boring stuff, but suffice to say, hopefully there won't be anymore till the end of the month.

In other news, I have started to read a book I have waited three years to read. I know, three years, and for most authors I so would have turned in my fan boy chip and gone along my merry way. But this is Michelle West.

( In which I digress beyond appropriate into a favorite hobby horse and ride said hobby horse until its poor shoes come off )

I guess the point of all this is just to show myself that the narrative is not one form. That the reason, I am having such a problem with da new novel is the fact that I keep trying to fit my unorthodox story into an orthodox form, standard quest/epic. But it can't end with a battle and generals and soldiers facing impossible odds. It's not that type of story, it's the wrong emphasis. Not only would it not work, it would be absurd.

No, I have to keep stumbling around and trying to find some way to pull these threads together, to finish answering the question that drove me when I started this. Will power always corrupt? And realize that this is not an epic story, it is a personal story, of three people struggling to understand this. Trying to live a life.

I have to end with close-up not the fade out, and I am not certain I know how to do that.

This is part where the man behind the curtain comes and tells you that everything is going to be okay, and that you can find that answer. But this is real life. And thats what makes writing hard, some times there are no answers, just best attempts.

So here is my get honest post for the month of February *glances at mirror through splayed fingers*. Honestly, it was a good month for me. I submitted my short story "Metal Feathers" and I sent out the revised submission packet to Viable Paradise.

On da new novel front, I forced myself to keep writing, even though I wrote some of the hardest scenes I have ever written before in my life. And I finally hit that point where I know that the end is going to come too soon. There is no way to fit the rest of the book in 21k, but thats what I got to do;). Somehow that makes me feel better.

It was actually kind of inspiring this month, because despite massive headaches in the Reel Wurld, I was able to keep writing (though the last week was a bit rough).

So without further adieu here are the oh so lovely metrics:

Total new words for the month: 14k (all DNN)

Total new words for the year: 25k

Total goals reached this month: Submission of VP packet, Submission of "Metal Feathers"

Favorite paragraph of the month:
This is an excerpt from "Metal Feathers"

During the first year of the plague we were not allowed outside. Our windows were sealed with foam and I forgot what the sun looked like. Sometimes, late at night, I thought I heard something, someone moaning from outside. Teacher would just drape her shawl around us both. In that warmth, she would lean over to me, her hair tickling my cheek as she whispered, “It's nothing Raija, just wind whistling through empty streets.”


Hmm, maybe I should have recast that in active voice . . . sigh, why do you always see these things after the fact?

Goals for next month: Am I going to get ambitious? Oh why the hell not. I want to finish da new novel, first draft. I am 21k away from the finish line. I can get there. Also, keep world-building on next novel, which just earned that nom de plume, NN.

Currently Reading:
The Waves by Virginia Woolf

Just Finished Readng:
The Secret History of Moscow by Ekaterina Sedia

Really I think things are finally coming together with this, and I can't wait to finish this story, and have time to write the other short stories that have been bugging me for the past three months to be written. One seems to have jumped to the front of the pack again, that being the story of how the Orb arrived in Enori. I have a feeling that one is going to fun, word-drenched, beootifulness to write. Alrightey, enough yammering from me. Have a great night everyone!

Tags: a tisktask measure, da new novel

This book is one of the hardest things I have ever written. I just wrote a chapter two days ago that when I started this novel I could have never imagined writing ever. It was just not in the cards, and frankly it twists the story in such a dark way that the whole fabric of the narrative has changed in my mind. It is so harsh and cruel that I think it will probably turn off many people from this story.

And yet. and yet.

I think the chapter has to stay.

See, I finally found the middle of the story. It only took me *mumble mumble* words to get there, but at last I have made it. And the middles for me in stories is always where the magic happens. Its where the pieces that I have been picking at, finally get up and start dancing on their own. They swirl into complicated passes of character development, setting, theme, plot, emotion, and just when I think I know where they are going to go, they shift. And the whole music of the story shifts with them. I love that feeling, because its a transformation into a conversation. You know that the story must go forward, and the narrative knows the story must go deeper, and so you keep plumbing the depths as you step forward.

Its like stepping off the continental shelf at the beach. One moment you are floundering awkwardly on the sandbar, waves crashing against as you try to step forward. Then, you feel the world open up beneath you, and there is a whole ocean with deep currents, ready to take you across the globe.

Now, I am in that weird space, where the words are flowing faster and faster each night. After I break through the initial "don't wanna writes", the dancers are there, eager to pick up where I left off. And I know they are staying there, because I am staying honest with them. If they want to go farther down, as long as they are going forward I let them.

I have already written two chapters that I thought were the hardest to write in this novel, but this latest chapter by far, while easiest to let the words flow, was the hardest to let happen. Watching characters make mistakes, real mistakes that can't be undone with an apology and a kiss of the boo-boo but scars them for life is heart-wrenching. Knowing that everything that follows that scene for the character will bear the burden of that act, it's just so much. Especially when you love your flawed character.

And yet. and yet.

The chapter has to stay. Because it is true to the story in a way I never knew existed, and it helps set up the final chapter that gives even more depth.

That is the part that truly terrifies me. Because I know that capstone chapter is still coming for this novel. It was the image that started all of this in motion, the one I see whenever I think about shelving this work. And if all these incredibly hard scenes have happened to lead up to this moment in my novel, I am sorta of trembling to think what will happen when I reach that place.

And thus ends another wangsty entry about da new novel;) At least the end is coming. Then you guys and me won't have to put up with my mutterings. *much rejoicing*

So in an extreme form of navel-gazing that is the tracking of my writing process, I have a new development to report;)

I can no longer write novels straight out of my personal experiences. And frankly I don't want to anymore.

This realization came to me last night while working on da new novel. There are some issues I am batting around in this story that had been bothering me for years. And I can't make the ending happen without exploring them all in such depth that I feel like I am vomiting my soul. But when I stepped back, and looked at them, I realized that these were the same issues that I had explored in my last unfinished novel, and the one before that.

Really, I don't want to write the same book over and over.

And while I wish I could flatter myself and say that my personal experiences and what I have learned so far are interesting enough to supply a lifetime's worth story, the thought makes me sick. There is so much else out there. So, I have started to read some non-fiction in preparation for my next novel, which will probably be one of the darkest and yet most hopeful things I have written.

Its about a war-torn city, ten years after the big collapse, and how they pull themselves back from the brink, again. And while I have seen cities in decline, and lived in one, I wanted this to be real. I wanted to go just beyond my experiences with urban decay, I wanted to capture that mode of thinking that allows people to survive in warzones, to keep on pushing past the despair to create a new world. So I have started to read nonfiction accounts of warzones.

The first, which I finished earlier this week was the Belfast Diary by John Conroy. Simply put this book is amazing. Conroy does a wonderful job of supplying enough of the history at the right moments to show how deep the conflict runs, without overwhelming the reader or losing the focus on the people who live in Belfast at the time he wrote the book. Part turns funny, sad, and devastating, I could feel my brain picking apart his descriptions of the people and events, and turning them into new things. Things for my new novel.

I have to say that I like this development. I have two more books to read, that I have bought so far for the da new new novel, which probably won't be started till the fall, but oooh, I just wanted to share a bit of scene that came to me the other day. Please remember, that this is still very unpolished, and I don't have the whole context down yet, actually, just this piece. But I know who says it and when (my brain is quite that weird like that):

"Don't you dare say it Covey!" I huffed a puff of breath into the frozen air. A name is not just a word, it's a thing. Living and full like a mirror that can turn and catch your reflection at any moment. It shows what we are, and I was no longer that name. No, I couldn't see what I had loss in that silvered glass.

I'd rather be nameless.


Now my playful mind wants to drop the old new novel, and start to work right away on this new shiny thing. But I am hopeful that letting it simmer, and feeding it a steady diet of new information the novel will be ready to be written when I come for it. A boy can hope right? ;)

Tags: desk pillowery, the craft