Subdued Intrinsic

For one, I inappropriately capitalize titles.

Personal Note: It's almost inevitable I'll "steal" st least one article of my husband's clothing during the day. He's not thrilled with it, but as long as I stay away from his most beloved sweatshirts or whatever he doesn't complain too loudly*. I usually keep it to a tee shirt or his socks, but I sometimes steal his belt (YAY! for "wiry" men!), and I pretty much steal his old Vaan's EVERY DAY because I don't want to dig out my ballet slipper Skechers to pick up the boys from school.

He hates that most of all. Hee.

Some people call it 'planning'. Evil people and book people (not a mutally exclusive or inclusive couple of species) call it plotting. Either way, it means thinking ahead. Two things have brought these things to the forefront of my thoughts (besides, you know, writing a novel).

First, the amazingly upbeat, gracious, and intuitive Jodi Meadows has written a post about the need for authors to challenge characters. If you're writing a book, or think you might one day want to take a crack at writing one, I HIGHLY advise you get over there and bookmark that post. Jodi tackles the 'lesson' in such a way that both visual and practical thinkers alike will be able to take away something valuable from it. I'd describe the post in more detail, but it's better if you just go over there and see for yourself.

Secondly, this morning I was a little off my game getting boys to school, and my brain was assimilating info in weird orders. For one thing, I have my young nephew A. today, and it's been a while since I've had a four-year-old. He falls into that gap between my own three boys, so I was kind of at a loss about what to do with him for a while. I knew the novelty of A's presence would make the boys scatterbrained, too. So, I was rushing around, trying to think ahead.

Turns out I didn't need to try so hard. After A, Ben, and I got back from taking older boys to school, I grabbed my glasses, a bowl of cereal, and pair of socks, and planned to put them all to good use. I reached to put on my glasses, thinking clearly to myself, "I am putting on my glasses, now", but I didn't put on my glasses. some back part of my brain somewhere informed the voluntary action part of my brain, "Hey, wait a minute. We need control of the girl for just a second for maintenance reasons" and that back part instructed my hand to rub my eyes and my nose, and wipe my face. My brain was already thinking ahead. Instead of putting on my glasses only to have to take them back off again, my brain knew the better order was "Rub, rub, wipe, THEN put on glasses". My brain 'overrode' me.

What does this mean about plotting? Is it a cautionary tale against trying too hard? Do we instinctively know all the who's, what's, what's, when's, and why's of storytelling, but we're so focused on 'getting it perfect' we forget we know them. I think sometimes we need to put all our 'parts' in front of ourselves and just take a deep breath. The big picture might come into better focus.

*Also, I think it helps I explained a big part of this clothing theft involves me feeling closer to him while he's at work . . . except the shoes, of course. That's just pure laziness on my part. *wink*

Personal Note: I am nagging you again. That poor SocialVibe badge to your left has been stuck at 57 minutes for a long time. Do another acitivy, if you don't mind taking three minutes. I think I'd actually rather you do the activity than read this post.

Today, after this post I’m going to write a post about how I see villains. And tension. But you won’t see this post until tomorrow, because I’m telling Blogger not to release it into the wild until then. Yeah, I know; I’m diabolical and crap*, as my friend Matt might say.

But first! An update about what’s going on here in Amethyst is Learning to be a Writer Land.

Top of the list, I have two extra humans to guide through homework and such in the afternoons, bringing my total to four students (and a toddler). The toddler isn’t slacking on needing my attention, though. He’s learning to use a potty, so he requires my attention every fifteen minutes or so. It almost killed me yesterday. Mondays generally have a lot of homework for all four older children, and this one was true to form.

Next, I’ve been reading. A lot. Because when the aforementioned favorite cousin came to visit, we (oh, unwise, unwise we) went into a bookstore (on a side note, if cash is a little tighter, but you have to see to your book thirst, I suggest heading into the Middle Grade section of your bookstore. Most paperbacks are under ten bucks there, and either those MG authors have stepped it up or the world at large has realized people in their early teens aren’t just elementary kids with things budding and sprouting—in other words, not idiots—and there are some really fantastic MG stand-alones and series to choose from). So far I've loved Lisa McMann’s Fade (have a total crush on her character "Cabel"), am having a little trouble getting into Pride and Predjudice and Zombies, not because I don't like it, or it isn't good, but because I am such a cannon loyalist. The book is different, and interesting, sure, but it's not catching me. I also really like Terry Pratchett's A Hat Full of Sky, sequel to his The Wee Free Men.

But. The cake-takers so far have been Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games, and Catching Fire. These books are the first two in a trilogy, and I've been putting off reading them because I knew even before I bought one, after I'd read them, I'd be hit in the face just how much work I have to do on plot, tension points, and cliffhangers. Collins is a pro when it comes to these things. I can't say how surprised I've been while I read the books, because I knew so much going in, but even knowing what would happen I found myself flipping pages like crazy just to get the answers I needed. On the surface it all seems simple, when you describe it. Post-apocalyptic girl, fighting for her life and the lives of her loved ones. Easy, right? Noooo. Not easy, because Collins has made us all wonder just how girl is going to pull it off. We're all pretty sure we know where we're ending up, but getting there is just so amazing.

Anyway, I am once again convicted of my need to think ahead. I, too, am writing a trilogy. I'm studying writers who have totally nailed cliff-hangers, taking notes when I catch my breath, asking myself what about a certain feature or passage makes my brain go, "No! No, don't stop there, I have to know what happens!". Yes, the project feels enormous again. I knew it would. That's okay. I've got time. It's like I tell all those boys while I'm overseeing their homework: I'd rather take a little time and do it right now, than have to waste all that time having to RE-do it because it wasn't right in the first place.

Get ready to hold your breath. I plan on taking it away.

*Okay, so technically Matt would probably not use the word 'crap', but I'm editing his language in this hypothetical situation.

Personal Note: I think it's one of the coolest things in the worlds that I'm Twitter/Aspiring Writer friends with a video game developer/programmer/whatever exactly that I wouldn't understand.

I'll admit it. I'd kind of given up. Burn out was approaching nuclear levels and any time I thought of editing this book again--especially an edit this extensive, where practically the entire novel is reimagined--part of me curled up in a little ball and meweled pitiably. I avoided it. I gave myself plenty of highly plausible excuses why I hadn't made any progress, like taking on the care of two extra boys in the afternoons, bringing my total to five between the ages of two and nine (that's four sets of homework, people. Four different math assignments on any given evening!).

I rustily churned out ten, fifteen pages, not really happy with the end products, but at least being able to call it progress. Just enough to say I was working so that nagging little voice didn't get too loud when it chirped at me.

And then I got the flu. You remember my last post. You remember the drugged energy bursts. Did I mention that one of them forced me into reorganizing the entire scene index/timeline? Yes? No? Well, it did. And that, heroes and heroines, was a game changer.

Ever since, I've been editing like mad. I blew through another four scenes yesterday and today, and retweaked others I'd already been over once this time. It's insane how much everything is opening up, how every character seems to be doing exactly what I need him or her to do, and it all feels natural.

As for the title of this post, well, you may have already read this on Twitter (I was really proud of it), but today my girl, my main character and narrator (first person love, y'all!), called someone a bloated wart-sack, and that, to me, is just about as fabulous as when Rory Gilmore called Logan Huntzberger a butt-faced miscreant, which is my favorite insult in the HISTORY of insults.




Ladies and gentleman, I AM BACK!

Personal Note: I have a Tsunami of a headache, and we've completely run out of any sort of Tylenol/Advil/Excedrin/Aspirin for adults. You don't want to know what I ingested to make it go away, but suffice to say the words 'grape flavor' were involved and there was some chewing required.





I took a little blogging break after NaBloPoMo because first, I'm lazy like that, and secondly, it's the holidays; things are all over the place, including my abilities to create a post-worthy, informative blog concept.

Jack, however, is all over this like white on rice.

As you may have guessed, today I'll be writing about truth, and again, on the heels of a fellowess writer also writing on the same subject (maybe there's like a spore in the air and all the blogging writers breathe it in at the same time? I dunno, but if so, I hope they're the cute little fuzzy ones like that thing with the bow on its head in Horton Hears a Who).

Anyway, TEH TROOTH! Ize handelz it!

When you've got your hands deep into gut-rearranging revisions you have a lot of little epiphanies (or at least I hope you do, because otherwise you're basically just rearranging crap . . . pun and disgusting feces reference intended), and sometimes these epiphanies will take a toll on your ego. I don't know if you've noticed, but a writer's ego is a sort of an oxymoron incarnate. On one hand, it is the most delicate, fragile thing, so killing it off should be pretty easy, but on the other it's so vast and enormous you can't ever take it out entirely. It makes me think of those under-ground forests that only look like separate and individual trees, but really is one great big boss fight of a plant. That, my sweet little readers, is a writer's ego.

And that's part of what's on the line when you revise, because sometimes you have to suck it up and admit to yourself a reaction here or a scene there was--le gasp!--wrong. Because admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery (unless your problem is loss of electronic documents into the ether of extensional limbo, in which case you're just out of luck, because I don't care what Microsoft Word tells you, you're not recovering anything).

The truth I'm handling is that I am sometimes wrong. I sometimes make someone fictional do something, be something, say something they never would in, uh, "real" life. More often than not the imaginary friend manages to get my attention and correct my misconceptions, but sometimes it take a meat-grinder and some scary music to make me see reason. I'm actually having a lot of fun with the mistakes I'm finding this go around, because not only is correcting them making the story ring truer, but it's clarifying some things in later books I was really fuzzy on, because I couldn't make out how to get from Point B to Point C with the path between Points A and B so fuzzy and sort of Plot-blocking me.

So, short moral: Be okay with being wrong. Accept it's going to happen, it isn't as personal as you think, and it means you have the chance to be RIGHT in the future. And seriously, who doesn't absolutely LOVE being right? I mean, dude, come on.
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Personal Note: We're going to a family bonfire (er, I mean a bonfire hosted by family, not one where we roast our relatives) and there will be various foods cooking on sticks, old tool style. As you might guess, there will be S'mores. I'm not big on S'mores. For one thing, I'm kind of a DO NOT MIX THE FOODS variety of OCD, and secondly, the concept of a square millimeter of my skin getting *shivers* sticky for a nanosecond freaks me out like you would not believe. Adhesives are a personal Hell, folks. Anyway, as irony would have it, I was tapped to bring along the fixin's for the S'mores. I got all the regular stuff, and then, because I'm a wild and crazy guy (I need a Steve Martin here), I bought a large bar of Hershey's Cookies-n-Creme chocolate, to experiment with. I'll let you know how that turns out.

And now, for the main feature of this blog post. I know I've not been writing a lot of helpful blogs right now, but I'm claiming holiday chaos. I'm not doing a lot of revision or other writing, either, because I know myself; if I try and interruption after interruption were to dog me I would eventually try to kill someone. And I love all the people I live with. I did not give birth to three of them only to take their lives back in a homicidal rage X number of years later.

So, I've been posting rather egoscentric, fluff posts (you're probably getting another one tomorrow, just forewarning, because my betas, friends, and readers have their own opinions of who would make good Dionadir characters, and I am entirely pro-supporting-reader-insight). I do plan on writing more thoughtful posts by the start of next week, promise. But for today, as with yesterday, I give you this kind of awesome bit if 'Yay! For me!" news.

This morning my husband surprised me buy going to Dell.com and sitting me down to pick and choose the features I wanted for my Christmas present, a new Dell Netbook (Don't worry, Bales; I made absolutely sure it came with the newest edition of Microsoft Office, and Windows 7, so I'll still have SpellCheck, which we know is something I desperately depend on). N. even paid a little more so I could have the Product (Red) colored one. You guys know how I feel about supporting charities whenever financially possible, and since that shade of red is my favorite (hello, look at my hair!) it's a Double Bonus, right. Anyway, it'll look like this:



It won't come in for anywhere between one and two weeks, but it finally sort of sank in I'd have a computer all my own, just for my work. That's what N. said. It's a gift to show his faith in my writing and how much he supports my dreams. And now I think I'm gonna cry.

;)

I haven't a had a bowl, yet. I'm kind of starving. But it's okay, because I know where I keep the breakfast food.

The Holidays are a questionable time to start major revisions. "Go ahead and put them aside until all the triptophan and Santa cookies are out of your system," you suggest, and normally I'd agree with you. Hades, it might even be good from a "process" stand-point, give me that edge of a little more objectivity when I tackle it. But the this is, there's a ton of stuff to change, and even though I've written quite a bit of it down, shared with other people, using them as human flash drives, and even organized a rough timeline/changes synopsis. And yet, I'm still worried I'll forget it all. I'll forget the "why?" of a lot of it, as in why someone does what they do, or why something unfolds the way it does. If you didn't gather yet, the "why" of things is second only to well-developed characters to me. So, it's important.

*sigh*

When I buckle in (I do have a family to take care of/hang out with), it seems to be working out, though, so there's goodness in that. And I'm okay knowing it will take at least two, possibly three drafts, like writing a whole new book (my ego smarts at that a little, but the rest of me has sucked it up).

Okay, I need my coffee and other sustenence. We can't all be only Maxwell House's slave.

Personal Note: I was almost a teacher, in the traditional sense. It's true; if I hadn't taken a semester off school to plan my wedding and prepare for transferring colleges (which I was doing before I knew I was getting married, just to make that clear), and then I hadn't found out three weeks after the wedding I was two weeks pregnant with Gabriel, I would have gone on to finish my degree in education. My grandfather was a teacher, so besides having a natural affinity for it, there was that added bonus of making him especially proud, a little nod of respect in his direction.

But . . . I'm not a teacher, as in one who goes to an education institute with a lesson plan book, and tries to carve what's in it into the heads of non-adults. Some may argue that I'm my children's first teacher, or my readers' teacher, but the truth is, "teaching" isn't what novelists are generally paid to to. We're paid to entertain, to illicit emotional responses, not help you memorize your times tables (I only know up to my tens--stupid math *grumble, grumble).

My job as a writer is to imagine the intensities of life, but its heartbreaks are small and insular, and at the end of the day, only my own. When there's grief in my working life, it belongs only to me, or possibly a few fictional people. It doesn't affect others in some negative way. Rejection is personal. Tragedy is empathetic, but easily set aside, because it's of the 'make-believe' variety. Failure doesn't fail anyone else, and if I give into it, it is always, always my fault, not a result of the impossible restrictions put on me by some higher authority. I have all control over the quality of results my efforts produce. If I do the work, I'll reap the reward.

In my personal life, I'm insanely blessed. I married into the most amazing family, and they all live within fifteen minutes of my house. My husband is the perfect compliment to my needy, anxious personality. He's always telling me to "Just breathe". He's no nonsense, and logical to a fault. I've probably referred to him as a Vulcan on more than one occasion. My sons are all amazing kids, beautiful and typical, but also huge-hearted. I get to stay home and be here for them, because my husband makes enough money on his own. Even though I could sometimes scream, that's amazing in this economy.

So why the Hades am I whining about the opportunity to make a mess better? Why am I complaining about being given enviable guidance on the road to my own dreams, especially when all I have to do it TAKE IT? I don't have to sit by and watch other people lose themselves in the crush of reality, knowing there's nothing I can do about it. I have freedom.

My best friend does not.