A New Year, an Old Goal

Back in July Writer's Digest (my hooker of choice) offered a special on a couple e-books. One of which was a book that offered a different writing prompt for every day of a full calendar year.  I wanted to start immediately, but seeing as how the book began on January 1st I thought I'd wait until that time to begin.  Especially since the prompts grew more difficult with each passing day.

Like most things I say "I'll remember this for later." I very nearly forgot. It wasn't until Writer's Digest sent me another dirty tease about that book which reminded me of it's existence on my computer.  So, if all of my other resolutions fail I wish for this one to at least go.  I think I can write everyday and post it on here.  (Can't I?)

The first prompt of Year of Writing Prompts (by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit) is very fitting for the first of January.

"January 1. Your Resolutions. What are your New Year's resoltuions? Take one and create a fictional story surrounding it."

Like countless thousands, I have made at least one resolution.  Though being the lazy overachiever I am I have made a list of 6 different things I would like to accomplish in the new year. Whether I actually achieve them is an entirely different story.  One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Forest Gump which perfectly sums up my feelings about resolutions and a new year.  The scene is of Forest,Captain Dan, and the two hookery girls in a bar watching the ball drop in time square.  One of them with big doughy eyes watches and says in a whisper "I love new years. Everybody gets a second chance." And if I am given a second chance I'm going to at least mildly attempt it with gusto.
My Resolutions:
1 - Finish my book.
2 - Get in shape.  I'm 58 lbs overweight.
3 - Read at least 12 books.
4 - Get spiritually settled.
5 - Start a family.
6 - Pay off my credit cards.
Derek and Moira stood nervously in the exam room.  Despite having told her numerous times to sit Moira had refused.  So instead he wrapped his wife in his embrace.  He pressed his cheek to hers and hum a tune of his own creation.  It was one of the things she loved most about him.  The gentle melody soothed her nerves and she could focus on more important things like fertility and being pregnant. 
This was round number four in their battle with her failing uterus.  In one of there attempts she thought she had a knock out but it came in with a sucker punch and knocked all the wind from her gut.  The two had been devastated and spent nearly a year recuperating.
"Do you think she's taking so long because it's good news?" she asked.  She kept her eyes shut and focused on her and him, blocking the rest of the world out.  In her mind she and he stood in the vast expanse of the galaxy among stars and moons.
Derek stopped humming and hugged her tighter.
"It will be what it will be." he said.
Luckily her eyes were shut, and him not looking cause he would have been offended at her eye roll.  It was the best he coud offer at such a time.  He was just as clueless as her and she knew that.
They had prepared in the car before they dare enter the office.  And prior to that they had spent all night talking it through.  The final conclusion then was if this didn't work they would have to adopt.  Derek had made such a beautiful altruistic case for it.
"There are so many other kids in this world desperate for a family.  Why would we deny them a loving home?"
She had hated him for his sense of logic. Even a tiny bit jealous.  She had always assumed he felt the same as her when it came to biological or not. How could they be close to one that wasn't made up of the two of them? It was an absolutely selfish thought.  She knew that.  But with all her knowledge she couldn't change the pressing fear and guilt weighing in her chest.
Please, God, she prayed for the billionth time.
With a click of the door the doctor swooped into the exam room.  He instinctively looked at the table before looking around the door.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The two stepped from the other's embrace and stood, only inches apart, with their hands clasped together. Derek like the gentleman that he was offered his hand to the doctor. The white coat clad physician took it and gave it a firm shake.  Already his confidence and cool demeanor had Moira hopeful.  Of the times before she had known, before they had spoken a word, the crushing answer. 
"So we got back the test and I have some bad news and some good news."
Moira's heart froze in her chest.   Derek tightened his grip around her hand.  They could do this, it said.
"You are definitely pregnant," he said then looked down.
"You know what, Dr. Stewart, You can stop there.  Unless the bad news is that it would somehow harm my wife I don't think we should know. At this point, no matter how the baby is we will love it all the more.  Because it's ours."
Moira looked at her husband, studying his square features and stubbled complexion. 
"Okay." The doctor said.
Derek met his wife's gaze and smiled.
"Because it's ours," she said.

Postcard From the Edge

It has been some time since I have written or updated anything with this particular online journal. Well, my personal-personal blog hasn't languished. It's been rather busy these past few months, but there are just some things you don't want to put on blast on one's own personal site. Especially since the intention of this site is to be a platform to build a writing/author career. But basically, people don't need a face for my crazy displays.

Insanity aside I have been making great progress with my book. I mean, enough that it has reignited my fire for my novel The Love Immortal. My current finish date is sometime in August.

I was having a tough time (if you haven't seen in prior posts) editing the damn thing. The moment I sat down at the keyboard to edit I would panic and then subsequently stop altogether because I had gone... for lack of a better word, crazy. I was just overwhelmed. So, I pushed it aside and then just tried to forget about it in an attempt to have my creative ego become a flat surface again. It was in these moments of silence in between projects that I came up with an idea.

When I was younger I remember I would spend hours, HOURS, sitting at my keyboard editing my novel at the time. I would prop up my notebook with either my new chapters to input into WordPad or my corrections from the work already inserted, and I would go to town. I love that memory and would look back and wonder what happened to that kid. Where did he go?

I analyzed the scene and it became clear to me. I would work at one piece at a time. I took baby steps in a larger project. That thought then lead to when I actually finished this project the first go around, NaNoWriMo. And then it dawned on me that it's all about moderation. When I took a massive undertaking and broke it into bite size pieces I was able to accomplish my goals. So, I took my entire novel and broke it from one word document into 31 and agreed to work on one chapter at a time.

I was still nervous from my previous attempt and decided to vent my fears on my personal blog. That was when a person I had never met offered up a token of advice I had never thought of; she said to print out each chapter and edit them on paper.

At the time I thought this woman's suggestion was preposterous. I didn't see how printing it out would make any difference than reading it on a computer screen. Editing is editing regardless. Although, I was desperate and didn't see the harm In giving it a try. Besides, it fit in with that memory of mine.

On the first day I blew through the first chapter and made some great notes and corrections. On the second I input them and transferred the file into a folder titled "Final." Since that time I have finished 8 chapters and couldn't be prouder or more exhilarated to continue on. It felt as though I had found that kid in that moment.

Now, I am forcing myself to remain focused on this task and not on my query letter synopsis.

I hope to have another update soon sharing even more about my progress.

My advice to you (whomever you may be) print the damn thing out to edit. It DOES make a world of difference.

Up From the Murky Depths

It's difficult to become a writer. It's even worse to get past your own demons. I know I've written about this many times before but it is a problem that plagues me every single day. In the moments that I feel strong and the darkness has crept back into the murky hallows of my thoughts I feel invincible. I know that when I get home I will sit my butt down in my chair and I will write. My fingers will fly over the keys giving birth to my words. Yet it is in the moment that I sit down that the creatures of fear and insecurity smell the fresh creativity and they come slithering from their holes and consume everything in their sights until I am left hallow and can barely bring myself to even look at my manuscript. (They just might eat that too... you never know.)

Patton Oswalt has this bit about this movie he saw called "Death Bed" and his own journey of screen writing. It's a hilarious piece of writing and if you're easily offended I'd tread lightly with his other pieces but this one is pretty tame. It mainly is his imagined story of the guy that wrote and sold the idea for "Death Bed: the Bed that Eats People," and how the author had never any doubt in his mind that it was good. Or, as Patton so eloquently puts it, even worse had his moments of doubt and pushed through them to finish the script to the horrible film.

As I struggle through this I am amazed anything ever gets published. Truly. If I ever come into contact with someone who has truly taken the time to edit their work, sent it to an agent, and had it commercially published, I want to shake their hand where I will then inevitably fall to their feet, clutching onto their legs, while I cry. My main goal to hopefully absorb their supernatural powers. If that plan fails, then I would ask them what they did. I've read a few books. All of it is the same. "Ignore your inner critic." You've met critics, right? They're loud, obnoxious, opinionated, douches; and the only way to ever silence them is to hit them with a car. So, unless I want to write a book in the vein of "orange is the new black" that isn't the route I particularly want to take.

I feel like I need to be more specific. Where track on my creativity train seems to end is when it comes to editing ravine. The men that were supposed to build a bridge failed to complete it across the expanse and now whatever attempts are made causes the train to derail and plummet to the rocky terrain below. I can't be critical with my own work. I could when I was kid, for some reason, but as an adult I'm way more fragile than I ever was as a high school student. I remember sitting at my computer for hours after inputting my written notes into WordPad and then going through cutting, rearranging, rewording, each one of my chapters without shedding a tear. It was just something that had to get done. It was just part of the process. No one ever told me, I just knew. It's only after I read books and put all the pressure on myself that I I'm scared to even try.

I wish I could go back and talk to my childhood self. It never occurred to me, until just now, that no one (other than my school teachers I guess) how to edit. It was just something I did. It was a process I picked up entirely on my own and I would remain at my desk for hours doing it. Now when I pick up the story that I edited from that time it's really quite good. The tone, the structure, the pacing. Everything. The story captured my attention that even I, who knew where the story went, wanted to keep reading. I had forgotten so many of the little things I had done.

Day 1 of 31

I feel I must preface this with some sort of random explanation. In my super delusional mind I think I have this army of dedicated, mindless, followers that are unsure of my daily activities. I understand that is greatly preposterous but I digress.

For whatever reason I have decided to begin NaNoWriMo a month early. I guess I just wanted an extra day to bear some of the weight from the ultimate goal of a novel length work of fiction at 50,000 words. The other thing that confuses me is why I chose to do it publicly. Already I am sweating and going crazy fearing what people will say and think. Like any good writer I'm a perfectionist.(Mother of god, what was I thinking.) But I made a broad statement on my twitter and regardless of who reads it I made a promise and I want to stick to my word.

My internal mantra has been "just do it." I'm sure anyone that has done NaNoWriMo in the past knows how it works. The basic idea is to hit the allotted number of words; which for me stands at 1,612 since I have a whole extra day. I'm not supposed to re-read, or try and fix what I've written. It's just going. Like the website says: it's a sprint, not a marathon.

This exercise is not concentrated on the ultimate goal of a polished work of fiction. That of course comes later. This is PURELY a chance to get the words down that constantly bounce about in my thoughts. So... here I go.

Day 1 of 31.
Goal: 1,612 words
Start time: 9:15

When Aidan Palmer turned onto Tarotwood Lane, facing his house that sat at the end of the cul-de-sac street, two things were glaringly wrong. His eight year old son Jeffrey sat on the curb by himself, with his knees in his chest, in front of their home and a car that did not belong to him or anyone he knew was parked in the driveway, the driver side door open. Aidan sped up for the last few feet, screeching to a halt into the space next to the stranger vehicle. He hopped out and looked in through the window. The keys still plugged in the ignition, along with a large leather purse in the passenger seat, and a can of diet soda.

Aidan rushed around the car to his son that stood when he came into view, and then met him half-way.

"Jeff," Aidan said, "What're you doing?"

"I don't want to go inside. The lady scares me."

Aidan's green eyes turned to look at the house. The front door stood only slightly ajar.

"What woman, son?"

Jeff merely shrugged, playing with his right ear, a simple clue that told his father he was upset.

"What I want you to do is to sit in my car and lock the doors. Do you understand?"

Jeffrey nodded and held his hand out for the car keys, which his father produced from his pocket and set them into his tiny palm. The young boy did as his father instructed and rounded the end of the Aidan's dinged and scratched pick-up.

Aidan faced the house and braced himself.

The next thing Aidan noticed, as he pushed open the door, was that the deadbolt still held the key in place. The very same key Aidan had just placed beneath the bear statue for Jeffrey this morning.

"Hello?" he called out, his body tensing.

Sprinkled through the house, like a trail of bread crumbs, were women's clothes. He followed them into the family room where he found the mexican woman sitting on the couch, wrapped in a purple blanket, sipping on a juice box held delicately in one hand and holding a bottle of Beer in the other.

"What're you doing?" she said, her brow furrowed.

Aiden repeated the question before he said, "This is my house!"

The woman failed to show any response that she understood. Instead she sat silently, taking another long sip from the straw.

He looked around the room with wide eyes, checking to see if anything was misplaced or taken.

"You need to leave," He said suddenly.

The woman stopped drinking and glared at him.

"Dead Pastor Skip and the ghost told me to come here."

"What?" Aidan said. "Who is pastor skip?"

The woman stood, the blanket falling off of her curved shoulders. Luckily she still wore a red set of bra and panties. In any other circumstance he may have found this exciting but in this very moment he could not. Then there was the fact that she was definitely older than his taste.

"You don't go to Soul Factory?"

"No I don't." He stumbled over words as he tried to find the right ones. "This is my house. Please get dressed and go home."

"The ghost told me to come here."

"I really don't care." He started to pull out his phone. "What's your name, I'm calling the police."

"Can I use the bathroom first?"

Aidan was dumbfounded and annoyed.

"Fine," he said.

The woman made her way without any instruction.

"Do they use the bathroom?" She said, turning back to him at the entry to the hall.

"Who's they?"

"The two ghosts that live here."

"Yeah," he said, "All the time, it's their room."

"Oh, okay," she said blandly. "Can I use the bathroom?"

"I told you yes," Aidan barked.

The woman ignored him and instead answered by entering the bathroom.

Aidan dialed 911 and walked into the kitchen as it rang. He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

"Hello, what is your emergency?"

"Yes, a strange woman walked into my house while I was gone and she's still here. She won't leave."

"Do you know the woman?"

"No."

There was a flurry of sharp clicks on the other end.

"Where are you calling from?"

He told her his location and sighed. He popped the metallic cap of the bottle and took a long gulp.

He turned and the woman stood at the end of the counter. Fully naked, her purse clutched in both hands at her chest.

"Please hurry," he said and hung up the phone.

"What happened to your underwear?"

The woman upended her purse and poured it's contents onto the tile surface. A crushed box of cigarettes, a lighter, gold earrings, necklace adorned with jewels, a leather luis vutton wallet, and a bag of a mysterious powder. Suddenly all of this made since to him.

The woman tossed her bag to the side and grabbed her wallet. She pulled out her license and held it inches from Aidan's face. He took a defensive step back. Then when she didn't move he took the card from her and looked at it. She turned and began walking around the house.

He picked up his phone and took a photo of the license and then the woman, staring into the corner of the room.

She lifted a finger and began drawing shapes in the air.

Glancing at the license again Aiden took note of the address. It was clear on the other side of town.

When he looked up again she was gone. He rushed from room to room trying to find her but she was gone, along with all of her clothes. When he went outside her car too was nowhere to be found.

Jeffrey sat in the driver's side, crouched on his knees, his body turned toward the window.



Word Count: 977
End time: 10:40

Theft and other things...

My mind still cannot wrap itself around the fact that my laptop was stolen out of my dining room, while I was home with a large group of friends. Nothing else was taken, not a single other trinket, but the pc. My friend's purse was sitting in a chair maybe a foot away from it but that was left behind. My 3DS XL sat on the leather sectional, maybe three feet from the door, (certainly on the way in or out of the dining room and house) and it remains. And the thing that really blows my mind is that it was the most inexpensive device in our entire house. The phone in my pocket was more than that laptop, but it was that which the thief took.

The only solace I get from this situation is despite losing my laptop, containing my many manuscripts, short stories, and the like, I still have them in safe keeping. And to top it all off I don't think they could get to them anyway since my computer had a password protecting it. Although, my best companion and techy told me that was trivial.

When I was younger my parents, for whatever reason, thought it'd be cheaper if the husband of a woman my mother worked with built me a PC for Christmas. It may have been, for all I know, but it ended up where twice the hard drive crashed and refused to load. The first time he successfully fixed his folly, but the second... I was mortified because I had lost all of my work. All of my novels were wrapped up into that single device. I didn't know what to do. As a last resort I took it to best buy and the computer guys there (long before the geek squad) were able to retrieve them and put them on a disc.

Since then I have been relentless when it comes to saving and resaving. I have multiple thumb drives, my files are saved on multiple home computers, and now I have them in a dropbox. Dropbox is the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. I cannot stress that enough. I preach of it's wonders to any and all I come across because it truly is a miracle product. That is where my stories are even now. All the ideas I haven't locked in permanent memory are there. My many incarnations of my current novel. All of it. And if they're not in there they're on the thumb drive I have ringed with my house and car keys.

Like I said... I'm a relentless saver.

As to the computer... My boyfriend gave me the computer he just recently bought for his company to me. It's nice... But I liked my other one, despite being so low-tech. It did what I wanted. It was my friend, my companion, my secret lover. And like any lost love I will truly miss it. But in the end it was just an object. Easily replaceable, as I have found, since I already have another one. It all boils down to the point: who the hell did this?

No matter how many times I run it through my mind it just doesn't make any sense. None. Why take that but nothing else? I've looked. I keep hoping that this is some elaborate joke against me plotted out by one of my "friends." But I knew at the moment I saw it gone, that many in my life refuse to believe, that it is just gone. Gone gone gone gone gone gone. Gone. And I have to live with that.

But, silver lining time folks, I have all of my work. All of my stories, novels, ideas. All of it is safe within my reach and that is truly a miracle and brings me momentary peace. In fact, I worked on a project this evening just to get acquainted with my new friend. I've decided to call him obsidian, but that is irrelevant.

July July

A few weeks ago I had decided to spend all of July devoting an hour to an hour and a half to writing. The main goal being that I spend this time working on my novel to be ready to submit during august and into the fall. (Depending on it's likability.) But it seems that I am taking, quite literally, dime store advice from a tarot card reader on what I should do.

I was involved with the Hollywood Fringe festival. I performed as Barney in the sequel "love never dies." It was an hour long over the top production written by a good friend of mine. It was fun and a good way to end my theatre time. After our final show dinner we headed over to "fringe central." It was this non-stop party at an art gallery located next-door to the theatre. My ward (faith) and I arrived earlier than the rest and after doing a once around at the party I came across a man sitting in a big bird cage doing tarot card readings. I immediately stopped.

I have to admit that I do buy into horoscopes, palm reading (which I can do, by the way), and tarot cards. I could go into great detail to why I do but that isn't really the topic at hand. Either way, I just wanted to make it aware that I have a fondness for them.

The tarot card reader was working solely on tips so there was nothing really to lose.

The teller, Matt, asked me if I had a particular question in mind or if I just wanted a reading. I went with the latter because the only question I want to know I swore, a long time ago, I would never ask a fortune-teller. Ever.

Matt spread the deck across the red table cloth and instructed me to choose three cards at random. Two of my choices I can't remember the name of the cards. The first card I drew I will forever remember. It was the emperor card. That is the card designated to my birthdate. So, it was really eerie that it was the first card I selected. Of the other two, I remember that they were exact opposites. One represented struggle and pain and the other was extreme joy and happiness. His appraisal of my choices was: I was struggling with something that made me extremely happy. I can't remember his precise wording of the reading, I do remember he was uncertain and confused.

Honestly, his reading made so much sense that it brought me some relief. I have spent the past two years struggling and rushing to finish my novel. It's so close but no matter what I do I force myself back. I fill my time with other things or I push myself to do it and thus end up hating the entire experience. It's truly been a "struggle."

Matt's advice was that I should take some time away from this one particular project and work on other things and to come back to it.

His advice isn't that novel. (Ha, novel.) I have read over and over to take a break from certain projects that keep giving the artist a difficult time, and to just return refreshed and relaxed. I just ignored it. I feel 100% compelled to finish my book. I want to be published. I want to have my words out in the world. I just want to feel accomplished. So I am pushing myself into it without really enjoying it and sucking my enjoyment out.

I understand that at some point, if I ever do get published that I will be forced to work under strict deadlines. It is just a fact of the business (I have read.) But I'm not there yet. At least now I should enjoy it before I "American dream" it and end up loathing that which I loved.

So in taking Matt's advice, I will spend the month of July writing but not on my book. Instead I will spend an hour every night exercising my creativity. I have a copy of "The Writer's Book of Matches" and I will select a new prompt every night to write during that time. If I feel compelled to continue on with the project, so be it. If not, there is no pressure.