Musings of a 10 year plan

So, I’m flighty. I know it and am owning it. I flit from one thing to the next always hoping to find where it is I belong. I don’t understand why I couldn’t have done this when I was a teenager and not in my twenties but… life lesson learned, time wasted, moving on. My main goal will always be the same. No matter what new dream I concoct it will always remain “get published.” Even when I buckle down and then spaz out because I become increasingly overwhelmed I still maintain that hope of one day publishing one of my novels. That’s how I know it is what I want to do. Now, I may want it more so now than later but I am discovering the art itself has a mind and a clock of its own. And I may want it done at one point but it will inevitably be done when it’s done. And as embarrassing as all of my “breakdowns” have been they haven’t been for nothing. I have discovered/realized that a few pieces in my moments of madness weren’t working or were missing entirely that became abundantly clear.

My most recent meltdown has lead me to a hiatus until march, whereupon I will return to my manuscript with vigor and a fresh eye. I know I put too much pressure on myself and expect 100% perfection the first go around. And that’s not how writing works. It’s editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, and editing. Editing. And I’m a lazy son of a bitch. I don’t want to do that so I want it to be perfect from the word go which boils my brain and causes me to crash, hard. Thus I have to take long sabbaticals just to get my ducks in order. At this rate I’ll get my book done in 20 years. That just doesn’t work for me. As petty as it sounds (and a bit arrogant), I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I have plans with my writing career and I have other stories to tell.

Thus, I’ve started to develop a ten year plan in my head. I’ve never really done one before. Sure in my sophomore year of high school they asked me to do one but that one was just to turn in so I could get the credit. It wasn’t thought out at all. I basically just threw words at a page. Now I want to do a proper one. So beyond my ultimate goal, and a more realistic, solid (dare-I-say ‘achievable’) goal is to move to and live in London. It’s something I’ve always wanted and still want. My trip last year only solidified that desire even more. So, how do I get there? I need to work backwards. I do like to write. It’s relaxing, especially when I’m not doing it on company time trying to keep an ear out for my boss coming around the corner. (Is that an admission of guilt?) So what are ways to earn an actual income doing that? Journalism. Okay, how do you get into that? I did some quick research of job listings and most jobs require an applicant to either be in the process of getting a bachelors in journalism or a post graduate. Balls. I have next to no higher education. It’s that lazy thing again. So that leads me to the next lower step. Education. Thus, a ten year plan and not five.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in school. I’ve taken the odd class here and there at the local Junior College but nothing noteworthy. And one of my classes was, according to my teacher, beneath me, but she would shower me in compliments and had such a personality that I stayed in her class. But I never did any homework and failed it with a big fat F. As much fun as she was, I DO NOT want to re-take Basic English. Yes. I took Basic. English. It was during my “get back to basics” phase. I don’t know what the hell I was smoking. I was in a delirium is all I can say. But while I was taking this class I was also doing Creative Writing and got an A. So… go figure. One would assume one would cancel out the other but that’s not how it works, thus my dilemma. Luckily, there is a wonderful little loophole that if I switch to a different JC, and don’t transfer any prior credits, I can start with a clean slate. So that’s what I’m going to do, as a way to ditch the shortcomings of old Josh.

How I look at it, Journalism benefits me personally with my own personal goals, it also looks good on a resume that I have a college education, and it gets me into writing. I don’t really see a downside, other than I’m starting this as I’m pushing 30. God, I hate me. Always late to the party, aren’t you, Josh?

Reflection

So, here I stand poised on the precipice of a new year. Looking back at 2013 there was no particular milestone in my wishful career choices (aka writing, aka becoming an author) but the major things of note are: getting married to the man I’ve spent the last ten years of my life with; and going to a place I have dreamed of going to since I was a kid, London. Besides these major changes, my life was relatively stagnant for the majority of the year. These things didn’t even occur until November. So… At least I’m ending the year on a high note. Oh, and the other thing that was a major and wanted change was I finally broke my husband down, after years of discussion, to where he wants to adopt. Seriously… that’s big.

As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.

This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.

So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.

By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.

I know when I'm beat...

So again, I look like a failure. Well... not so much as look but am. I may have agreed to do a public wrimo but I have discovered I cannot. I took something I love to do, something I feel absolutely un-inhibited in doing, and made it the opposite of that. So, instead I will not being doing what I had promised. I just can't. Not now. And no only am I not going to wrimo publicly I'm also going to take a little hiatus from public posts in general. Maybe an odd tweet here and there but in general I need to take some space. I've gotten into a dark place inside my head and to top everything else off I have set bars for myself that not many people could rightly accomplish.

Then there is the fact that I've started querying my novel. Out of the 9 I sent only 5 have responded to me. Which is good. I just thought I would have had more by now. That was a little over a month ago that I began. Oh well. I will just assume they were no's. I have been tough skinned when it comes to the rejection or at least I thought I was. As it turns out I'm wondering if I'm instead storing my emotions in a box for later use or whenever it decides to manifest itself in my life. As you can tell, I am a very healthy person.

Anyway... I realize now that I have put to much pressure on myself to succeed in so many areas. I understand that agents would prefer you to have a platform already built but... I don't know when anyone can find time. Regardless, I am going to take some time away and focus on other things, other projects. Out of the attempted public wrimo I did come about with some really new and intriguing story ideas that I am interested to write out. So, this wasn't a complete failure.

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.

Shirking

So, here's the truth, I have shirked my July-July project because a friend of mine offered an article to me. I know that's ridiculous and just shows how stubborn I am for any kind of offered help. In all honesty she meant nothing by it and to be fair in one of my posts I more or less asked for help. My response was being petty. I wanted to feel like I was above the help and that I was doing this on my own. Ridiculous, right? Correct.

I had planned to do a WriMo in August but instead I will be plotting and planning my novel and finishing my 31 prompts. I promised 31 I will deliver that number.

Prompt 18 of 31

I am torn. I am enjoying this prompt a night exercise for the month of July but at the same time I would rather just get to work on my novel. What I just, at this moment, realized was prior to this marathon of art and creative writing was that I had languished in my other attempts to edit and get my book together. Now I'm at the point where I would rather be doing that than anything else. Strange... Maybe this little project is helping after all. It just feels exhausting. I'm flexing the creative part of my brain but starting so many stories, without actually finishing-finishing them is heart breaking. Every story I begin to write is like a child and I feel compelled to bring that child to a toddler, then to a teen, and off into adulthood. Leaving it on the wayside of this journey makes me feel pathetic. I suppose that should force me to actually treat each of these prompts like a novel and spend a month working on them.

I bought this book "how to write a book in a month." I've already done it, in my first NaNoWriMo. It's the novel I've been working on for the past three years. (Eesh, that's a long time.) And although I have written it I don't know the editing process. So when I first received the book in the mail I went directly to the "what now..." section, but since I started reading the author refers back to other practices he has explained earlier in the piece. And they are things I am intrigued to understand. So now I want to read the whole thing and see how he breaks down the NoWriMo process.

Either way, I had planned to write a whole new novel next month but I think, instead I will work on editing my finished manuscript.

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 154 "Hello? Hello? I think the phone just went dead..."

Start time: 9:51

"Hello? Hello? I think the phone just went dead..." said the terrified heroine from the television screen.

Seated before the glowing box were Tim and Alice, her head resting on his shoulder with his arm around her neck.

"Of course it is," Alice said. She pulled herself out of his arms and turned to him.

"Why are you subjecting me to this madness. The women in these movies are always so ridiculously cliché." She turned toward the screen.

Her auburn eyes watched the young, terrified, heroine run panicked through the house, looking through all the windows.

"Watch, now she's going to go upstairs," she said, before the girl did precisely described.

Tim laughed. He studied her with his blue eyes, a look of enchantment upon his face.

"Yeah," she said, throwing herself back against the sofa. The springs squeaked even under her thin frame.

"Women are always painted as complete idiots in terror situations. And then the boyfriend is going to come in and save the day." She groaned. "Where is the chick that can take care of her own, huh? The one that just doesn't go upstairs to hide, but in fact goes to her gun closet stocked with every weapon imagineable." She paused, glaring at the screen. "You know that's how it would happen in the south."

Tim laughed. He ran his fingers through his sandy colored hair and paused the film. The girl on the screen frozen in time with the killer placed before her, his knife raised above his head. Her face etched with a look of pure terror.

"You're putting too much weight on it. You know, as well as I, that these are date films. A young lady, such as yourself, wants to know that if she were to be in such a situation that she would have that strapping boyfriend to come to her aid. And only a few minutes ago, you were in my arms, snuggled close. That is until you brought logic into a fictional scenario."

Alice barked a laugh. She spun herself around on the sofa to face Tim.

"There has to be some modicum of logic, Timothy," she said, "Actually more so in such situations. We," she gestured between the two of them, "are human beings that act irrationally. It makes sense for us to just up and decide 'i'm going to take up the cello.'" She smiled peevishly. "But those characters," she pointed at the television, "They have to have more common sense or else we won't believe their struggle."

"Okay," he said, nodding, "I see what you're saying."

"Thank you."

"What you mean to tell me is that I can do this," he grabbed her by the neck and threw her to the couch and plants himself at her waist, pinning her down. Using his other hand he wrapped his long fingers around her wrists and held her there. "This doesn't make sense because there was no set up for the situation."

He releases her hands and Alice uses them to remove the hand gripped gently around her throat.

"You just wanted to get on top of me."

Tim held up his hands.

"Guilty as charged."

The two look into the other's eyes.

"So did I have to have the reason to do that?"

"You had one," she said, "It was to get on top of me."

The two laughed and interlaced their fingers.

"So, when does that horror movie you're in start filming," Tim said.

Alice thought for a moment.

"Two weeks."

Tim looked at the television screen.

"Are you properly prepared yet?"

Alice propped herself up onto her elbows and follow Tim's line of sight.

"As much as I'll ever be."

As Tim got off of her waist, and sat on the sofa, he said, "Have you read the script?"

"Yep," she said, "I'm one of these bitches. I'm going to see if I can convince the director to go a different route. Because think about it, what if she could take care of herself."

"There wouldn't be a movie."

"No, there would still be a movie, it'd just be an action movie. We'd move away from the genre altogether. And that's where I want to be." She paused. "I'm hoping this will maybe get me there." She took a deep breath. "It's sill but I have this feeling this will be my break. This is my leg up."

Tim put a hand on her shoulder.

"And then by your strength maybe you can pull me into the," Tim held up air quotes,"Biz."

Alice groaned and pulled herself up off of the couch.

"Don't say that. It sounds so schmarmy. Do you know how many people I hear that from all day everyday? It sounds so plastic."

"You just described about ninety percent of the people in the industry. If you want real go into theatre."

"Yeah, but they just want to get into film. Somehow that will make your life better."

"Isn't that what you think? Didn't you say almost exactly that."

Alice hid behind her hand.

"You caught me," she said dropping her mask, "I drank the Kool-Aid."

The two laughed.

Tim stood from the sofa and wrapped Alice in his arms.

"I have absolute faith in you."

"Do you?"

"Mhm."

Alice rolled her eyes.

Then there was an awkward pause.

"Do you want to say a little something?"

Tim raised his eyebrows and slowly nodded his head.

"Oh," Alice said, stepping away, "Yes. And I have faith you in Mr. Writer. Mr. Musician. Mr. Actor."

Tim laughed and wrapped her once again in his arms.

"Just Mr. Writer will do." He pecked her on the lips. "Mr. Awesome Writer."