Tag Archives: writing

Stuck Down Here Forever?

29 Friday Jan 2016

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I sorta believe in God; i.e., more than not believing in God. It seems reasonable to me that God does wacky Godlike things, even maybe becoming Jesus, whom I follow while doubting like a Thomas who has never gotten the icky part of putting my dirty fisherman’s paws into a still-fresh wound. Aiee! Good thing Jesus didn’t stick around too long, eh?

But for all I know it’s the Flying Spaghetti Monster all along. Whatever. My point here is that I’m not nailed down (pun intended) to any particular brand of spirituality. I know that Zen monk Cheri Huber’s There is Nothing Wrong with You moved me to hysterical tears, and I no longer have a copy because I gave it away, and have bought others for very special people.

Now, here’s the cruel irony: I style-edit self-help and spiritual books. After a while. they all sound the same, with some more readable than others. It seems to my jaundiced eye that enlightenment is saved for those wealthy enough to travel the country–the world!–kneeling at one or the other pair of sandaled feet. Where, I ask, is the ultimate truth revealed while washing dishes, while caring for children? What sorts of visions of angels are received while bagging groceries at Shaw’s? (At Whole Foods, maybe.) The great teachers gave what they had for food, clothing, and shelter that would make 21st century homo sap shudder. What’s up with all this “I started my own business healing and directing souls?”

According to many of these self-proclaimed sages, we are on the cusp of a Great Awakening. Where have we heard this before? I don’t feel any perkier than I did when the Mayans came through town.

Fear not; I keep my personal beliefs to myself unless some random scrap from my personal life will reassure and make somebody bigger, instead of smaller. Because they are all beginning writers, and in a way they are kneeling before my sandals. This makes me profoundly uncomfortable, but I muddle through. I find something to praise, even if it’s only “Congratulations on your enlightenment!” and I polish with a light hand, making it sound as if paying attention to commas and sentence fragments was dirty work to be laid upon that maid-of-all-work, the proofreader/copy editor, and not part of the writing craft at all. I feel bad about that part, but it’s the only way to keep people writing. Remember that teacher? The one who didn’t get it and whose scars you still bear? The one who couldn’t see past the lumpiness to the embryo writer? I don’t ever want to be that teacher.

After all, for all we know, we are stuck down here forever, and polishing one’s craft is something to do to pass the time.

 

 

 

 

The Sparkly Feeling

28 Monday Dec 2015

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I just began the sequel to my WriMo, in which the cats (and I) consult a cousin chart and then more or less give up on the “once removed” and whatnot: They are looking for a missing cousin, leave it at that, and her wife. I have no idea what happened to them or how they are to be found; I have an image of Darjeeling in his panther form slinking through a field of wheat, but I don’t know if it actually occurs. I am in a place of mystery, and it sparkles.

I need some sparkle this morning; I had to leave a message with Boston Housing to tell them I am now essentially unemployed; I’ll keep leaving messages for a few days. I also filled out a tax form (badly), only just now spying the information which I should have put in a couple of boxes. I have other tax forms awaiting me, as now that I don’t have a child in college, I haven’t coaxed said child into filing my taxes for me. (I am so, so, SO phobic about paperwork. I’m not sure why. I’m pretty sure it began with poverty–very inconvenient of it.) Still ahead is knocking on the door of the food stamp people. Sigh.

But my brain is already feeling better about not having to Go Back There. It was all just so stressful, and I really do think that the “convenience” of having paratransit made it much worse. Paratransit is when you’re too disabled to use public transit well, so they send a car or a weird little truck to your door. It’s about twice as expensive as taking the train, but a fraction of what a cab would cost. When my right meniscus finally shredded itself to bits, I couldn’t walk up the half-mile hill to work anymore. Sigh. So not only did I end up waiting impatiently for their very random arrival and departure times, I lost some cardio and gained some weight. Grrr. More stress.

I’m also unsure about my fitness to continue working in what’s called direct service, which much of the time means dealing with highly stressed out people who have major life problems. It’s a brutal challenge to your patience and compassion, especially if you’re me and they have continence issues. I suspect it triggers me back to my unimaginably squalid childhood in the hands of a psychotic and alcoholic, which is my personal problem, but it wears on the brain nonetheless: I need to work somewhere where I don’t smell pee-pee. This all limits my options as a peer specialist, so the writing needs to take off.

At least that is still sparkly, although I have some horribly triggering stuff in Terry’s story to wade through. But I’ll wait til later; til my brain grows back somewhat. For now, sparkly.

Looking Back

30 Monday Nov 2015

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I started writing about my alien people almost eleven years ago. I also did other things during that time: wrote a doctoral dissertation, had a major breakdown, was homeless for seven months, spent three years being able to only deal with one major thing a day–and by major, I mean going to the doctor or doing my laundry. But I kept writing, and to my surprise when the story was DONE–it was the length of a trilogy: Moby Dick and a half.

I then found out that agents weren’t magickally falling out of trees, and began the almost as difficult process of finding somebody–anybody–to just read the sheeping thing. I found a few, and most of them gave up early. One said that I never used an adjective if two would do. As you might imagine, my iddle feelings were hurted, but then I got a sympathetic writing buddy who made me sit down with a couple of highlighters and underline all my adverbs and adjectives. Whoa Nelly! I gave up on the adjectives after a few pages, because the adverbs were bad enough. I then pounded hard on the first volume–only to give up after a year of pounding because I didn’t know how to sell a book that had only one third of a plot curve.

I turned my back on it for three years and wrote Max instead. Still no agents stalking me in dark alleys, but I discovered something tonight, when starting to go through the other book again. (I got bored, k?)

For over a year after the first draft of Max was done, I rewrote and polished and had it beta-commented and all kinds of stuff, until I said ENOUGH (babies were going out with bathwater with every new run-through). But–it seems to have taught me a lot about writing, at least compared to the trilogy, as I discovered to my dismay just now. Never one adjective if two would do, indeed! Mind you, Max has its flaws (all books do), but at least it’s readable.

As a prologue, I tacked on the short story which was the first thing I wrote on the topic, so I peeled it off and will beat it with a stick, then run it through here for your amusement. Once it’s, you know, better.

 

Back to the Grindstone

28 Saturday Nov 2015

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Now that the pleasant obsessive flurry of NaNoWriMo is over (at least for me, ha ha!) I went back to Max, who needed a few stitches as I ported over the wrong version from the machine I needed to reformat last week. This meant tweaking all his agent files, including taking out scraps I just thought were stupid and the piece bragging about his sequel, which my main beta reader pointed out at length is pretty sucky and needs a lot of work.

All this took only about half an hour, and yet my brain hurts and I’m tired. Why? At which point does writing click over from being fun to being work? That word again.

I think for me, at least part of it is tied into (let’s be honest here) my illness. I have no idea what part of my complex of diagnoses it is, but I have a morbid phobia of anything like filling out forms. I have a simple and important one going to the IRS out in the living room now. So far, I’ve filled in my name and the first part of my address. This form is not scary. In fact, seeing as it clears up a minor misunderstanding, it’s un-scary. But it makes me hyperventilate. I don’t know why. I can fill out forms for other people, but as soon as I’m involved, my gut tightens.

And, Best Beloveds, sending out query letters to agents is the worst sort of form-itis I know. I have a neuronormal writing buddy who can pump the things out like popcorn. I just don’t get it. It would be bad enough, knowing that 99.9% of all these people are going to reject me–and only about a third of them will be polite enough to tell me so–but they all want something a little different. And this makes my ADHD brain go into whimpers and curl into a fetal position. (Maybe the form phobia is just ADHD, mixed with the PTSD of having had to fill out SO many to get into The System.)

I just have to get to the bottom of my agent list, and then I can give up, admit I’m a professional publishing failure, and self-pub poor Max, who will then be bought and read by fewer people than have beta read him. Depressing or what? I know I have to change my attitude, but you see, it was a dream, back when I was brand new and naive. I thought of course I’d find an agent–I actually thought a Famous Professor from school would be glad to help me–and then I’d be catapulted to fame and fortune at last.

None of that happened, nor, statistically speaking, is it likely to. Depressing, or what?

Or what. I have to change my attitude. I’ve done it before; I can do it now. Sempers toujours, as Podkayne says.

 

 

 

 

And Da Winnah Is . . .

26 Thursday Nov 2015

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I just finished my NaNoWriMo submission, which has kept me busy for the past couple of days, hence no blog. Sorry!

This year I also chose cat narrators (see Eureka, under the “Fiction” tab) and maybe that’s gonna be my claim to fame when I die. I dunno. I’ve always enjoyed animal narrators myself–the genre is called “beast tales,” apparently.

Please note that I finished early–not as wicked early as some, true–so now I have all this mojo circulating in my bloodstream and you’re the only place to go with it. Unfortunately, my brain still isn’t awake (I found that I do my best and most prolific writing when I roll out of bed) and this may be randomness.

What’s bugging me in the back of my mind is a convo I had last year or so with the writing guru I sometimes do evaluations for. I brought up NaNoWriMo, and he said, dismissively to the point of mild contempt, “Oh, I have people do 50,000 words in a weekend.” Now, this is theoretically quite, quite possible. When typing, I’ve clocked myself at a rough 1K per hour, maybe a little more, and if you check in Friday, check out Sunday or possibly Monday, and don’t sleep–it’s doable. Thinking a moment on this brings out a feeling of sadness, of compassion: How pressured these folks must be! How hard these novels have been trying to claw their way out! But it’s so easy to let the world discourage you from being a writer, God knows. And that’s what the writing guru’s thing is–he midwifes those poor unborn novels into the world.

Now, we’re not necessarily talking about literary merit (whatever that is; when 50 Shades made it big, I officially Gave Up) or even readability. I see these texts at what is most often an early stage of their being–these writers have not yet been scared by the prospect of needing to EDIT, bless their pointy little heads and unscathed souls; let alone having shown them around and asked for critique. I suspect I am often the first beta reader (defined later) and most of them are . . . surprisingly OK, all things considering. True, some of them are awful, and a few of them are wonderful–so wonderful I wish it were professional to ask for a comp copy. But the difference between them and what they were before is that they have been born.

NaNo does a similar midwifery. Most WriMos in my area are college-age women, and in a culture that still silences women, especially brainy women, isn’t it great that they’re gonna pump out that fan novel they’ve been thinking about? Maybe it’s crappy, but as my late friend Barry Walden once said to me, years ago, “That’s one less piece of crap I have to write.”

(A moment of silence here for all writers lost to depression.)

A word on and for beta readers: If you don’t have them, join a writer’s group through Meetup and show them your stuff. They will (or should) understand that your work is still in beta (the software testing mode) and they will look for bugs in your code.

There will be (to your mind, anyway) many, many, many bugs in your code. You will learn the phrase “murder your darlings;” some of you might learn how to punctuate. And that’s a good thing. Trust me.

 

 

What Does It Feel Like?

21 Saturday Nov 2015

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As recent readers know, I finally just caved in and accepted the tattered hand-me-down mantle of Writing Person For Reals. I had the epiphany that it didn’t matter whether or not I’d found an agent for my current novel; what mattered is that real flesh and blood people had beaten it into me that I Had It–that my writing was what one beloved beta reader called “absorptive.” And that was all I ever wanted for the Reader’s experience–that for a little while, in even a little way, they could be Somewhere Else. That’s the first step, isn’t it?

So what does making something like that feel like? Well, to be honest, very rarely does the Inspiration Fairy drag you out of bed and make you write, and when she does (a friend in an APA once remarked that the Inspiration Fairy smokes cigars and wears hob-nailed boots) it’s often a tad on the self-indulgent side, screaming “Oh my GOD I’m NAKED over here editor PLEASE.” Instead, most of the world’s writing is done the old-fashioned way, which looks suspiciously like work.

As many have remarked, the first step is putting your butt in the chair. Then you open the file or the notebook. This is accompanied by a whiny sort of vagueness: You’d sort of rather be doing something else, and you may or may not know what it is, but right now there’s this blankness looking at you, tapping its foot.

For me, it is processed like mild pain: My fingers are clumsy and sluggish. I scrawl or tap out something inspired like, “Miranda rang the doorbell.” At that point, I don’t know why Miranda is dropping by, I just know that it’s at least remotely plausible that she might. And then I stare at it. Slog, slog, oh god I’m no sheeping good at this, another sentence. I stare at them and heave a sigh. Maybe two, remembering that I should practice good diaphragm breathing for choir anyway. My brain feels dull and far away, and the idea that this will ever be a novel is a possible symptom of incipient mania.

And that’s where the scariness starts to happen. Miranda, the wench, opens her mouth and says something–and Darjeeling says something snarky–and then they’re having a conversation, and the conversation is bringing new ideas into the piece of writing just like you thread a new piece of yarn into knitting–really; that’s the point of that metaphor: You watch your fingers as if they’re possessed of a sudden ability to type or make the pen work, and new colors appear before your eyes like magic.

Something way back in the distance snaps, and your hands start making words as fast as they can. You’re no longer at your desk or at Bucky’s, you’re in that crowded Victorian living room with Miranda, Darjeeling, and the intruder they turned into a garden gnome. Your deeply beloved child of your actual loins, who will care for you in your old age, stops by to say “Good morning,” and you grouse something curt at them, because dammit Darjeeling is saying something exciting, and you can’t wait to know what it is.

You feel sort of stoned. This is only aggravated by your caffeine intake. I exhort you to drink actual water for each cup of speed.

You take a break to obey Eleanor Roosevelt’s advice (“Fill what’s empty, empty what’s full, and scratch where it itches”) and hate your body for being so interrupty. Then you get back to it.

It is addictive.

For me, after about two-ish hours I can stop for at least a while; at that point, I admire my word count (especially for NaNoWriMo). Then I do at least a little of the other things in my life, knowing that again and again I’ll have that almost nauseating start-up, maybe in the same day.

Worth it–for me. Then after it’s DONE and I scream and do a bit of the hokey pokey, it’s time to edit. And that’s for you.

The Scariest Thing to Ever Happen to Me

20 Friday Nov 2015

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Sitting here at the computer, having just posted a catch-up blog for the first time since July. I’ve been depressed for that long. Sheep. No job is worth living like that; what was the point to work really hard to become mentally well if it was only to become mentally ill again?

The idea of quitting a PAYING JOB terrifies me; appalls me with its stupidity. It was only a part-time job–I knew that I couldn’t handle anything more, at least until my recovery got stronger, so luckily I didn’t lose my disability. I won’t starve, and there is a roof over my head. What amazing luck! How glorious a miracle! For reals, that sentence always makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery. I guess skipping some meals so your kid gets to eat and becoming homeless–twice–changes your perspective.

Anyway. The scary thing. I’ve just realized that–I have to write. And possibly do other art. It would be swell if I find a way to monetize that, but if I don’t, I am choosing to give up the luxuries of clothes shopping and always being able to eat out (somewhere cheap). If I don’t, I’ll get sicker; I might die. And I don’t want to die.

I have a strange little life, being mentally ill. My plans just changed at the last minute this morning, and for a few minutes my ADHD had a tantrum while it rebooted. Hate that. I would love to be spontaneous, but my brain chemistry has different ideas. I have to work around that every day. It’s a challenge to just be me, let alone living life on life’s terms. Why make it even worse?

If you’re not an artist, you may not understand this; if you are an artist, then you will: We are wired differently. If we don’t create, we wither and die. Our growth stops. Our joy vanishes. And then we start looking at knives and pills with a certain longing, as we calculate the odds: How much longer can I stay alive just for Them? Because staying alive for US is about as appetizing as the freezer-burned bargain-brand burrito you forgot about last June: A hard thing to swallow; we chew each day, trying to overlook its taste of cardboard.

I was definitely in the burrito stage, realizing at the end of each weekend that I had to go back to that place. At last the tears broke through my concrete facade and I told my boss (who has been the main thing keeping me in the job; I stay because I love her) that I wasn’t coming in this week. We have next week off anyway; by its end I will have exercised (and exorcised) my rusty, weeping brain by finishing my NaNoWriMo project, and I’ll see if I’ve built up enough residual joy to garner a few more small paychecks.

Very small paychecks: All they buy are the depression force-feeding me the bargain-brand burritos, pre-wrapped in neglect; only in my field they all smell faintly of unwashed bodies and of urine.

Working and Playing

19 Thursday Nov 2015

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Sorry to be so silent for so long, but I’ve been grappling with a huge chunk of depression and writer’s block. I was half-afraid to even try to come here, expecting that it would just turn into a clod of whiny crud that I would only end up deleting at some point, the sooner the better.

My daughter, who is wise, has been telling me for several months now that I need to quit my day job. (Or at least the main one.) Being at heart a Worker Bee and a Brave Little Soldier, I resisted. Then my desktop computer in my office blew, and so did something in my brain. It wasn’t that I was using it for immoral purposes or anything; pretty much anything I did on it I could do in the receptionist area. But there was also this petty political foo-foo going on–and I finally realized that I hated my job.

Not when I showed up, partly because since my knee blew (more on that later), I’ve been using paratransit and that entrance is the one that doesn’t smell like pee. No, it would hit later in the day, after I’d put out the usual fires (when you’re the boss, even a little one, there are always fires). I used to live to put out fires. What happened?

I think it was because when my computer blew and they didn’t replace it because of a completely different chunk of sheepness, I realized how little my employer (Huge Faceless Hospital) valued my job. That the only reason HFH knows I need a TB test is because the timer on their HR software went ding; not because I’m assdeep in homeless people all day and others with questionable coughing hygiene.

I realized that instead of being a valued professional employee, I am a paid volunteer. The last time I ran into that concept was when I was in another sheepish job similar to this one, and the local Girl Scout leaders were being paid to lead their troops. Having done my time in this particular gig myself as just another mommy, I was kinda furious. But it was the only way those little girls were going to get any scouting at all in that depressed neighborhood. So it goes here too.

Everybody talks about how little we spend on or care about mental health, and as a peer specialist I see it from the bottom of the sheep pile. We are only now beginning to be billable; i.e., major insurance and Medicaid/care is seeing us as a valuable and exploitable resource. We give provably comparable or better support, and because we “aren’t professionals,” we’re paid and treated accordingly.

Enough of that: I took the week off, and will go back after Thanksgiving for as long as I can hack it/until Christmas/or my knee surgery. Then I will slip into being JUST their webmaster and graphics person, where I don’t have to do any direct service, and can stay home, where the only shenanigans my computer gives me is turning off when I play WoW. (Either the Powers are trying to tell me something, or it’s a fan problem.)

Meanwhile, I walk with a cane now because I effectively no longer have a meniscus in my right knee. Time to be a cyborg! I was lucky enough to listen to the Second Opinion Club (thank you, all of you!) and found a doctor who is willing to operate on a fat person. I see him on the 9th of December and VERY hopefully will be scheduling the surgery at that point. No idea when, because he might well be booking two months out. More on that as it develops. I am already working out and doing physical therapy to prep the knee and the rest of me for the rehab period. (I already know it’s a bear, but I am Kidney Stone Lass, and have a high pain tolerance.)

Anyway, I spent the first day off sleeping and writing (NaNoWriMo time!), then went back to the writing today instead of so much sleeping–and I realized I am no longer depressed. Whoa. I need to pay attention to this. The reality about my recovery from Major Mental Illness (primarily Bipolar Disorder I) is that some things are more important than others. My brain has been saved through a combination of miracles and a lot of hard work, and I can’t soak it in the smell of pee until it regresses into illness again. That would be stupid.

Having been raised in the Protestant Work Ethic, this scares me to death. (There are no peer specialist jobs that don’t smell like pee, and very few of them are part-time.) Guess we are in Wait and See Land.

Doncha hate that?

 

Sequel Done. Trilogy?

28 Sunday Jun 2015

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Does there always have to be a trilogy? Did you know that people became addicted to them before sf/fantasy? In the 19th century, books were expected to come out in three volumes to be somebody.

Max Draconum is finally done, after at least two and a half years of being poked at on and off. Now I need to go tackle my Wri-Mo from last year, although right now I sort of feel as if I could never write anything ever again. But Guardian isn’t a Max book, per se, although he is a supporting character, and it takes place between-ish these two stories (Sober as a Sorcerer and Max Draconum). My son thinks there’s still plenty of Max story in there, but I’m a little tired of him at the moment (though this can change).

Think the ever elusive agents will nibble more at two books done than at one? (I’ll just be mentioning that the sequel is complete in my query letter.)

Too Much Time On My Hands

23 Tuesday Jun 2015

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It’s 3:30, and that means I have three beautiful, precious golden hours in my lap before I have to do The Next Thing, which is go to my writer’s group. Over the past week I made some progress on both Max’s sequel and last year’s WriMo (over 50K but still lacking an ending), so you’d think I’d be grateful and busy. But no–I’ve spent the last twenty minutes staring into space and listening to jungle noises on myNoise (see blogroll of links–>). Am I Blocked, with the capital B? No, I think I’m just lazy.

Beta readers scowled at the New Max, so I’ve gone back to Max Classic. I have a week of of-course-unpaid-forced vacation coming up (thank God it’s a five-week month); so I think I’ll finish the query letter thing and get some closure on that. After that, I put both Maxes up on Amazon and start polishing the WriMo and start aalll over again with that. It has strong female protagonists and is more conventionally urban fantasy, so maybe I’ll have better success.

As I write this, it occurs to me that perhaps my problem is obvious and psychological: I don’t want to say goodbye to my characters. Max in particular showed up in my head back when I was dissertating, although I had no idea who he really was. Maybe I should go for a Maxian trilogy? It’s traditional . . .

Can’t wait for November and what I think of as its writer’s vacation of NaNoWriMo: It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to come out of my fingers. I’ve already decided to take Eureka as my model and do a kitty again; just for fun, just for me, and of course just for you, fellow beast-tale fans.

On to tea and something unhealthy! I’ll try to bring you something diverting from the writer’s group tonight.