Killing a Tree

I'm truly understanding the value of killing a tree. Also known as a line edit on a printed copy of my manuscript. Holy marking up my paper to fix bad sentences.

I knew I tended to underwrite early drafts. I hadn't realized, at this point, that I was still missing a chapter. Or two.

Or that each page would look like a three-year-old took a black marker to it.

The thing is...I've been writing long enough that I know this. I've done line edits before. Yet every time it smacks me alongside the head and I say, 'Oh yeah...ummm...this works really well. Thank goodness I didn't send it yet.'

Which leads to two things:

1.) I won't have this manuscript out before my husband gets home for his mid-tour leave. It'll be close, but no cigar. And I will happily set it aside to give him my full attention.

2.) I'd be really interested in a study examining absorption and retention of student readers when they read from a computer screen vs. the printed page. My bet is the physical object holds more weight, figuratively speaking, than the digital one.

I even Googled to see if I could find anything. All in the name of distracting myself from writing the missing chapters, of course.

But now I'm off...it's 5:32 am. I've been up since 4:30. And George is getting very impatient about that missing chapter.

Making it Yours

There is nothing quite like the high you feel after finishing a draft. The draft. The one that agents and editors have requested to see. Thirty thousand words that shoot you flying high in a cloud because people other than your family can read it. And then...

The query.

250 words.

250 words that will suck you into a hole faster than mud.

250 words that will force you to use the other side of your brain, which has slowly shriveled away as you etched out thirty thousand.

I don't have a prescriptive formula. I don't have worksheets. There are plenty of other people on the net who have great resources, like Elana Johnson.

But after twelve hours of staring at the computer and multiple drafts of drivelous puke, the query that worked had something different than the others. It stood out above them.

Because I made it my own.

Much to the surprise of both sides of my brain, I wrote my query the same way I wrote my book. Draft after draft. After draft. After draft. Draft. Draftdraftdraft.

No formula. No worksheets. Just me, showing them what they need to know.

So now I can go fly high again. Until I have to send them out this week. But that's another story...

How is your query process going? Are you ready to? Or thankfully done with it?

George is BACK!

Since many of you are new here, I have to backtrack a little.

If you've never seen the speech by Elizabeth Gilbert about having a writing genius, you should...so follow the link:

Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity Video on TED.com

Sorry I didn't make it look prettier and imbed the video, but I'm buried under 8 inches of snow with two kids stuck in the house and a dog who is suddenly too delicate to do his business because of, you guessed it, 8 inches of snow.

Though to be fair, when he raises his leg his privates are still buried 2 inches below sunshine, so I don't know that I could do my business with that kind of cold down there either.

Anyway...

George is BACK!

That is what I call my creative genius, who's been play hookie since this summer.

I've been struggling at my computer for a rewrite that's taking half of forever, always getting stuck at Chapter 8, waiting for George to show.

And he wasn't.

And he wasn't.

And he wasn't.

So I said, "Fine, George. I'm going to write whatever I d@*n well please." And I started to butcher my story. Total meat cleaver job, though I didn't go so far as bringing in a vampire.

And George showed up, "Fine. All right. So much for holidays and paid vacations. I'm here."

He's been working, maybe a little begrudgingly, ever since. All the way up to Chapter 14. Though I'm still trying to figure out just where he went that he got a paid vacation. Maybe he was visiting Elizabeth.

Anyway...

What do you do when your creative genius is playing hookie? How do you get him/her to show up and do their part of the job, whether it's pounding out a rewrite or getting your kids to do their homework?

Sa Whomped

I've been pitifully lacking about writing in my blog since returning home from the States. I will give you the equally pitifully excuse that I'm busy. Beyond busy.

Sa whomped.

But in between a boy throwing colossal tantrums, a girl full of middle school drama, a pouting, neurotic dog chewing off his nails, and a car that can go but doesn't stop, I do try to make an occasional foray into re-writing my second novel.

I've got writing goals. I've got ideas. I've got desire. I even have a plan.

What I don't have is time. Which is sort of irritating, because I had time all summer when I didn't know end from up about my story.

I'm ready to go, go, go with rewrites. But when I'm forced to one very slow 30-60 minute nightly session, I want to toss myself on the couch in a drama moment. Or chew off my nails. Or throw a tantrum and whomp the sa out of something.

Because I want to finish my book.

I realize that since I'm now...older, I don't really get to act this way. But am I the only person out there, writerly or otherwise, that has such a problem with patience?

Things you hang on to

You know how when your kids are little, you hang on to EVERY picture or art project they finish because each one represents some major milestone they managed to accomplish?

A circle. A real circle that is round and doesn't look like a squished eyeball.

A line. One that makes the house touch the ground instead of floating in the air.

A face. With features and more than three strands of hair sticking straight up.

I sort of feel that way about one of my middle grade novels.

I keep trying to rewrite the opening because the general response is that it sets a great tone, but no one is sure where it's going. Readers feel like they are floundering, and they don't trust it.

Now...I understand that the world of the story is very foreign. I also understand I can't let that be some excuse not to draw a better circle, line, or face.

But each rewritten opening completely loses the heart of the character at the middle of the story. It becomes a plot line of information to help the reader understand the foreign world.

So I'm trying to decide...

Do I keep coming back to the original opening because it belongs there?

Or is it just one of those pictures I'm hanging on to?

And I need to decide soon, because I'm going a bit crazy...and I sort of feel like I'm floating in the air with squished eyeballs and only three strands of hair left.

George and Zen

You know those times when you should have something to say? When you show up and type some words on the computer and wait for that creative genius (I'll call mine George) to show up and do their thing?

But George doesn't show and you're left with a blank page party, a handful of chocolates, and one nasty headache from the few glasses of coffee or wine that were supposed to get George there in the first place.

What do you do?

I mean, other than take a handful of ibuprofen to get rid of the headache.

I'm not moping anymore. I don't have the blahs. Strangely enough, after a sort of planes, trains, and automobiles trip to the States, I've been working on my mg novel. And I actually like it.

I'm in this Zen-like place where I have no stress about my family or writing career. It feels odd...different...in a 'I don't care if the pigeon gets me' sort of way.

But at the same time, George is nowhere to be found.

So I'm wondering...can Zen and George meet up some place and hang out and have a beer? Or are they like Yin and Yang? Destined to swirl around chasing each other forever.

Playing

I had another one of those "AHA!" moments the other day. The ones that make you feel really stupid for not realizing it until it hits you in the head like a present from the bowels of an irritated pigeon.

Writing is supposed to be fun.

I usually LOVE spending my time, fingers on the keyboard, discovering characters and then throwing them into a pit while fixing lazy dialogue like "Help me!"

But lately I avoid the keyboard like it's the worst chore in the world.

In short, I stopped playing.

It's ok. I even know why I stopped. My life for the last few months feels like one big countdown to the day my husband deploys.

I'm not going to lie. It sucks.

And I'm really looking forward to when I'm ready to start playing again.

Fixing the Little Red Wagon

Summer has only started, and my kids spent the whole weekend complaining.

"I'm BORED," came the first whiny voice. "There's NOTHING to do," echoed the second.

So I thought...I'll fix your little red wagon...which is something my Mother used to say to me. Frequently.

Every morning for the rest of their summer break, my kids have to:

1.) Write 300 words. It can be a story, a collection of poems, a letter, or
whatever else they choose.

2.) Read at least 30 minutes.

3.) Complete 1 page of math. They must show their work and discuss their
answers with me.

And for the icing on the cake, I also made them run 2 miles with me.

After the first fifteen minutes of mandatory grumbling about me being the MEANEST MOM EVER since I am ruining their summer break which is, by its own definition, supposed to be a break, they giggled and sang their way through their work. My happy children were happy once more.

And then I had one of those AHA! moments that make you feel really stupid. I figured out why I am mopey, dopey, whiny, irritable, and just sort of bleccchhhhy.

My break from writing has gone on WAY too long. I need to fix my own Little Red Wagon.

So, starting tonight, I'm back to my 300 word a day writing minimum, 2 chapters of reading, and daily research about possible agents that might be a good fit for me.

And I'm even giggling and singing while I do it:)

Gambling

I was walking my dog today and I realized that the things I've done best in my life are the things I took my time on...worked my butt off...and kept going.

My kids.
My marriage.
My book Michelangelo Lives Forever.
My play Muddy Boots.
Running a marathon.
Graduate school.

I am not a gambler. Not one who wins anyway. I play one roll of nickle slots and then watch people throw their money away.

That doesn't mean I don't have the urges to do stupid things.

But it means that I'm starting to recognize my strengths and the way I work, which is something I need to know before finding a home for my writing.

And before I gamble all my nickels away.