Query Kombat 2014

I got into Query Kombat!

Query Kombat? What's that, you say? Check it out here.

Thanks to SC's vote of confidence, I'm on team #writerbees. Check out my entry "Loving Logic" on June 1st. Follow the contest on twitter at #QueryKombat.

Look! I'm on the list!!!

On Seeds of Ideas and Outlines

This weekend, I was asked, "When you started writing LitD, did you do any prewriting or note taking or any system for organizing your ideas first? Or did you just jump write in and start writing? I only ask because...I started getting little seeds for a novel...trying to figure out a way to develop turning those seeds into a basic plot line is sort of tough right now. So I just wondered how you started out initially in the planning/writing process."

This is actually something I talked to the hubby about recently. Those of you who follow me on twitter and Facebook know I've been working on another novel, which I have tentatively titled WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL. It's a **very** fictionalized version of my life growing up on the farm. I was telling  my hubby that I'm having a harder time plotting it than I did LitD. His response was, "Well, LitD was inspired, right? This one is more...work." And it's true. LitD was the story I had to tell because it wouldn't leave me alone until I told it. I did minimal plotting. My characters introduced themselves to me and--it sounds cliche--they made everything in my novel happen.

That's not to say there wasn't any pre-writing. It took me a wicked long time to learn my MC Celia. Unlike the other characters, she had to spend much more time explaining herself. It look me somewhere between 3,000 to 5,000 words (which eventually all got cut) so I could get to get to know her. You know, this. I already wrote about it here.

The funny thing is I hadn't a plot in mind when I started writing LitD. I had a setting. I knew I wanted Celia in the Woods, but that was it. To me, the Woods would be where Celia came of age. So at first there was this big empty gap from the first fifteen pages until she got to the Woods. It wasn't until she spent some time in the Woods that I finally figured out a way for her to get there.

I tend to be organized. I like lists. Except, none of those propensities came out when I wrote LitD. I never once thought I'd be a "pantser" when it came to writing a book. Even by the time I got to the final chapters of LitD, I hadn't known exactly how it would end. When I wrote the last page, I was in disbelief. Could LitD possibly be over?

Now that I'm working on WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL, I'm finding that each time I attempt to plot, it gets lost, and the writing doesn't come as naturally. I've got about 20,000 words written, but right now their basic sketches of the characters instead of plot. My working outline has changed a lot since I originally started it. It's still very much taking shape.

WINTER was similar to what the person who asked me this question posed. It started with two sentences; I started to explore them. That's how I discovered Sarah (although, I might change her name). I took the two lines--"She rolled over to check if the milk was frozen. It was."--and played with the scene the two lines offered me. After I had about 3 pages typed, I changed it to first person and saw what happened. I liked it better. I had to alter some things, but it felt more genuine. Then I wrote some more, and as I kept writing, I kept slipping into first person present. So I went back and changed it to that. 

Each time I did this, I'd get this little nubbin of an idea of who Sarah is and what her world entails. I keep getting a better sense of plot. My current manuscript has all those pieces scattered between paragraphs and chapters and added to the end. Sometimes they're just lines that I've since elaborated upon, and sometimes they're tiny bits of plot. 

I wrote this way with LitD, but with LitD it felt more organized, less fragmented. I'm definitely not organized with WINTER, and it's certainly fragmented. I only have a couple scenes that have transitions into other scenes. I'm still learning about Sarah's life. I've got a good idea what I want to have happen to her, but I haven't made it "fit" yet.

I guess the whole thing I've learned so far is that I'm a pantser. I can't seem to stick to an outline; I prefer to let my characters decide what's going to happen. When I do that, the writing feels more natural. And hey, if it feels that way, it's gotta come across that way in my writing, right?

I Wrote the Wrong Book

I overthink everything.  Nothing new there.  So when someone says something to me, I usually mull it over for a really long time, and then I replay the conversation in my head until I've satisfyingly rewritten it into something much better than what it was.  In my replay, I'm wittier, I'm well-spoken, and I come up with a response that is so profound the Greek philosophers wish they were the ones who thought it.  Okay, maybe not the last one, but a girl can wish, right?

So my most recent Overthink began nearly a month ago (yes, I'm still thinking about it).  Because it pertains to my writing career--and current lack of one--I decided to share it here.

The initial comment:  "I'm telling you.  You wrote the wrong book."

Let's put aside the fact that it was said with genuine feeling and meant to bolster my opinion of myself.  That's aside.  It's gone.  I don't want to talk about that.  I get that.

Of course, no author wants to be told she wrote the wrong book.  I've put serious time into LitD.  I don't watch television anymore.  I lost fifteen pounds.  I haven't sewn a dress in ages.  My shelves of canned goods are bare, while the empty Ball jars in the basement are overflowing.  I put on fifteen pounds.  This is what LitD has done--is doing--to my life.  So when someone tells me I wrote the wrong book, I'm all like, "You wrote the wrong book.  So there!  Take that!"  Finger snap and everything.  Well, maybe not that. Okay, definitely not that.

Actually, I feel a little sad.  I *love* LitD, but now the seed of doubt is sown, and I can't stop thinking about how maybe all this time has been wasted energy.  You see, I'm the type of person who has to be perpetually busy.  I don't like lounging in bed after the alarm goes off because there's just too much to do.  And now that maybe I've written the wrong book, I can't stop thinking about how hours upon hours of work might amount to nothing more than someone else's really long marathon of the Bachelorette.

Want to know the other reason why I'm obsessing so much about this? Because a few days later, I got the same message in an email.  The person who sent it shall remain nameless, but here is a small piece of that email:

As I read LitD, I could not help but think that Celia was you. That you went into the darkness and came out a bonafide hero. How could that not be cool? So get the science fiction thing on the page (whether it's you or not). And then tell your own story. The strength of your character, the person you are inside is far more interesting and heroic. I am not shitting you now, either (just ask your husband. I'm sure he knows.). You are a remarkable young woman. The world deserves to see that.

And then, oh wait, I get another email from a different person about a week after that:

i got the sense...that you had an extraordinary childhood---like serious fear and trauma, and all kinds of stuff you didn't go into when you were talking about being a kid. i hope at some point that you write about it---as fiction, as memoir---whatever gets you into the material. because the great consolation in being a writer is that you begin to control your history, you use it and shape it and transform it. and you could make something really rich and deep out of growing up as april. sooner or later, when you're ready, that's the stuff....think about it, for after you're done with the current novel.

So maybe neither of these emails said I wrote the wrong book, but they say essentially the same thing: maybe I'm not meant to be a science fiction writer. Maybe I should focus on writing that other story, the one that I haven't penned.  There are many reasons why I haven't.  The biggest, though, is that I feel if I tell That Story, then there won't be any stories left in me to tell.  THAT would be...sad.

Now I think about it all the time.  Actually, I'm obsessing over it.  Like losing sleep obsessing.  Like getting sad and angry for no reason obsessing.  Ask my husband.  He'll tell you.  Or don't ask him, because that will be weird.  He'll have no clue who you are.  It's just that...I want to be so much better than I am.  I want everything.  I want it all.  And I don't want even a little bit less.

Here is part of my response to the second email:

I want to be fantastic for what I do, not for what was done to me. Think of Patrick Stewart.  Everyone knows him because he's such a fantastic actor.  His childhood wasn't great either, but people don't know him for that.  And he didn't become loved because of it.  People know it now, but really only after he made himself.  I want to make myself first, too.  

"They" say write what you like to read, and LitD is what I like to read, so that's where my energy has been this year.  Maybe it won't go anywhere, but maybe it will.  Maybe it will just be a stepping stone on to something better.  We shall see.

I haven't responded to the first email yet, because I just can't figure out what to say.  I guess I'll do that after this blog post.  It's only polite.

So--Is LitD the book I wasn't meant to write? I can't say yet. I *want* it to be the right book.  I wish beyond wish that it is the right book.  But to quote a fantastic novel--The world is not a wish granting factory.

This is where I get a pep talk from you, oh strangers of the internet world.

I've Come a Long Way

This post will likely bore you, but it's here for my own sake.  I make no secret of my hopes, doubts, fears, and excitement concerning LitD.  I spend countless hours each week on it, sometimes to the exclusion of all but my child and husband.  And every so often I start to feel like maybe, just maybe I'm wasting my time.  Then I feel a little better and I'm all let's-get-this-novel-published-yay again.  But between the depressive-and-you-think-you're-a-real-writer and the happy-jolly-sunshine-lollypops moments, I need to remind myself of how far LitD has come.

Well, here are the first six drafts of my opening.  (Note: I say I am only on the fifth draft of LitD, which is true, but there are little drafts within the big drafts.  If I had to count all the little drafts, I'm probably on the twentieth to two-hundredth draft.)  These drafts remind me that, yes, LitD has come a long way.  That, in itself, is worthwhile.  This is worthwhile.

Anything in bold is new, and anything striked out is, well, striked out from the previous version.

DRAFT #1

My name is Celia Mayflower, and I was an A student.   Not just any A student, but the A Student. I was what would have been called in the Older Days the class Valedictorian.  Not quite yet, as I hadn't graduated, but I was getting very close to graduation, and everyone--all my teachers, parents, leaders--all said that I was the A Student.  I wasn't an entirely creative student, but I don't think that really matters, at least not as a part of Town.  What matters is being able to be a working member of Society.

DRAFT #2

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle, Town #7.  I attend School #37, off Subway Station #64.  I am seventeen years old.  I have nearly completed Education Course A as a mathematics major, and I am set to graduate this coming July on the same day I become eighteen years. 

I discovered that my Society PIN matches my personal information when I was about six years old.  When I was eleven, I wrote a computer program that would perform a search of all PINs and personal information in Town #7 to determine how many other people in Town had matching PINs and information in the same order as my own.  I then visited the Public Records Office—all of our Society PINs and other personal information being public knowledge—and used the program to collect the information I wanted.  Having done so, I can assure you that there is not another person in Town #7 in which all aspects of personal information and PIN match.  I became dissatisfied with this knowledge when I was about thirteen years old, so I headed off to the Public Records Office again, ran my computer program again (with some updated code, having found a small mistake I had previously overlooked).  Still finding that I was the only person in Town #7 to whom this occurred, I expanded my search to seven randomly selected Towns in my Providence. Again, I saw that this phenomenon occurred to only me.  Disturbed with the results, I then rewrote my program to check that any given fields would match in any order, and I expanded my search to include additional information, such as birthdates and precincts.  Here, I was able to find exactly two people for which this occurred.  Chagrinned, I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, that the probability personal information would match with PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, there are only two potential reasons that I can think of that would make this happen.  The first, is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined for some unaccountable reason to make my information match.  The second, is that it is pure chance and I’m just crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?

DRAFT #3

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #4

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class, an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud. 

When I was six years, I discovered my Society PIN matches my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I’m crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #5

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class. an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud.

When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low.  In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I am crazily obsessed. 

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.   Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #6

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H. I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3. I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4. I am seventeen years old. In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major. I currently rank as the A Student for my class.

When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information. When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches. Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me. I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low. In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance. There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen. The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match. The second is that it is pure chance and I am obsessed.

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of love novels when Mother walks into my room. Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me. When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother would not die.  We stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

Excitement versus Fear -- Round 3

I'm notorious among my school's guidance counselors for being a "hard" teacher.  More than once, I've received reports back from students and staff that one of the counselors has commented about the difficulty of my Advanced Placement classes or the amount of work I expect in my inclusion classes.  I'm the catcher of plagiarism (yes, it happens in mathematics) and the upholder of responsibility.  There's even rumor that I'm not allowed to teach freshman honors geometry anymore because I'm "too tough."

I won't comment if there's any truth behind that rumor, but I will say that on more than one occasion I said to my honors geometry or AP students, "Sometimes effort is not enough."  This was usually my response to some student approaching me to ask why she got a certain grade.  "But I tried really hard," she would say.  She'd leave my office feeling I was calloused, and I would leave it hoping that in five or ten years she would understand the damned life lesson (and praying it would be a lesson--who am I to know for certain?).

The truth is, sometimes your best isn't good enough.  When the lifeguard says, "But I tried really hard and spent a really long time swimming to save you," but that lifeguard didn't make it there in time, it's not good enough.  And sometimes, after you've given your best, you have to give more.  You have to be better.  You have to be stronger.  Even when there's nothing more to give, you have to find it in yourself.  Sometimes you can't, but you don't know you can't unless you try.

That's where I am with writing right now.  I'm working on my fifth draft of LitD, editing line by line and word by word.  Sometimes, I spend twenty minutes just trying to find the right word.  Should it be "promise" or "say?"  And I'll cross it out a million times and rewrite it a million times, only to become frustrated with my lack of ability.  It doesn't matter how much effort I put into that one word; if I'm not a strong enough swimmer, there is no way I can reach the person drowning, and it's not going to mean anything in the end.

Maybe I can console myself with saying the current was too strong that day.  After all, it doesn't matter how brilliant LitD might be if it's not something that interests agents or publishers.  Maybe I can console myself with lifeguarding  in a pool instead of the ocean.  After all, it's a heck of a lot easier to get published if I self-publish, right?

Or maybe, I can keep swimming.  I can make myself a better writer. I don't need to be a hero.  I just need to be excited, because no matter how many books there are out there, I'm the only person who's written mine.  Yeah, there are a lot of people who say they could write a book, but how many of them actually have?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put it more effort.  This is my pep talk to myself.  What's yours?

CWC 2013 in Review

This year I attended the Colgate Writers' Conference located at Colgate University in Hamilton, NY.  If you want the short version, here it is:  AWESOME!  If you want the long version, read on.

Sunday, June 16:
I made the 4.5 hour drive from middle of nowhere Massachusetts to middle of nowhere New York.  Colgate's campus is lovely, and my only issue upon arriving was not being able to determine what was a road and what was a sidewalk.  Upon asking, I was told that if it looks like I can fit a car down it, then drive down it.  What I learned:  my car fits down every "sidewalk," even the one that leads to a set of stairs.  Do NOT drive down the stairs.

My two-year-old helped me pack my suitcase.  It wasn't until I was unpacking when I discovered she thought I needed a pair of her socks to take with me.

The welcome reception terrified me, and I spent most of the time 1.) wishing what I wore matched the wall paper better, and 2.) grateful for the lovely Maria--a Sicilian non-fiction writer who made me feel right at home.  I then dined with three lawyers/writers.  Readings by the awesome Jennifer Haigh and Bruce Smith = awesome.

I met my group-mates--those individuals with whom I would spend the next week working out the kinks in our novels--and the intense Paul Cody.

Monday, June 17:
It was exactly 5:00 am (or thereabouts) when I discovered there was no coffee station.  I mean, seriously?  Don't writers mainline coffee?  Why the heck wasn't there coffee until 7:30?  This girl wrote about it in her evaluation.

I then spent the rest of the day in workshops and other talks.  Readings by Dana Spiotta and J. Robert Lennon = love.

Tuesday, June 18: 
There still wasn't coffee until 7:30.  Why, oh, why must they torture us so??

Today, I was under fire.  My group-mates gave me feedback on LitD, which I then ate with a hot dog (because I relished it!).  Paul gave me some fab advice about querying and agents.  Let me tell you, I feel a million times better about LitD!  Later that afternoon, I read part of LitD to the attendants.  Afterwards, my heart and head swelled just a little.

Readings by Brian Hall and Jennifer Brice = Wow.  Jennifer's essay sang to me--seriously sang to me.  I bought CASTLE by J. Robert Lennon (and then spent the rest of the conference too chicken to ask him to sign it).

Wednesday, June 19:
More awesomeness of the sort I've already described.  Here's the beautiful early morning view.  The only thing this view was missing was the coffee...which I didn't get until 7:30.  *sigh*

Readings by Greg Ames and Joni Tevis = Beautiful.  I toted John's book around all day.  I had about twenty opportunities to ask him to sign it.  Did I do it?  No.  What I did do was see the Manhattan String Quartet in concert.  Hey, if it's not baroque, fix it!

Thursday, June 20:
More awesomeness.  Got to listen to Lorelei Sharkey's presentation about self-publishing.  If you're into kink, buy her book!  It's illustrated.  Readings by Mark Doty and Marjorie Celona = Sorry guys.  I was too tired to pay attention.  I promise I heard lots of beautiful words, though.  My mind was too exhausted to register them.  My mind was too exhausted to ask John to sign my copy of his book, too.

Friday, June 21:
I woke to write a poem--a very bad poem.  But the mattress muse inspired me.  More awesomeness.  Lunch with Leslie Daniels on the grass = Score!  She answered so many of my questions that she was probably sick of me by the end of the meal.  Readings by Leslie = Fun, and Paul = Moving, so so very moving.  Do you know what else was moving?  Me.  As in, I moved in the other direction, instead of asking John to sign the damned book.

Saturday, June 22:
Yes, there was still a craft talk and a workshop.  And!  And!  I finally finally finally got up the nerve to ask John to sign his book.  Confetti! (Virtual, not literal confetti though.  That stuff's a mess to clean up.)

Then, there was lunch with Kathi and Alan.  The restaurant must have known writers were going to be around.  They felt the need to put a disclaimer on their menu.

Commence the 4.5 hour drive back to Massachusetts (where there was a detour that took me 10 minutes out of my way).  I was greeted home by a deer but otherwise empty house.

Huge thanks to all my writing peeps out there who made this week memorable.  I'll list you by name and in no particular order, but know this list isn't complete.  If I left you off the list, it's not because I don't love you.   Thanks to:  Dave, Alan, Dave, Kathi, Paul, Gopal, David, Paco, David, Maria, Jan, Martha, Dave, and Kevin.  (And yes 36% of those people are Davids, and yes, they are all different people.)

Here are my group-mates.  Unfortunately, we're missing a Dave in this photo.

So, would I go again?  Heck yeah!


Oh!  I almost forgot!  My poem.  Note: I am *not* a poet.

An Ode to the Mattress

Your daughter is beautiful
and yet you do not want
anymore kids, you said.
Tossing from side and then
to side when I do not sleep
I say, No.  Colgate's mattress
has reminded me of pregnancy.
This mattress ain't for sleeping.

Grandma was a scary lady,
big and plush and Polish.
Lying on my belly reminds
me of this
There is no give for curves here.
Grandma's got Monster Boobies,
do I?
This mattress ain't for sleeping.

The writers creep back to their dormitories
from their imbibements of colorful and noncolorful drinks
Their voices, hollow, echoing, unreal
drift through my open window.
When I can make out their words, I hear
Bondage and Sadomasochism. 
This mattress certainly ain't for sleeping.

But tomorrow
Tomorrow I will plunge into the musicians' mosh pit
and then.

Sylvia, my Sylvia

Like a mother, I love all my "children" equally, but there is something so very special about Sylvia.  Therefore, there will be no wonder at my excitement upon hearing from my beta readers that they wanted more Sylvia.  Yes! Yes! Yes!  I want to give the world more Sylvia!  

The truth is, after I submitted my manuscript for the writers' conference, I hadn't spent much time thinking about Sylvia, Celia, and he-who-shall-not-be-named.  I hadn't wanted to think about them because I knew that if I did, I'd be tempted to make changes to what I had already submitted.  But, when I was sitting in the dentist chair, Sylvia crept into my mind, and she would not be denied.  That's so like Sylvia.

I tried to ignore her; I really did.  Then, at 4:45 this morning, when she prevented me from sleeping (again, so like Sylvia), I decided to give in to her.  It was a good thing I had the first period off today.  I mean, I would have gladly taught my students if I hadn't had the period off, but it gave me the time to bang out those itty bitty words that made up Sylvia's history.  Just as I finished, the bell rang, and the only thing that prevented me from doing a happy dance was the thirty students who were then sitting in front of me eagerly awaiting mathematics.

Now, I'm on lunch break, and I'm so excited about my new and improved Sylvia that I have to blog about it.  Oh, how I hope you love Sylvia as much as I do!

Rebellion Against a Tweet

Yesterday I read a tweet that threw my already opposite-of-burgeoning self-esteem against the wall  and then stomped on it until its blood was caked with mud.  The tweet itself was helpful and the response was in its own way helpful as well.

My reason accepts the information, but because I'm a fragile young woman *cough,* the truth behind the tweet was heard, and it hurt.  There is going to be an uphill battle to get LitD published.  Being ever practical, I decided not to blog about it then.  My post would only be whiney and completely overblown.  I would feel better in the morning.

Except, I didn't.  Actually, I'm fairly certain I felt a whole bouquet of dandelions worse.  Again, I'm practical (or at least I try hard to be so), so I donned my whitest dress and my whitest shoes in a rebellious act against the tweet.  "I don't care what you think.  I'm going to get published.  And just to show you, I'm going to wear the closest thing to regulation whites I own."  And I did.  Here's a picture:

Then, I kissed my sleeping daughter good-bye and drove my little tushie to work.  The hallways were cool and dim, for I always arrive at school an hour before most everyone else.  Feeling deflated, I didn't turn the lights on.  Let them think I wasn't coming to work today.  My coworkers always know when I call in sick because the office lights will be off when they get there.  Ultimately, practicality won and I felt silly, so I compromised; I turned two light switches on.  Oh, yeah.  I'm a rebel.*  I don't know what that was supposed to accomplish, but in my head, it was something great.

In the semi-dark, I made an answer key for the upcoming test on radical expressions.  Then, I went to the administrative office to make copies of a BINGO sheet.  I know; you don't care.  But there--there the ever lovely and optimistic secretary told me, "Look at you, all dressed in white! Happy May Day!"

How had I forgotten today was May Day?  I can't even fathom it.  It's a sign.  The novel that has been knocking around in my head (the one that isn't LitD2) is perfect for today.  So while that one tweet told me I probably won't find an agent for LitD unless LitD is as spectacular as I really think it is, the more-than-coincidence that compelled me to wear white on May Day leads me to believe life is not over. (Yes, I'm being purposely overly adverbly dramatic.)

I think I'm going to start the new novel tonight.  I'm going to need a lot of help with it, but I will start it.  It's a sign.  Yep.  It is.

From then on, I knew it was going to be a better day.

The End.

My question for you:
How do you bounce back from bad news?

*A rebel?  No.  Johnny Yuma was a rebel.

Patience

I have always considered myself a highly patient person, at least where patience is important.  I have no patience with slow loading computer programs or laundry that is "perpetually" stuck on the 1-minute-left-to-cycle screen, but, I have nearly endless patience teaching mathematics to reluctant learners, and I can spend hours upon hours making the perfect chocolate babka.  Then why, pray tell, am I having such a difficult time being a patient writer?

Maybe it is because LitD practically wrote itself in two months and that the following two months were so full of glorious revisions that I hardly had time to notice time was passing.  Maybe it is because springtime has finally come to Massachusetts and all my patience was spent on winter.  But now--now that my manuscript is due to the writers' conference, and now that my revisions will be few and far between (that is, until I next receive feedback)--now, I feel impatient.

I want to keep moving forward.  I want to make LitD as perfect as it can be; except, I want to do it faster.  Oh yes, patience is a virtue.  But patience is now at war with my father's motto--the one that is so ingrained in me that it might as well be my motto:  Do your work. Get it done.  Afterwards, have some fun.  How can patience compete with that, especially when writing is my fun?

My question for you:

How do you cope with impatience?

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a novel?

Today I had lunch with someone from college whom I haven't seen in, well, eight years.  Since graduation, we've both decided to pursue entirely artistic, albeit different, careers.  She's an actress and I'm a mathematician.  So, maybe I lied about my field of expertise being creative.  What is true is that I aspire to be creative (hence the whole writer thing).

Somewhere between our discussion of Mr. Rochester and how shy my daughter was playing at, my drafting process for LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS (if you haven't read the first chapter yet, go here) was mentioned.  "Mentioned" is such a weak word.  "Dominated" is more like it.  My drafting process dominated the luncheon.  Sorry about that, Heather.  So as LitD conquered the conversation and the tabletop became a bloody battleground, it got me thinking about my original assumptions about drafting/writing a novel.  This is where I share my experience with you.

Original assumption:
Three drafts, one hundred query letters, and a book deal.

What was wrong with my assumption:
I'm on my third draft now and in no way do I feel LitD is ready to be sent into the world.  If I can't leave for work in the morning without trying on five different outfits, what made me think I could let LitD leave the house in fewer than four drafts?  So scratch that idea.

This is what really happened:  
I wrote the first draft of LitD in two months.  It was 87,000 words, if I remember correctly.
I changed a few scenes (dramatically) and fixed a few grammatical errors in about two weeks.  The second draft was 84,000 words.
Now, LitD is just under 83,000 words, and it has taken me about one to two hours to edit some pages.  Here's why*:

There's more.  In two months, LitD and I will attend a novel intensive.  What does that mean?  More changes.

I won't even go into why the other two parts of my original assumption are wrong.  Let's just say, I've been a tad naive.  I still am.

What I can say is that in between being disgusted with my syntax, word choice, punctuation, grammar, and everything else of which I am now more aware, I have truly enjoyed this process.  I look forward to more of it.  Promise.  Cross my fingers, hope to die.

*Here's another reason why:

My question for you:
Anything worth doing is worth doing well.  True or false?

BIRTHDAY GIVEAWAY

It's my birthday, and what better way to celebrate than share the first chapter of LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS with you.  This is how it works.

1.)  You read the first chapter by going here.  It's easy.  It's free.  It's my gift to you!

2.)  If you like what you read, want to read more, or just plain want to give me a morale booster, you can:

A.)  Like my Facebook page or follow me on Twitter.

B.)  Share or tweet this giveaway (with a link to my Facebook page).

C.)  Post a link to your Facebook comment in the comments below or on my Facebook wall, or mention me in your tweet.

and

D.)  Do so by midnight on April 17, 2013.

If you do A-D, you’ll be entered in a giveaway for the second chapter of LitD.  Five of you will receive this little gem.

Increase your chances to win.  Facebook shares, tweets, and blog posts count as separate entries!  Just make sure you mention additional entries in the comments here with the link(s).

I'll announce the winners here on April 21st.

BUT WAIT, there could be MORE!

If there are 290 entries or more (I am 29 now, after all), one lucky person will get to read the first FOUR CHAPTERS!

A Writer at War

I woke up this morning with words in my head.  Since I wrote the final sentence of LitD, such beautiful words have not occurred to me.  I think part of the reason is because I've felt rather uncreative lately.  Since the end of February, my predominant focus has been pulling apart every single thought Celia has and every sentence the others speak.  Should Celia use a contraction here?  Would the young man answer this question in a monosyllable? Should I use the word grip or clasp to describe this action?   After hours upon hours of new sentences, these decisions all feel...anticlimactic.

Don't get me wrong.  Picking apart every last sentence and word is important.  There is nothing I like worse than reading a book and becoming too distracted by the poor word choice and unintentional sentence fragments to enjoy what might otherwise be an engaging plot.  I need to do it.  I need to do it so when you read LitD you can focus on Celia and not the spinach between her teeth.

So when new words began to play in my mind--exciting new words Celia would say and think if she were presented with an exciting new situation--I knew I had to make a decision.  I could give in to creative temptation and jot down the magnificent conversation Celia and the young man were having in my head, or I could focus on my deadline.  A writer at war.

You see, even though the last scene is written, I'm not done with Celia yet.  She is too vibrantly clear in my head to let her go.  Maybe I'll have to break from grammar and sentence structure to get those scenes on paper.  Maybe if I do, she'll stop speaking to me long enough so I can finish LitD.

I can resist everything except temptation.

-Oscar Wilde

My question for you:

How do you resist temptation?

Not-So-National House Cleaning Day

Today I have deemed Not-So-National House Cleaning Day.

Since I began my serious pursuit of writing, my house has suffered greatly.  My bathroom hasn't been scrubbed in an embarrassingly long time.  The last time my floors were mopped was in February.  Dust?  Cobwebs?  Yep.  I've got those aplenty.  (It is especially useful living on the edge of conservation land with my primary source of heat being a wood stove.  The conservation land provides the spiders and the wood stove provides the dust.  Together, my cobwebs are eerie enough to make even Tim Burton cringe.)

The time I would normally use to keep a clean and orderly household has been swept away.  In its place?  Writing.  So today I will take a break from my third draft of LitD.  Celia's grammar may not improve but the air quality of my log cabin will.

My question for you?
How do you balance what you love to do (whether it is writing, knitting, playing video games, gardening, swordplay, etc) with your responsibilities?

Spring Cleaning

If you haven't taken a look at YA Highway yet and you are interested in writing and reading, I recommend you do so.  Each Wednesday, they pose a question for writers to answer.  Last week they mistakenly skipped it, but had posted the question the prior week.  This week, they ask, "What novellas would you like to see inspire YA books?"  Because I have no answer that warrants a good post, here is my answer to last week's:

What do you hope to "clean out" from your writing? What habits/tropes/words, etc do you want to eliminate?

Oh boy.

1.)  First and foremost, I would like to clean out that word that crops up in situations that don't warrant its use:  THAT.  I also overuse the word slightly.


2.)  Next, cliches are still very much my anthrax.  They are oddly fascinating but disgusting.

3.)  As I sit here at my computer typing with my fingers and drinking my morning coffee in my workroom, I think I find myself occasionally adding extra superfluous words and phrases into my writing.  
I do not need to say my characters "push back the chair and stand."  It is enough to say they stand.  Pushing the chair back is implied.


4.)  Finally (and this should be first and foremost), I need clean my mental chambers of self-doubt.  I love LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.  I love writing it.  I love editing it.  I will be successful.   

My question for you:

Is avoiding prepositions at the end of a sentence a stylistic preference or grammatically correct? 

Excitement vs Fear -- Round 2

Excitement vs Fear -- Round 2
I told myself I wasn't going to do it, and yet here I am doing it.  My old nemesis self-doubt is back.  I rarely allow myself to believe I'm good at anything.  The truth is I succeed in many things.  The problem is I've got too much modesty mingled with too much self-doubt to ever truly feel optimistic about most of what I do.

I'm an emotional person trapped in a logical person's body.  Or is it the other way around?  I want to balance what is realistic with what is optimistic.  I want to replace all of my ifs with whens, but I want to do it in such a way that doesn't get my hopes up too high.  So what am I afraid of?  Failure.

In many ways, LitD has been an experiment of sorts.  No, not the type of experiment about which I teach my AP Statistics students.  Okay, okay.  It's not an experiment at all.  It's an anecdotal exercise in forcing myself out of my comfort zone.  This is something I find myself doing (or attempting) more.  Last summer, I forced myself to initiate eight social situations.  I made it a goal and I succeeded.  Mind you, I was still overly embarrassed when a co-worker asked me to explain a document I emailed him yesterday.  I then spent the next twenty minutes re-reading the (short) file to determine what I may have done wrong.  I'm still not certain if he was jesting with me or not.  I'm easy bait.  

Now, I am forcing myself to move beyond my neatly arranged box of mathematics and into the terrifying world of writing.  This is how:

Today I distributed five copies of LitD to the five young adults who volunteered to help me tighten up my novel.  They already know this because I've told them multiple times, but I'm anxious about this step in my writing process.  Here's the thing:  I'm not anxious about criticism.  I love critiques.  I long to make everything I do better.  So, there is an element of excitement here too.  What I'm anxious about is...hm...maybe not being good enough?  It's hard to tell.

Until I put aside the self-doubt, I suppose I will be anxious about many steps in my journey to publication.  BUT! I am infinitely excited too.  (I'm sure I'll say that too much.)  And deep down, under everything, I know this is going to work, even if I only know it in small spurts.

How do you reclaim yourself from self-doubt?

Second Draft? Check!

Today was monumental for two reasons.

The first, I finished my slow read of my first draft, thus effectively completing my second draft.

The second, I printed off a few copies for my student panel to begin reading THIS WEEK!

This means that in the very near future I will have people read my work for the very first time. Eep!
This also means I will soon begin my third draft, the draft I'll submit to agents*. Double Eep!



It doesn't feel real until there is a stack of papers sitting in front of you.  Like these:

I made a fancy cover so you can't read the words...yet.

If anything, Horatio thinks LitD is comfy.

*I take that back.  It will probably be my fourth or fifth draft I submit.

Mathematics and Balancing Time

As I've made it more and more public among my friends and acquaintances (and the internet) that I'm writing a novel, I have started to see a trend in the topics of conversation.  Conversations usually go like this:

Friend:  Huh.  Don't you teach math?
Me:  Yep.  Except I also majored in English as an undergrad.
Friend:  You don't see those together very often.

and

Friend:  How do you find time to do everything?
Me:  I don't clean my house.

On the first conversation:
Maybe you can answer this for me, but why don't we see more people who love mathematics and English (or the language arts, or writing, or whatever you want to call the subject) equally?  Every year at Parents' Night, I have at least three parents say to me, "Oh, I can't do math."  Some of them wear it as a badge of honor.  Maybe it's because I don't teach English, but I've never had a single parent say to me, "Oh, I can't read."  We live in a culture where illiteracy is horrible but it is okay not to be able to multiply or add. I don't understand that.

So yes, I am a math teacher.  Yes, I also love writing.  The two events are not disjoint.

This is a Venn Diagram of events that are not disjoint.

On the second conversation:

I am a mother to a toddler and a wife.  I teach high school mathematics full time.  I bake copious amounts of bread and muffins.  I sew and embroider.  I preserve jams, marmalades, pickles, and relishes.  A lot.   I also read and read and read and read.

  

It's not as simple as this, but I'll say it this way:  I find time to write because I make time to write.  Most of the time, that means other things don't get done.  Cleaning is number one on that list.  Sleeping is number two.  

I have also learned to use every waking second and have mastered the fine art of multi-tasking.  For example, I can usually get through one or two novels in a week because I listen to them on audiobook now.  Prior to motherhood, audiobooks didn't exist.  Now, I can do just about anything and read a book at the same time.  This buys me about twelve hours a week.  I brush my teeth while I shower.  Now I've earned another fifteen minutes each week.

I can't say I'm fully pleased with every decision I've made in order to allow myself time to write.  For example, a good friend told me she was making this for her daughter.  Wow.  Just wow.  I've decided my daughter will not have one.  I'm going to write instead.  Now, I have the fine fortune of wrestling with the guilt such a decision makes.  The little fairy on my right shoulder says, "Bad mom! You should show your daughter you love her and spend her nap time making this for her."  The fairy on my left shoulder says, "All right, Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt, get over it.  The sooner you write your novel, the sooner I can stop listening to you complain about what a horrible mother you think you are."  Am I a bad mom because of the choices I make?  Let's see how the little one turns out in twenty years.

Goals

Pessimism ALERT!
I sometimes find it difficult not to become bogged down with my own feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy. The moment I began writing LitD, I said to myself, "This is for me, and if nothing comes of it, well, that's okay too.  It will be a great journey."  That is still true, but now that I've completed my first draft and am very slowly crawling through a meticulous edit of my manuscript, I sometimes feel discouraged.

Writing LitD has been a rather manic experience.  There are times when I have the utmost confidence in what I write and other times where I can't help but second guess myself.  There are times when I am confident there is a market for my novel and other times when I doubt the market can hold any more dystopian YA fiction.  I don't want my novel to be just another book with fangs (like what happened after the Twilight craze).

After reading a very expressive post from the Crowe's Nest, I think I've come to a conclusion about part of what causes my mania.  I knew I was doing it, but I didn't fully acknowledge it.

I compare myself too much to other successful writers.  Fact:  I sit with copies of my well-loved novels next to me when I write.  They are a constant reminder of what I am not.  They are a constant reminder of what I long to become, of what I will become.

Long term goals:
A.) To become a successful writer.
B.) To become published.

Short term goal:
A.) To get through the second draft.

So what I am currently doing to achieve my goals?
I'm working to put together a panel of students who will read my manuscript and offer me feedback.  It will be a wonderful (albeit scary) experience to hear from my target audience.  Thank you, already, for those of you who have volunteered.

Setting and the Society

A century ago, a series of explosions in the Industrial Center plummeted the surrounding towns and cities into darkness.  Chemicals were released into the atmosphere and mass deaths were reported.  Out of the havoc, a new government was formed.  The Society's sole goal was to regulate the people in an attempt to prevent another series of explosions of such magnitude and devastation.  One hundred years later, the Society has succeeded.  Crime is abolished.  Sickness is rare.  There is no hunger, no poverty, no disease.  The industry, education, and individuality of the people are strictly monitored, and order is preserved.  The people are uniformed.  Ordinances and curfews are maintained.

Such is the world in which Celia lives.

In the beginning of the novel, Celia returns to school just in time for the students to give the Word of Honor.  I knew that the Society would require students to pledge themselves to its service.  After the Explosion, the Society certainly wouldn't want to do away with such formal traditions as the Pledge of Allegiance.  They would want to taper it, though.  They would want to form it to suit their own needs.  Our own Pledge is far too nice and leaves too much room for individuality for the Society.  I wanted to make the Word of Honor as realistic as I possibly could, but it also needed to reflect the type of government they established.

Therefore, I decided to do a little research.  I thought that other countries' pledges would inspire me to write something creative but realistic.  Using my trusty internet browser, I searched for other countries' pledges.  I was amazed when the only thing I could discover was from the Philippines.  Many countries have an oath people who want to become citizens must take, but as far as an every-day-before-school-we-recite-this?  I couldn't find anything.  That was my history lesson for the day.

Writing Celia

LitD began as a vivid dream I had when I was very, albeit temporarily, sick.  Some of my own situation bled into the dream, which was where the initial ideas of the Society and (especially) the Woods occured.  I don't want to give the impression that LitD is  based on my dream; only that my dream was the inspiration for it.  If I had simply recorded my dream, LitD wouldn't be complete unless I included the iridescent truffle-smelling pigs.  I hate to disappoint, but there are no glow-in-the-dark neon swine in LitD.  Sorry.  Yeah, I'm a little disappointed about that, too.

Last night was the first time I revisited Chapter One after writing it in December.  LitD began as an idea, without character or depth, just a driving force.  When I started writing, I needed to develop Celia before I could propel her into this world I created.  Having completed my first draft of LitD, I now know exactly who Celia is.  She's no longer a vessel for the plot but her own person.  And that's good, because when I read for pleasure, I read for characters.  Don't get me wrong; I love a good plot (and LitD has one, even if I do say so myself).  But a good character - that's a beautiful thing!  This is why Jane Eyre is so fascinating.  Let's face it, the second third of Bronte's novel isn't exactly riveting but it's all Jane.  Tess?  Despite everything he does to push her over the edge, Hardy must be in love with her.  I loved Tess of the D'Urbervilles because of Tess.  I needed to love Celia, too.  

She grew on me as I wrote her and deleted her and wrote her and deleted her...again.  The fact that Celia took Art I as a senior in high school because she couldn't fit more core academics into her schedule?  Delete.  It's not important.  I mean, it is, because it's who Celia is and it's part of her past, but it's not because in the grand scheme of things, no one cares.  Twenty years down the road will anyone care if you took Art I in high school?  Probably not. (Just for the record, I admire the arts and all things art.)

So this was how I wrote Celia.  Because LitD started with a dream, I had merely vague impressions of who Celia would be.  I knew what needed to happen to her and  I knew what I wanted her to be, but I didn't know who she would be.  The very rough draft of my first chapter was more a list of all things Celia than an actual story.  It was *not* something that would impress agents or readers.  I stripped 3,000 words describing Celia from my first chapter.  3,000 words.  That's a lot of Celia.

Now, without me telling you boring details of how she lost her first kitten (that wasn't in there, by the way), the first chapter will allow Celia to stand out in her own right, as her own person.  I don't have to tell you about Celia's past and preferences.  She'll tell you herself.