Everything Old is New Again

I've not been well...not so much physically as emotionally. My writer's muscle keeps freezing, storylines keep evading me, and I'm looking down the long barrel of despair. Job. Economy. The heat of summer-yet-to- come. Whatever the reason, I've been struggling. Oh, I have moments, moments when I jump back on that keyboard and gallop away, but they've been few and far between. Let's face it. I haven't even blogged since March and it's now the end of May.

I tell myself that I'm just in a slump, that the world will tick my way someday, and I'll get going. BUT the world never ticks my way. Hell, the world never really ticks anybody's way. It took months for me to realize that I had to wind my own clock, so to speak. Time doesn't wait, but it can sure leave you behind if you're not careful.

This blog is supposed to be about writing, about my efforts to write the great American novel. Well, whether my book (books in my case) will ever see the light above the printing press, I don't really know. I know there are stories in me: scary stories, romantic stories, suspenseful stories, and stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. I know they're all there, waiting for my fingers to begin the rudimentary canvas on which each will be painted. (You guessed it I'm getting to another BUT) ...but...my dreams have gotten pressed between my health and my economic circumstances. Some are completely gone...shot to hell...others are still there, like that last tiny light just before the cigarette is pushed against the bottom of the ashtray.

I write this here because I've come to believe that no one reads it anyway. Some of my friends used to drop by and give me a boost/comment, but since I've been so slow to post, they've found other places to comment. Who can blame them? I can't say that I won't ever finish the two book series. In fact, even in this great, deep funk, I actually did some edits, starting from the beginning and reading through again. (I like the book, but then again, I'm not an agent.)

My computer was new in 2002. It's not so new anymore and it, like its owner, is showing its age. I've been getting lots of blue screen/disc errors and I've tried to back things up as much as possible, but soon and very soon, the old Gateway is going to give up its ghost. When that happens, I'll have to travel to write, and in order to travel, I have to have gas money. I'm hoping to finish at least the first book in the series before the thing goes "Ker-Plow", but who knows? The way my luck's been going lately, I'll probably do something brillant, then the screen will go blank, and it'll all be lost. (Knock on wood that that doesn't happen!)

Well, I'm going to stop complaining. I'm down to my last four cigarettes, and I've got the urge to chain smoke.

At It Again

Neither snow, nor hail, nor dark of night, or (in my case) disease shall stay the writer on her appointed keyboard. Yes. It's me again, and I'm sort of writing once more. Mostly, I'm reading, and from my perspective, that may very well be the best way to spur inspiration. My friend Gini Koch's new book Touched by an Alien comes out on April 6th, and by the time I get through all the Patricia Cornwell I'm reading, I'll be up-and-at'em for Gini's effort.

My effort, the big book that turned into two books might even turn into three if Gini gets her way. I'm not sure, but hey, I could do worse I suppose. My main character lives to be 104 years old in my story, soooo it could work. I'm still leaning toward two spans: younger woman then older woman. I'm not sure I won't to talk about the middle-aged woman. I'm having enough trouble with that myself.

Every time I say "middle-aged" I think of Spencer Tracey. The Hollywood folk threw him an enormous bash when he turned fifty. Tracey was throwing back a few drinks with his friends when one raised a glass and said, "Welcome to middle-age." Another so-called friend smiled, downed his Scotch, and responded, "Middle-age, hell! Who lives to be a hundred." Tracey took it to heart and stalked sullenly away. I'm not quite as sensitive as Tracey, but I don't really expect to live to be a hundred.

As for the book...I've come to terms with one of my many flaws: the tendency to rush the story. I think I rush partly because I can see the finish line, and I want to make it there, at least with this one. It's well over 125000 words all together. :) Hey, there was a time when I only wrote poetry (some of which can be viewed in the on-line magazine Raphael's Village which contains a lot of good reading. I recommend it.) and poets don't usually write 125,000 words. Know what I mean?

Anyway, back to the reading, the writing, and the hoping that this time I can slow down and let my characters catch a breath between scenes. There is something to be said for a quiet walk by the creek.

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

Okay. I've been gone for months; that's true. You see, I had another stroke, not the usual TIA, a CVA (bleeding into the brain). All in all, it set me back, but speaking of back: I'm back in the saddle again. I'm not writing new stuff, but at the urging of a friend, I am revising again. As a matter of fact, it's not so bad. At first, I couldn't quite get the hang of it, but writing is like riding a bicycle, I suppose. I just hopped right in there and finally, after long suffering efforts, I'm at the revision of the last novel.

As far as I can tell, I'm actually making sense, or rather, the novel is making sense. I put in a few extra words this week (like 1,000) and next week I might get a few more in. The absence from craft hasn't been bad for me. I'm seeing things I should have seen earlier and my excitement at the effort is growing stronger.

For those of you who might actually read this: Thanks. And for the others, the ones who don't take a look at my site...:P

Seriously Dry Spell

Okay, so I haven't written in weeks. I know. I'm the one who keeps saying, "Write. Write. Write." But nowdays, I can't. I want to, but nothing I write makes it past that lovely, little key called 'delete'.

I've written rougly 5000 words within the last two weeks, all of which are now floating somewhere in the digital cosmos of the forgotten and deleted. Nothing works for me. No short story. No poem, and certainly, no novel. :( Woe is me, to coin a phrase.

I am now seeking encouragement. I need a writer's-soul hug, a kind word, or maybe an agent. Anyone listening?

Working, Working, Thinking, Thinking

All right. So, I said I had two books. Everyone said I had two books in the one manuscript. As I write, I'm not so sure. I've made a fateful decision, one of those make or break kind of decisions.

I can't figure out how to break the book in two. I know where it should break...I think, but I can't figure out how to do it and make each book distinctly its own country. Know what I mean? Sooo...I decided to write one long book, a hellishly long book. When I get the flow right, make everything move quickly and effortlessly, finish the book with every section driving toward the next, then I'll think about the break. Good idea? You tell me.

Gone with the Wind, Silence of the Lambs, The Client, The Firm, Hawaii...they were all long books...really long books. Well, maybe Silence of the Lambs wasn't that long, but it wasn't short. There's Tolkien. He wrote long books. In fact, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy was written as one long book. Tolkien's publishers decided it was three books, not Tolkien, himself. Tolkien wrote it all in one continuous volumn. I'm certainly no Tolkien, but...I've got one long continuous volumn. See what I mean?

I really don't know what else to do, but I'm certainly up for suggestions. I've toiled these past weeks. I need help. Any (and I mean ANY) idea is welcome, barring wrapping the manuscript around a stick of dynamite. I can't help feeling that this one...this troublesome story...is THE one, the one that might prick the conscience of the agent! HELP!

Twins?

Okay. So, book number two has suffered through the beta read. Verdict? I've got twins! Not babies (God forbid. Having twins must be an absolute nightmare requiring far more organizational skills than I have!) No, not babies....books. It seems the mega project is really two books. It's either make it into a series of two or try to peddle a 200,000 word novel. Maybe...if I were John Grisham, but not as an unpublished novelist seeking representation for her first book.

Oh, well. (she sighs) This is good and bad. Good news first! (I always choose the good news first :D!) The good news is that most of both books is written. Book one? Starts when the heroine is around twelve and takes her through to adulthood and slightly beyond. With the division, I can flesh out characters that need fleshing and add chapters that need adding. The second half, or rather, the second book needs a little more work. I suppose the epic was getting a little long, and subconsciously, I rushed, barreled toward the end and left out a lot that needed to be said. I'm not thrilled that the betas didn't love it completely, but I am grateful for guidance. I tend to turn on the ignition before I check the road map. Know what I mean?

Bad news? Trying to exercise patience, not one of my primary character components. The new timeline for submission is longer, but I can prove my worth as a writer by having two books ready and a third in the wings should a might-be-my agent wonders if this old girl can write another novel. "Sure," I'll say. "I've got the sequel and another piece itching to get out of that trunk."

Well, back to the drawing board or "keyboard" in this case. I'm at it again fellow writers. With a vengeance!

See you when I've got two books in the can.

Back in the Saddle?

I'm having a rare night at home. Relatives are staying with Mother and I'm joyously sitting in my big green chair and (glory of glories) writing. Of course, I should be finishing up the grading of the 1200 writing assessments, but time at home is so unusual, well, you know.

I once asked the question, "Are you a writer if no one reads your work?" Tonight I had an epiphany. The answer is a resounding, "Yes." My great moment came when I felt the need to rush to my keyboard and pound out a few words. I am a writer, whether a good one or a bad one. I need to spend time weaving intricate plot lines just like I need to breathe. That must mean that I AM a writer, no matter how many doubts I've had in the past.

Time away from the thing you love does make the heart grow fonder, at least in my case. The absence of writing made me irritable. A psychological study of that long ago case of the railroad spike that somehow ended up in a man's head said that the spike made him irritable, so I guess he and I have something in common. Not being able to write gave me the same symptoms. Go figure.

Although this particular blog has been touted by some, it's sort of fallen by the wayside. That is, it has fallen by the wayside since I've been unable to update frequently. I choose to believe the sparing entries are the cause rather than think my muse has slipped away and I've become uninteresting and boring. The multiple visitors that I once enjoyed with each entry have found other blogs to visit and I seldom get many hits these days. This doesn't stop me, however. I write. I write on this blog and a couple more. I comment on the blogs of friends and ,sometimes, strangers. I am a writer, whether I have the means to write or not. Undaunted by disinterest, I keep on plugging...writing away, commenting on the joy of the written word.