“Free your mind, and the rest will follow…” (What song is that from? I can’t remember.)
Anyway, NaNoWriMo is almost here and I’m so excited! If you really want to write a novel and you think you can’t (or you have some other excuse), then do this. It can change everything if you let it.
The problem with watching a Neil Gaiman video interview or going to the Endicott Studio website is that I’m both distracted from my work and inspired with more ideas than I think I can hold.
I want to do so many things…there is so much spinning around in my head…and when shall I get any of it done?
And here are questions for anyone who cares to answer–if you love what you do, is it work? Is it only work if you get paid? Is time spent writing free time? (excuse me–is time free?) Is it work time? Does housework take away from the writing or does writing take away from the housework? Can you see where I’m going (or trying to find my way) with this?
Oh, and can I keep up with the blogs, make art for my show, grade student papers, and write my NaNo novel–and not neglect my child? We’ll see…
And NaNo approaches…
One of many pointless annoyances…
I’m always baffled (and annoyed) by people who want to write a book, but they know next to nothing about books. Who knows? Maybe this is the best way to write. But I still think that knowing something about a bookstore is…I don’t know…a good idea. I mean, some people expect others to be greatly interested in their book, but they themselves have no interest in anyone else’s. There is probably a conversation here about blissful ignorance and knowing nothing and zen, but I’m a big believer in knowing what you’re talking about. Hey, if somebody just wants to write a novel for themselves…then great. Write blindly. Write whatever. Embrace cliches or nonsense. Be happy.
But if you want to write for publication then…well, figure it out. I don’t mean guess what is popular and write that. No! I don’t mean write what you think an agent wants. Always write the story you want to write. I don’t care about the “write what you know” school of thought. I prefer a “write what you’re passionate about” approach. Publication is nice and all (so I hear), but it is not the reason for writing. That said, imagine walking into a bookstore with a few (ok, more than a few) dollars to spend on a book. With that money you could go to a movie, buy lunch, maybe food for your kid, or a shirt on sale or a CD. Maybe you could save the money for bills or for a rainy day. Thousands of reasons exist to NOT buy a book. And then there are thousands of books. Why this one and not that one? And then there is the time spent reading when you could be emailing, blogging, surfing (either kind!), sleeping, watching TV, getting work done, washing dishes, spenind time with family, walking dog, whatever. Why should anyone pick the book of an author who’s not considered them one bit?
I could rant all day about that, but I’ve gone on long enough. If I move on to the pointless worry…why do I spend all this time on writing and art when it makes no money? Oh yes, the art for art’s sake argument? When imagining my life without writing and art, I see a grim picture. My mother ended up getting ECT because she tried to cut art from her life to make her husband and her mother happy. I swore long ago that wasn’t going to be me.
So, writing and art keep me sane, but they drive me crazy. I could get a regular job and make a regular paycheck and stop stressing about the bills. Selling a short story is next to impossible (and either the payment is long in coming or is in copies–can’t pay the phone bill with copies of Glimmer Train!) and I don’t even know how to sell art. I have whacky moments of–maybe I could sell my work to…but the idea ends before I can finish the sentence. And the starving artist cliche is not funny or hip when there is a child involved. I believe a person can follow her dream and be a mother, but food must be put on the table. This probably goes to the problem of striving…but I don’t feel like I strive for much. At least, I don’t strive to buy a house or a big car or a wide screen tv or fancy vacations. I just want to write and pay the bills. No designer clothes or expensive dinners out. I can be happy finding something at Target and eating rice and veggies at home. But I can’t shake the guilt of spening so much time writing and making art when they cost money and make none.
But then I think, oh why even talk about it when it isn’t going to change? This philosophy has always worked for my father. He never talks about anything and you don’t find him whinging on about things. Had he chosen the right career? Had he done a good job as a parent? I can’t imagine these questions ever occurred to him. I think my dad has a Buddhist soul. I never heard him say he should be doing something else. I never heard him judge another person. I never heard him worry about what he had or didn’t have. If something broke or went wrong, he did his best to fix it. If he couldn’t, he shrugged and put it aside.
Oh, enough! It is very likely I don’t know what I’m talking about.
NaNoWriMo is nearly upon us. I can hardly wait, but then again, I don’t really have to sit here watching the clock tick; I’ve got plenty to do. What’s your to-do list look like?
Mine is here more to help me remember than because it’s inherently interesting.
-paint bedroom doors (well, almost done)
-paper kitchen (at least, I’ve run out of paper)
-keep up with blogs (never ending)
-write syllabi (which are very past due)
-make exams for test week
-grade student essays (way behind on that)
-do laundry (also never ending)
-mail gift to Kathryn (because it is dusty)
-mail gift to Carol
-make copies of novel for writing contests (changed mind about)
-write cover letters and snd contests submissions (again, not doing)
-make a witch everyday (what on earth will she actually do for Halloween?)
-figure out son’s Halloween costume (well, he may change his mind…)
-make Sophie art (in progress)
-go to NaNo kick-off (had fun!)
-wash dishes (forever)
-take books to half-price (or Goodwill?)
-figure out the disaster that is son’s room (with his help, of course)
-sort bills (pay them is something else again)
-water plants (really, why bother listing things that always have to be done?)
-remember stuff I’m forgetting (may let this one go…)
Now I just need to sleep.
What is missing from the writing? Something isn’t right. I feel like I’ve climbed over plenty of walls to get to this place–writing everyday, spending time with other writers, creating a writing space, even feeling like a writer (whatever that means exactly). But I still feel something isn’t right, and I don’t mean publication (though that would be nice–very nice, in fact).
But does any writer ever believe she’s figured it all out? What happens to the writing then?
Well, if I pay attention to the writers I love, the stories I want to read, the movies I want to see, and the art I hang on my walls, I have to acknowledge what they all have in common–magic. Oh, fantasy and fairy tales, myths and legends…I’ve loved these all my life, so why aren’t they in my writing?
I don’t like gritty realism, and I don’t think this means I want to hide from reality. Seen Pan’s Labyrinth? Now there’s a brutal, real movie that is magical. Loved that movie though it broke my heart. Too people are snobs about fantasy, or they just think it doesn’t apply to them or whatever…I don’t really know what they think, but they certainly think writing something serious like The Gathering is more literary, more worthwhile, than writing about falling stars or wicked witches. I don’t mean to suggest that The Gathering isn’t great or worthy of its prize. Since I haven’t read it, I don’t know. But why are some stories deemed inherently better because they are “realistic”? A good story is a good story–shouldn’t matter whether people fly on brooms or not.
If a book speaks to someone out there, then its a amazing and worthwhile thing.
Anyway, this may be a long justification for writing what I want. I think I’ve often tried to make my writing fit a mold I don’t really want it to be in–and I’m old enough to not do that anymore. But complaining about this is a bit like making excuses for not doing what is expected–like cleaning house or taking your kid to play groups. Or something like that. Decide on your path and take it.
At least I can say this about myself–it takes me forever to make a decision, but when I do, I don’t look back. If only… is just a parlor game as far as I’m concerned. Trust your judgment and other people’s judgments as well. Make the art you want. Write the story you want. Why is this so hard for so many of us?
For a magical and well-told story, read Uncle Vernon’s Lie by Patrick Samphire. It’s my current love.
These bookish questions were at Red Shoe Ramblings (I couldn’t resist that name) and I’ve decided to carry them on. If you decide to take them to your space, let me know. I’d like to read your answers.
1. Hardcover or paperback? Why?
This is going to sound a bit shallow, but I don’t care if it’s hardcover or paperback as long as it’s got a great cover. I know, I know, a beautiful cover doesn’t mean a stellar book and plenty of stunning books have terrible covers, but I’m a sucker for art and design. Buying a book I want that happens to have an ugly cover bothers me–I have to really want the book. And then for the rest of my days I’ll comment about the cover every time I pick the thing up. I flat out refuse to buy books with movie covers. Hey, if I want to look at the actors, I’ll buy the DVD.
2. If I were to own a bookshop, I would call it…
Well, The Book Gods is probably too grandiose and The Bookshelf a little too…something. Oh, I’d like to take the title of that Kim Novak film–Bell, Book, and Candle. Yeah, that’d capture the spirit of the place.
3. My favorite quote from a book is…
Hey nonny nay,
my white horse is gray,
my gray is a black,
if you look the right way.
from The Black Beast by Nancy Springer.
I don’t know why I like this, or why I remember it from a novel I read in high school and can’t remember anything else about. All I know is that this little rhyme has popped into my head for random reasons for the last twenty years…So, that must make it my favorite since I can’t recall anything else without looking it up.
4. The author (alive or deceased) I’d love to have lunch with would be…
Neil Gaiman or Gregory Maguire? Maguire or Gaiman? Gaiman–Maguire…Maguire–Gaiman…
5. If I were going to a deserted island and could bring only one book (except for the SAS survival guide), it would be…
Okay, I’d put these three books in a bag, shake them up, dumped them on the ground, and the one closest to my feet would be the one. And the three are–The Truth about Unicorns by Bonnie Jones Reynolds, Watership Down by Richard Adams, and The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.
6. I’d love someone to invent a bookish gadget that…
would allow me to read a book hands-free while in the shower, blow drying my hair, and vacuuming.
7. The smell of an old book reminds me of…
childhood.
8. If I could be the lead character in a book, it would be…
Milo in The Phantom Tollbooth.
9. The most overrated book of all time is…
No book is overrated if somebody out there loves it.
10. I hate it when a book…
lets me down at the end.
So, the other morning I’m scrabbling along in my usual rushed way when I open the door to my tiny studio/office closet and find water dripping steadily from my upstairs neighbor. And I did that doubletake that I always do when I believe for the briefest of seconds that another reality is there if I just look on another direction. Like when I was in college and got the wrong suitcase from the airport. I opened and shut that thing at least three times before I finally admitted the contents were not going to change. Very silly.
Anyway, several expletives later, I am on the phone getting after-hours maintenance to come and stop the leak. Two sketch pads have soaked up hours of water. Several of my son’s drawing are wet blurs. The expensive art paper that I’d found on sale was rippled. The portable DVD covered with water. Pens in puddles. Chair wet. Throw rug soaked.
My son is fascinated and immediately stops arguing with me (before I opened the closet he had refused to get dressed for school). My son thinks about crying but I pick up one of his drawings and while water runs off of it, I say, “Hey, look at how the colors mixed together. It’s so pretty!” He grudgingly agrees, and then I drag him with me upstairs to try not to kill my neighbor. She is shocked, SHOCKED, anything is leaking.
Anyway, maintenance comes, son gets dressed, I speed to work because I’m now forty minutes late for our meeting and I haven’t preped for class, and ten minutes later I find myself crying in the teachers’ room. I mean, I know it’s not the end of the world, and no major projects were lost, and my laptop (thank you all powers that be) was not on my desk, and though I shouldn’t spend money on new sketch pads, they are replacable (and the DVD player still works), but there I was, crying at work.
I am not a person who cries at work. I hate crying in front of other people. There are some ex-boyfriends who’ve torn out my heart, but I was going to be damned to let them see me cry. But there you go. And now I’m writing about it. I hardly understand my motivation sometimes…
But my coworkers were nice about it and one teacher went and got my class started for me, and in ten more minutes all was well. But oh, that invasion of space–fate ruining pictures and pens. Just like that. A reminder that sometimes, no matter what you do, a dribble of water can mess with your world. I think we get so obsessed with being safe–baby proofing, dieting, exercising, warning, warning, warning, we forget that things still go wrong. I know this. I’ve learned this lesson before and many times over…
Over at MommaZen, she’s mentioned trust. I think I trust more than I don’t. But I often trust that someone will do their best, and still, life happens. Things won’t always work out, and it won’t have anything to do with how much trust in that person. Things go wrong.
Here’s hoping for the best for everyone out there…
Plot problems…I’m so close to getting the ending of this novel. Painfully close. But I’ve got this character, Linnie from the other blog actually, and she’s been caught listening in to a conversation she’s not supposed to hear. Now, Linnie, being Linnie, would let nothing stop her from rushing to her friend to warn her of trouble–but the people she’s been eavesdropping on aren’t about to let her go tell anyone what they’re up to. Since I’m not writing a “thriller” having them lock Linnie in a closet or tie her up feels overdone. But Linnie isn’t a person who can be blackmailed or persuaded. What to do?
I hate it when I get characters into situations I can’t get them out of.
Oh! Wait! I’ve really, truly in the middle of writing that last sentence have gotten an idea! That a-ha moment is one of my favorite things about writing. Must go write scene… . . .
aurgh! effing-a man, it won’t work. oh, I shall drive myself nuts.
Later: This plot is getting silly.
Later still: No. I change my mind. It’s getting stupid.
I think I’ll lock myself in a closet. Or the book. I know. Both of us in closets, but separate ones, far apart from each other.
I love my birthday. Make no mistake, I don’t mind telling people my age or finding gray hair. But there is something about special dates–birthdays, New Year’s Day, anniversaries, weddings, whatever special day you choose–that lends itself to milemarkers and expectations.
Ten years on and I’m still working the same job. Hey, I like my job. I get paid enough per hour although I don’t work enough hours for it to add to much, but the work is fun and the hours are great mom-hours, but the younger people there often talk about the place as a weigh station, as not enough, and I feel a bit like a loser for staying in the same place for so long. But I don’t want to climb some career ladder. I want to publish my work. Of course, I’d like to make a real income too. Can’t have everything.
And of course many rejection letters later and still no success. Well, today I don’t care. When I die, my son can find all my books in binders and he’ll have something to read. That’s not so bad. At least he’ll have that because he’ll certainly have no memories of his mother being a good cook or housekeeper.
I know better, but I still feel that by my birthday I’m supposed to have ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING. Whatever that means. Something other than making it through another year. Any fool can do that. Drives me crazy when people act like it’s a talent to live a long time (not that I’ve lived a long time…). It takes nothing to avoid being on the wrong plane, avoid the deadly disease, and avoid any number of other ways to die. Okay, maybe it takes a little talent to outrun someone trying to hurt you, but other than that…it’s all luck (the luck of someone being a little slower than you).
Okay, Happy Belated Birthday to me! (ha–can’t even manage to wish myself a happy birthday on time)…next time around I’ll be 40. What expectations will I have then?
Ending a novel is its own special cirlce of hell. And circle is a good word for it, really, because you’ve got to bring the events set in motion in the beginning round to the end. Obviously. (Oh, how much fun it is to state the obvious.)
Well, I’ve got the ending-ending. The last scene. I know how it ends–who dies, who leaves, that sort of thing. And I’ve got the lead up to the grand finale. But I’ve also got this terrible gap in between. Now, take Harry Potter (regardless of how much you love it or how much you want to take it to trash…I just want an example!). Rowling starts her series with certain characters. Other characters join the trip. One way or another she gets a great many of these characters at Hogwarts for the big finish. Contortions are required, but they get there. And I did so love the ending. A pitch perfect ending.
But I haven’t figured out my contortins to get my character where i need them to be–all together on a bridge. I know what happens once they’re there (hey–did somebody fall in the water?), but giving each necessary character a reason to be there at the same time as everybody else…well, I might lose my mind.
Anyone who doubts JK Rowlings ability to keep seven books worth of story in order and all those characters where they should be, has never written a book.
