the foolish multitudes
The multitude of ways I find to not write the ending of this novel are getting tiresome. This post is case in point.
Girl with bloody arrow? It must be love!
Over at Between the Lines is a love story in progress disguised as a writing project. Check it out. Hey, you know something about love–you know you do.
Dear Cupid,
I could go on and on about the boy who told me I wouldn’t impress his friends or the one who told me he was still friends with his ex-girlfriend, who was, in fact, his fiance. Perhaps I could tell the story about the guy who only wanted to see me after 10pm or the one who wouldn’t kiss me until he dumped me–ten months after the first night I stood at the door waiting for that kiss. There’s the one whose girlfriend who was six time zones away but who showed up at the door anyway. And of course there’s the one who asked me to marry him, and since I thought he surely had a better girlfriend elsewhere, I didn’t answer for three months. Sometimes after eleven years of marriage I still expect him to wake up one day and realize he hadn’t meant it after all…
But there is this other love, this other passion, and it is for what keeps me at night and distracts me during the day. The other day I was chatting with a new coworker and I told her that I don’t get enough sleep because it’s the only time I can write. She replied there was nothing she felt strongly enough about to give up sleep for.
Often I must remind myself that there are people out there who don’t need to lose sleep over a blank page. There are people who don’t think about writing a book or drawing a picture. Given all the free time in the world and a full bank account, they wouldn’t create anything. I, on the other hand, would still lose sleep. Sure, I could lose my anxiety about writing for a living and justifying the time I spend in make-believe, but not write? Not make art? What? Whenever I think my writing and my art are worth less than the trees butchered for them, I then think about my life without them, and a barren wasteland stretches out before me and I’m suddenly afraid of wide, open spaces.
I love my novels and my art even if they disappointment me, leave me, or break my heart. Whose handiwork does that sound like? You, Cupid. You! There I was once, at six listening to my mother explain the color wheel, at ten staring at a wall of books in the library, and at fifteen enjoying the feel of paper under my fingers, and zing each time another arrow went into my heart–even if I pull the arrows out, I can’t let them go. Sometimes I think I’m using one of those bloody arrows as a pen, but maybe that’s just the melodramatic writer/artist in me.
Yeah…more inspiration is coming on…girl with bloody arrow clutched in her hand…
Oh, Cupid, thanks for that.
You won’t regret it in the morning.
Since the end of NaNoWriMo, I’ve been sending out badgering emails to folks who are trying to finish their novels–just little notes of encouragement to say that you are not alone, you can do it, don’t give up. I was posting these emails in the Get Novel Done page in the sidebar over there, but that is turning out to be a pain. So, I’m going to post them here from now on. If you might liked to be badgered, let me know, and you too can be hassled every ten days or so until October 31, 2008–the night before the next NaNo.
Badger–The Valentine Edition
Yes, the dreaded holiday of love-and-making-loads-of-people-feel-bad day is almost here. But as far as I’m concerned, your love life is not the problem–unless it is taking away from the writing. Hey, any fool can sign a Valentine, only you can write your novel.
because i haven’t procrastinated enough and this is great…
Thanks to Grain Edit
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Procrastination goes something like this…open document and read over the scene I was working on last…but I’ve got to check my email…okay, nothing there…go back to scene and get main character into the next room which I describe…and realize that I ought to go check a blog I’ve not read in something like ten hours…hey, something new from YouTube!…go back to scene and my main character discovers she’s not alone in the boiler room…I really should put that video on my blog! Yeah! I’ve never done that before. I wonder how you do it. That was easy but I’ve got those weird letters at the top maybe I should fix it…no. What does that guy say to my heroine? Okay…I better check my email again…
Perhaps if I could find out where Procrastination sleeps, I could sneak in and stab it in the heart with a wooden stake. Shoot it with a silver bullet? Toss it back into the fire from hence it came? Send it back into the Void? Anybody wish to be part of my angry, vigilante mob? Please.
Banging Head against Coffee Shop Wall (the banging goes faster with caffeine)
I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop staring at my novel. For some reason the damn thing won’t write itself. What are you doing?
more to read…
I’ve no idea if I’ve done this correctly, but I signed up for Me-Time, and this was part of the deal. So, there are lots of great reads here; take a look.
just plain hard
Trying to get through the last chapter and pull it all together is just plain hard. If I could capture that feeling of NaNo and just write without worrying…that’s what I love about NaNo–I’m not figuring out the plot; I’m discovering the plot. A very different thing.
the dead tell no tales
It may be bad luck to speak of the dead, but let’s dare fate–these writers do. In The Independent ten writers talk about the novels that have never seen publication and surely never will. I almost can’t stand to read the article since it brings to mind my novels lying still in their graves, I mean, folders. Of course, the article is about the dead novels of published authors. Let’s mourn the novels of all the unpublished authors, the ones whose creators aren’t interviewed anywhere, but who are remembered all the same.
Ways to Kill a Writer
Sometimes the infamous writer’s block comes plummeting out of the sky and lands right in my path. Other times the problem is the writer’s bully club that comes up from behind and whacks me over the head. The writer gods know I dig my way through the block, even if it means blood from under the fingernails. Or I stagger to my feet and put down words as dizzy on the page as I feel in my brain.
Then there is the writer’s trip wire. I’m singing along, skipping down the plot path, and that shining wire pulled across my way just doesn’t catch my attention until I’m face down in the dirt. Was I going some where? And don’t forget the writer’s darts. Fairies and demons are in cahoots to flick poison darts at my neck, my arms, my legs. I swat as many as I can away, but eventually that poison of self-doubt and insecurity immobilizes me. A good stiff drink seems like an antidote, but that really just makes the poison feel good. The only true cure is to keep moving and work it through my system.
There’s the writer’s pit. When I fall in there, I say the foolish things that can be said only in the dark when I can’t look anyone in the eye–you go on without me! Don’t worry! I’ll be fine.
The writer’s looking-glass is especially deceptive. Stare into the reflection and I might spend too much time posing for author photos and practicing for my Terri Gross interview and perfecting my autograph. But it is a bit difficult to write on glass. Better to break the damn thing (without slashing wrists preferably).
One way or another I stumble and crawl to…
THE END.
