NaNoEdMo: Serendipity...Please?

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I love first drafts. There’s magic in those first words to hit the page, an energy that crackles as my fingers fly across the keyboard. First drafts are where I unearth those precious secrets held close in the hearts of my characters, where I see their strengths and their beauty and their frailties. This is where they first reveal themselves to me, their hearts fluttering with nervous trust.

By comparison, editing slogs along. This is where I assure my characters that I know what they’re capable of, that it’s time for them to open up that little bit more, to risk that bit of extra danger. I nag them, I push them, I make them push back. I fill in the gaps and sweep up the mess I left my first time through. Editing is wringing potential from the first bare bones of my story. It’s the last leg of the journey before I let my baby go. Editing is hard, uphill work.

It’s no wonder so many novels never get past the first draft stage. For every minute I spend productively editing, I spend 10 minutes checking my email, sighing and staring at the monitor. I can’t tell I how many times I’ve looked at a rough draft of a scene and thought, “This is it. This is the scene that’s going to bust this book’s balls for good.” I find myself literally panic stricken. I rub my forehead, scrub both hands over my eyes, let out a heartfelt sigh. Sometimes, when I’m really flummoxed, I even grrr at the monitor.

But then I hit that moment of kismet, that serendipitous split-second where everything clicks into place. Suddenly, I see what I need to do—cut this, add to that, scrap those three lousy pages. As the story shapes up, a tremendous high carries me aloft. I know I’ve given my characters the best vehicle I could. I did them justice. Somehow, I made them live and breathe.

I’m trapped in a scene that’s killing me right now. The last precious EdMo hours are ticking away. Beth is lost to me, somewhere beyond the fog that’s clouding my consciousness. I rub my forehead, sigh, but I can’t hear her voice. Without her, my work is empty. I wish she’d come home.

So I stare at the monitor. Somehow, I have to hang on to what I have: faith in kismet, faith in the process. I’ve been through this before, trod this uphill road, felt my feet too heavy in my boots. I have to believe. She’s out there. I trust serendipity will bring her back.

NaNoEdMo: Mmmmm, Crow

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After last week’s indolent foray into shopping and theatre outings, this week I fell victim to a new writing enemy: THE FLU.

Out of nowhere, it hit me, like Michael Strahan mowing over slow-moving seniors at the Old Country Buffet. As I lay in bed, too sick to read, my household fell into shambles. Like a trooper, my husband confronted his fear of the kitchen and prepared three meals a day. My daughter appeared several times an hour, eyes wide and lower lip trembling as she told me, “But I don’t want to play with Daddy, Mommy. I need you.”

On Sunday, I finally emerged wobbly-legged from bed. As I surveyed the wreckage that can only happen when Mommy’s out of commission, I realized two discouraging things. One, I hadn’t done a lick of editing in days, sending my EdMo goals spiraling into the abyss. And two, with 20 people coming for Easter dinner and the house in a shambles, I wouldn’t have time until after the Lord had risen.

I don’t want to lapse into whininess, but I feel as though my EdMo was doomed from the start. I wanted to quit before I began, then, miraculously, things seemed too easy that first glowing week. Did I make the fatal mistake of wallowing in cockiness? Even after the indolent slacker week, I honestly thought I could recover. EdMo was a piece of cake, compared to the intensity or NaNoWriMo. All I had to do was fix the mess I’d already written.

And therein lies the rub.

The editing is the tough stuff. I knew that going in. Still, somehow, this thing slipped away from me, in spite of my good intentions.

So what now?

The way I see it, I have three choices:

1) give up and spend the rest of March feeling guilty and sorry for myself.

2) push forward, torpedoes be damned and let my in-laws eat egg salad sandwiches in our dustbunny-laden germ-hovel. Or,

3) do the thing I find hardest when it comes to my writing--compromise. Not on quality. Never on quality. But perhaps ease up a bit on quantity. Learn to live with it if I only edit 6 scenes instead of 8, fix 40 pages, instead of 50.

The thought of it galls me. I hate giving up and compromising feels like just that. But this is the part where I remind myself this isn’t about me. It’s about the writing, so I guess I have no choice. It’s time to step outside of myself, shut up and accept the fact I may have to eat a little crow. Anything's better than egg salad.

NaNoEdMo: Lessons for a slacker

*****

What started out with a bang has dwindled to a pitiful fizzle.

Yep, NaNoEdMo is running amok. Don’t get me wrong. I’m doing fine on my scene and page counts. I consider those things the real tangibles of NaNoEdMo. But my editing hours have fallen into a slump.

I won’t make excuses. I booked a busy social calendar for the weekend and didn’t leave myself time to write. But, even while I was slacking off, some pearls of writing wisdom came my way.

1) ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR AUDIENCE IS SMART.

This one came from a theatre outing with my husband Saturday afternoon. I enjoyed the production—a very tight rendition of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. The acting ranged from quite good to excellent. The set was pleasingly minimal.

What I didn’t like was being bludgeoned with a heavy handed Lazarus symbol, a too-oft repeated device used to impart theme and character development and to impose structure on the play’s deliberately fragmented structure.

Personally, I got the Lazarus symbol the first time I heard it. By the fifth time I was bored to tears with it. And when they closed the play with it, complete with hackneyed trick of Raskolnikov walking into the blinding light, I found myself feeling a little insulted. Before I even left the theatre, I’d added this to my DO NOT EVER DO list. An audience is smart. Give them credit for it. Let them put the pieces together themselves.

2) INSPIRATION CAN BE FOUND ANYWHERE

While out shopping with a few lady friends, I tripped across a bottle of nail polish that made story ideas dance through my head.

It was a gorgeous, saucy garnet, made by O*P*I, color name I’m Not Really a Waitress

I pictured innocent girls, leering greasy haired male customers, casting couches, dreamers and those sad, plodding women whose glamorous dreams have been strangled. I’m Not Really a Waitress. That name makes my wheels turn. I could write at least four stories off that single, provocative prompt.

3) DON’T ASSUME YOU CAN CATCH UP ON YOUR WRITING TOMORROW

A friend’s husband passed away Saturday afternoon after a vicious war with cancer. He was only 62 years old. No one expects to die in their 60’s anymore. For most people that’s just a beginning of a whole new phase of their lives. As I think about my friend and her husband, I wonder how many things they thought they’d have time to do, but didn't as they raced against the clock.

Since I know my readers are smart, I won’t belabor the point. And, really, I'm in no position to talk. I'm the one going off to plays and lunch and shopping, rather than sitting my butt at the computer.

So I remind myself to work, with the knowledge that life is short. Take time for friends, for family, for fun, but always make time to write.

NaNoEdMo: The First Few Days

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The fates must be smiling on me. NaNoEdMo’s going better than I hoped.

You see, I never thought I’d find myself in this happy circumstance. Last week, plagued by headaches, the stress of living with a two-year-old, and a generally bad attitude, I almost gave up on NaNoEdMo before I even started. And when a friend sent me an email to say she’d be in town on March 1, I thought, “Yep, that’s it, the sign from heaven that I just need to let this thing go.”

Well, I didn’t. I dug in Saturday, albeit much later than I really like to write, and got a big chunk done on a scene that had been busting my chops since last fall. Now, two days later, I wrestled that scene into fighting shape and I've begun tackling the next one. I never would have imagined it, but I’m right on track for meeting my aggressive 2 scenes per week goal.

Here’s a piece of the scene I just worked on, from my WIP, Somewhere On the Road To Me. In this excerpt, the 12 year old protagonist Beth hangs out at the tavern owned by her best friend, Shel’s dad (Ken). Debbie is Ken’s second wife and she hates Shel.

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We’re sitting at one end of the bar, near the wood door with its giant glass middle. I soak in the pale green walls, the rows of booths and tables behind us, the half curtains hanging dustily in the clouded windows. The sunlight shines through them like we’re floating in someone’s dream. Above the curtains, the beer signs ooze dim gray-edge red and blue against the afternoon sun, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Schlitz, Old Milwaukee.

I cross my legs and bounce my foot, elbow planted on the bar as I lay my chin on my nonchalantly curved hand. I breathe in cigarettes, grease and beer, feeling sophisticated down to my toes.

We’re well into a hand of crazy eights when a tall, foxy guy struts in, all chest and heel and hips swinging, chin out like he owns the place. He’s wearing a rust leisure suit with one of those silky beige Qiana shirts, the neck unbuttoned three down to show a copper crab resting in his blond chest hair.

“Who’s that?” I whisper.

Shel glances up and back to her cards, her head never moving an inch.

“Dave.”

I lean forward, whisper. “He is so foxy.”

Shel rearranges a couple cards, says low, “He’s Ken’s liquor distributor.”

Dave struts by with a blast of cologne. He click-clicks a tongue and points his finger at Shel like it’s a gun.

“Hey, Doll.”

Shel rolls her eyes.

Dave laughs and rumples Shel’s hair, then walks over to where Debbie’s perched on the beer cooler. From the way Debbie smiles, you can tell she’s way happier to see him than she ever would be to see us.

“Your turn,” Shel says.

I start drawing cards, but my eyes are glued to Dave. He leans over the bar and gives Debbie a smile that would melt the North Pole. “Let’s go in the storeroom and see what you need this week.”

Debbie smushes out her cigarette and hops down from the cooler, lickety-split.

“Take care of the bar,” she says to Shel, then smiles all teeth at Dave. “And don’t bother us.”

She and Dave disappear into the storeroom, leaving me and Shel with the fogeys...

Variations on a Theme

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A few years ago, something happened that gave me a whole new approach to my writing.

An old boyfriend sent me an email through Classmates.com. No, I never replied. I’m a happily married woman. But it got me wondering: what if I had been a different person, if I hadn’t been so happy? What if I had made bad choices along the road that left me alone and desperate? What if I suddenly heard through the grapevine about that long lost love?

I wrote my first story on this idea, a piece called “Vicki, Existentially,” about a woman who regrets breaking up with her now-successful former lover and foolishly goes to his house while drunk one night.

I was pleased with the story, but I still felt like there was more to write. Somehow, things felt undone.

Before long, I found myself wondering how I would have felt if I were a moderately happy woman who loved her husband, but perhaps missed that special connection she and her former lover shared. Perhaps she missed it to the point that she felt compelled to meet with the former lover, in spite of their rocky past.

That one became “Now and Then,” a story about Liz, a woman in her forties who was shocked to find herself meeting her former lover, David, for drinks.

But I still wasn’t done.

I started wondering what would happen if a content, married woman was suddenly confronted with the memory of her former lover.

“The Wayside” was born, a story about a woman coping with mixed emotions when she discovers that a place significant to her former relationship has been closed.

Three stories, all of them different. And guess what—I still don’t feel like I’m done.

I'm sure this parade of stories about women reflecting on past relationships has my writing buddies wondering: is my marriage in shambles? Is my husband a jerk? I can’t blame them for wondering. I keep circling this subject like a Hot Wheel whizzing around a plastic track. But I can’t help myself. I’ve tripped across this fascinating new writing kick, a way to reexamine things by making small, but significant changes that end up changing the story completely. I call it Variations on a Theme.

This concept works on so many levels. Rewriting the same story with a different form—say, a long short story condensed down into a micro flash. I’ve even found myself writing short pieces about secondary characters in my novels, just trying to get a new view of who they really are. The possibilities are endless. Similar stories look completely different when they’re seen through a different lens.

So I challenge you: revisit a story and tell it in a brand new way. Switch up viewpoint. Change tense. Give your character a whole new fatal flaw. I think you’ll be amazed where those differences will lead you.

NaNoEdMo, Here I Come

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I’m a glutton for punishment. How else can you explain why I’ve decided to tackle NaNoEdMo when I already feel completely stretched as a writer, a mother and a civilized human being? When things have devolved into complete insanity, why not add one more major commitment to send me right over the edge?

The fact is, I’ve been floundering on my longer projects. I can bring myself to crank out the small stuff, but those pesky novels are languishing on my harddrive. So when I received an email reminder that NaNoEdMo was starting March 1, I decided to jump in with both feet. My hope is that NaNoEdMo will do for my editing what NaNoWriMo accomplished for drafting.

Now let’s pause to define a few terms, for those who are unfamiliar. NaNoEdMo is short for National Novel Editing Month, which takes place in March. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, November. If you think of NaNoWriMo as the courtship, wedding and honeymoon, NaNoEdMo is the marriage that follows, the time when you see your beloved with all his flaws and work together to make your marriage beautiful.

As I was making the NaNoEdMo commitment in my head, I realized there were some major differences between EdMo and WriMo. While WriMo is about volume, EdMo is about finesse. WriMo goals are easy to define: write 50,000 words in 30 days, then stop and have a party. EdMo goals are murkier: edit 50 hours during the month of March. I don’t know about you, but my editing process involves long periods of staring at the monitor, petting the cat, checking my email every 30 seconds, maybe taking a swing over to weather.com to check the local radar. 50 hours of that could add up to a whole lot of staring and surfing, but not a lot of accomplished work.

So in the spirit of embarking on a successful EdMo journey, I submit my plan for success.

1)SET CONCRETE GOALS
-- 50 hours editing
-- 8 scenes edited
-- 50 pages of first draft edited

2)ESTABLISH ACCOUNTABILITY
Just like with WriMo, I plan to tell people I’m doing this, give them regular updates and log my progress publicly on the EdMo site and this blog.

3)CLEAR THE DECKS
This means finishing as many small writing projects as I can, sending out any submissions that I’ve been neglecting, cleaning the house to the nth degree, stocking the freezer with meals to reheat, making grandparent visits, friend visits and any other social obligations so I can push guilt aside and just work.

4)START MY WARM UP EXERCISES
Writing begets writing; editing begets editing. I know I can’t hit the ground running on a manuscript I haven’t touched in months. So I’ll read a few back scenes and put a toe in the water. After so long an absence, I need to find Beth’s voice again so I hear her clearly come March 1.

So there it is. My plan to make this tougher by pushing myself harder and reaching a little further than is comfortable for someone with my flaws and my daily obstacles. I know it isn’t going to be easy, but it’s got to be done. Or I expect everyone to let me hear about it.

No Contest

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I’m thinking of entering a few contests.

Now, I realize that, for most people, this isn’t much of a statement. But I’m a veritable Scrooge when it comes to contests. I have my reasons. Like the fact that most contests require an entry fee. Or that my work is tied up for long months while I await inevitable disappointment. And then there’s the staggering odds stacked against me. We all know jillions of people enter these things. I’ve done the math and I know I have a far better chance of getting my stuff accepted into smaller literary markets. The fact is, ever time I enter a contest, I know one of two things will eventually happen.

1) I’ll read the entry that beat mine and be pissed off because I honestly think mine was better, or
2) I’ll read the entry that beat mine and be so impressed that I’ll be embarrassed for even entering.

Either way, the end result is the same: I’m out my entry fee and I feel really lousy.

So why do I keep entering contests?

I think it all comes down to psychobabble. You know, all that stuff about needing validation and formal acceptance. Every writer has longed for at least a slice of that. I think what really sucks me into entering a contest is the possibility of glamour. How exciting to see the words FIRST PLACE next to one’s name! For one fleeting moment, the winner gets to be the most popular girl or boy in the senior class, the one all the other kids envy and want to be like.

Yep, it’s pitiful. A woman of my age should know better. But that’s why I throw money at contests and anti-aging face unguents and an endless stream of exercise tapes. Contests represent the chance to be something more, something new that we’ve never been before. So I get out the checkbook and the big manila envelopes. Take my money. I’ll just keep reaching for the sky.