What Does It Mean To Be Done?

What Does It Mean To Be Done?

Is it true?  Could I be done?  I am not sure.  I finished the latest book rewrite/edits based on beta feedback, and I feel like the story is more solid.  It feels weird to be ‘done’ and not stressing about finding time to write.  I’ve got other project ideas, but nothing is grabbing me at the moment.  I have given the latest revision to a few folks to read, and I’m curious what the response will be this time.  In part, I’m studiously ignoring what must happen next: querying, deciding whether or not I want to try for an agent, or what.  The industry changes rapidly, and that gets scary to think about.  So I sit with my head in the sand, wondering if I’m going to convince myself the book isn’t worthy to avoid putting it out there for others to see.

I have a few other ideas, though, and I swore I’d know what project I wanted to pick up next after the rush of Thanksgiving… but I find myself dithering. On the one hand, I want a change of pace.  I want to explore a different story with different characters and possibly a lighter side. I don’t know if I can pull off humor, but I’d like to try.  On the other hand, I want to explore what happens to Cimin and the others as they traverse the next leg of their adventure.

The point is, no matter what happens next, I have finished what I set out to do.  I persevered and didn’t quit when it felt like it was never going to get better.  I still feel like I’m peddling horse manure, but I’m reassured that that’s not the case.

It’s time to jump off the comfort train of rewriting a book and see how it fares in the large, wild world of the unknown.

Damn, that scares the hell out of me.

That time I wished I could snap my fingers and be done

That time I wished I could snap my fingers and be done

On my best day, I’m not the best blogger.  On my worst day, I’m pretty terrible.  I struggle with finding time to write, and I feel an ever-increasing pressure to perform to impossibly perfect standards that no human should ever have to hold themselves up to.

Full-time job?  NO EXCUSE.  Moving?  EVEN LESS OF AN EXCUSE.

So instead of a writing post, I’m going to wax (not) poetic about moving, and the stress of moving, because why not?

Which is how I find myself staring at a stack of boxes — innocuous, you’d think, I swear — that seems to be the end of me.  I was on a good roll unpacking.  I had built a mountain of boxes into a strange, modern art-esque jumble on my front porch.

This picture came from the pyramid of tightly packed, perfectly taped boxes that were stacked in front of my dresser.  But see, the cats would play on them every… fucking… morning… like they were WWII soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy in the glossy, digital textures of my husband’s war games.  They would launch themselves at the flapping tape and rake their claws into the soft surface of box flaps.

At 5 am?  THAT IS NOT A TIME, CATS.  But to them, it is.  It is time to scale the great pyramid and conquer it with needle-sharp precision.  So the first thing I did after returning home from my trip was to take down the cats own personal Normandy.

I’ve been home five days.  That’s a nice accomplishment for being home for five days.  Except in my mind, I need to have done more.  Mostly because I am freaking out about how close Thanksgiving looms and how I am not at all remotely ready for guests.  So there’s a giant pile of boxes — now that the cats have had their personal attack zone removed, they’re trying to tell me that they’re sweet and innocent and only want snuggles at night in order to take out my motivation to finish the unpacking — in the middle of my entryway.

Last night I came home ready to rumble.

Sat on the couch to finish an episode of Homicide Hunter and found myself surrounded by cats and a husband.

I swear.

The cats are in collusion with the husband to keep us from working — or that’s the insanity I tell myself to make myself feel better for doing nothing.

Once I get the giant pile removed (read: unpacked), then that’s the last really BIG pile.  There are other boxes… but… I can safely ignore those… I need to get other things ready for Thanksgiving.

Have I mentioned how much I hate moving?  I HATE IT WITH A PASSION.

I am never moving again.

Whatever insanity lead to this moment, I will remind myself should I ever think it again.

Moving sucks.

Oh, to end, here’s a picture of those sweet angels that make my life hard (and so much more awesome):

Those little Santa penguins are so awesome, as a side-note.  Got them at Buc-ee’s when I was in Texas.  Anyway, I think I’ve rambled enough.  This post has nothing to do with writing or coffee or anything else.  I’m shamelessly using it to vent about moving and unpacking.

(And because I’ve been told I need to have an online presence and I suck at blogging.  So everyone gets shitty posts about packing and unpacking and all that.  This is what my life is like these days. XD XD)

Safety in Security

Safety in Security

I liked Benjamin Franklin’s quote that I used for the featured image of this post because it speaks to the safety of security.  How distrust and caution can lead to the feeling of security and protection.  It’s true, too, that exercising caution can prevent injuries.

Financially, risk often outweighs the potential reward.  I don’t risk my money on a large purchase unless I know I won’t end up in the poor house because of it.  How does it factor into creativity?  Security speaks to me both analytically as a software engineer building applications and creatively as an artist crafting my books.  Am I writing too “safely”?  Am I building a “safe” world that has little personal risk for me of “doing it wrong”?  When I’m making jewelry, am I trying new things or do I tend to stay in the safe “kits” that don’t let me explore my creativity?

Judgment is the most difficult feeling to overcome unless it’s validation and acclaim.  Being told what we did wrong hurts on so many levels, especially when paired with the subjective creative material. To make inroads towards the heart’s desire, we must take personal risk.  Professionally, I know what that means, what success looks like, and what the way towards goal achievement is patterned as.

In writing, I don’t know what success looks like beyond “get published” and “make some money”.  How do I get there?  What kinds of risks are okay to take?  Will I fail?  Will I succeed?  I am plagued with the fear of moving too slow as well as moving too fast.  If I look too far beyond the finish line, I find I get blinded by the future promises of what-if.  What if I make it?  What if I become a successful author? What if I sell books?  Excitement for such a future can easily boil into your bones and drive you forward with a fevered frenzy of self-importance.  Of course, I will sell books.  I will be amazing.  I will get a movie deal, and everyone will love my book.

In the whirlwind of emotional excitement, the realistic voice often whispers in the ear.  “But wait…” it begins, reminding you that such a far leap ahead when you’ve not finished is not only folly but unrealistic.  As a first-time author, the chances of me getting stars over my head is very, very, very slim.  Maybe I’ll have one or two readers like my book should I finally get it written and published.  Maybe I’ll even get a handful.  Or maybe I’ll have a few handfuls of readers, but the glittering glitz of immediate success is like chasing gold in a cold stream full of rocks and mud.  Elusive and deadly.

Calmed down from my phases of excitement in how to market, sell, and brand a book I’ve not finished yet, I realize I’ve daydreamed away the line I was standing at.  Lost, I fear I’ll ever finish.  I fear I’ll ever make it to publication.  I self-doubt and second-guess every decision.

Do I play it safe?

Creativity falls like leaves in the changing seasons: each one is different.  The majority will be the same colors as the next leaf, drawn in shades of bronze and gold and muted neutrals with dried crisp veins of brown through papery crusts of what was once living.  Every so often, one will fall in brilliant colors.  Bright, blood red.  Golden, frail yellow.  Curled in intricate patterns.  They stand out because they are different.  They are celebrated because of their willingness to take a risk at the very edge of their leafy existence.

I want to be the bright leaf.  The strangely shaped leaf.  I want to take chances in my writing and forge through the forest of words on a pathway built out of my own, rough-hewn letter strung together in rickety frameworks of daring adventures.  I want to squeeze out the best and worst emotion.

To do that, I need to take the risk.  I need to turn away from distrust of the world and the outcomes of my decisions and scorn the caution that tells me to be careful.

Be careful.

Don’t do that; you might offend.

Don’t make that choice; it won’t be well received!

Are you sure you want to teaser something that isn’t finished?

Are you sure you want to write that book?  It would be easier not to.

Are you sure you want to open yourself up to the world through a blog?  You have nothing to say!

Security isn’t just in standing far enough back from the edge, so you don’t fall off.  Security can come from daring to make the leap and fall into the abyss with no easily apparent safety net.

So I guess, I jump.  I keep writing.  I hope that I don’t look so far head that I lose track of the here-and-now, but I hope that when the time comes, I’ll know what to do next.

The Distractions of Travel

The Distractions of Travel

I always have grand ideas to write or to plot, plan, and finish things when I travel.  I’ll have all this time, I tell myself, surely I can get it all done.  Invariably, I overestimate the amount of viable available time I do have.  I usually stay up too late, sleep too late, and get so out of whack on my internal schedule that I rarely feel like doing anything other than playing WoW or reading a book.  Not to mention, I’m here visiting family, and that takes priority over everything else.  So while my time off isn’t as productive as I’d like, I am getting the exposure of the past.  Memories are powerful.  They shape us, mold us, remind us of the history that has sliced into our hearts and soul.  Surrounded as I am by the memories of the past, it helps me give life to a story I want to tell.  Sitting at the table with my mother, I can feel Cimin’s pain anew when she loses hers, and I thank God that what I wrote is fiction.

So I suppose in that way that the trip has been productive.  The little details of our lives are what bring them into sharp relief.  The smells that surround a particular moment.  The feel of the fabric beneath the fingertips.  The ache of missing home while dreading leaving the place you’re visiting.

We embarked on a journey to my aunt’s house.  It’s like tripping down the lanes of the past and rifling through the old bones of memories.  As a child, you see things and make up the stories around them without understanding the complexities of human nature.  You make misconceptions and jump to the wrong conclusions and believe that your world is safe and free of darkness.  That isn’t always true, and the monsters you do believe in aren’t always really monsters.  As a child, the mistakes an adult makes is ground-breaking, heart-wrenching, but as an adult, it’s easy to see the steps that lead to the choices people make.

This trip is good for me in so many ways.  Not only am I visiting and reconnecting with family but I’m reminded of the intricacies of the human spirit.  The resilience of life after death and the will to go on and enjoy life.  The world isn’t as rosy as we view it as a child, but it’s not as dark as it can feel like an adult.  I will hold onto some of that innocence I had as a child where houses were magical, and people were wonderful beyond belief.

All of this will help shade the story I will write for the ending is nigh, and the ending is the hardest part.  Not because I do not know where to go, but because the path it must go is difficult.  Hearing the stories of relatives of the past, of what they went through, I know that it is possible to lose everything and still hold onto the resiliency of hope.  I also have a better understanding of how important a driving connection can be.

I am a sponge that soaks up these shades of emotion, remembers them, so that I may craft them later into the people who have become larger than life in my thoughts.

Many lessons I have learned from this trip.

Little Month Around the Corner

Little Month Around the Corner

I begin with an idea, and then it becomes something else. ~ Pablo Picasso

This statement is very true for me.  As I close in on the last part of Origins — which may yet undergo another name change — the final product looks very different from that first NaNoWriMo start.  The characters are different.  Not only in name but who they are as well.  Subsequent NaNoWriMo years were used to polish and replace the story as I grew as a writer.  I’d like to sit here and say, “I have learned everything I need to know.  The next project will be easier.”

That’s simply not the truth.  It is true that I have learned some things, but I do not feel any more prepared for the next project than I dd for this project.  Cimin, Cameron, Kizete, and Josef are all close to my heart. In some form or another, they will have a large part to play in the overall story, but the story itself is a dark story.  Hopefully, it is a tale of redemption and the realization that life and choice have value and meaning, but the world is full of suffering.  At times, it is not easy to push Cimin forward in the face of her grief and uncertainty, battling self-doubts and questioning her self-worth.

So as I think about the end of this book, another idea came to me.  Okay, to be fair, the idea originated from my husband who also had a hand in the creation of the world of Origins.  I wanted to write something quirky and comedic — or at least try to write something quirky and comedic.  I have no idea if I can do it, or if this idea will go into the pile of malformed half-seeds of ideas that never properly germinated.

If I have time and can finish Origins in time to give NaNoWriMo a shot, I might just use Nano to springboard this idea.  Emma and Anya are already wiggling their way into the shadows of my thought.

Nano asks for a synopsis, and I don’t have one.  What I have is a stream-of-consciousness idea that I jotted down in a very loose way.  I’ve only loosely grammar checked it because that’s not what Nano is about.

It doesn’t even have a name.  It’s mere idea only.  So I’ll see where November takes me.  It might take me far, and it might take me nowhere!  The joy, as they say, is in the experience of the journey.

Synopsis, Project Nano

Emma longed for two things: to shed a good twenty-pounds (okay, thirty if she was honest with herself) and to be thought of as beautiful like her striking childhood friend. The blonde haired, blue eyed Anya. Tall, thin, perfect.

 

The problem with perfect is that it’s a pipe dream. Emma managed not only to find a witch, beg a favor, get cursed, but she managed to do this all in one day. That’s a whole ‘nother story, though. This story is about the consequences of meeting the witch that day. The dark wood (not really) that lead into bright, beautiful Southern California sunshine.

 

How could she be cursed?

 

Emma was gifted with the admiration of the men around her. Women too, if they favored that way. She didn’t get her thirty pounds taken off, or her flat brown hair turned blonde. She didn’t emerge from the Pacific Ocean like Ariel in the Little Mermaid.

 

(Pssst, it was a sea witch. Never listen to those. They’re terrible.)

 

Instead, she got a hundred dollar uber fare, ruined clothes, and a strange necklace she couldn’t take off. And enough suitors to shake a stick at.

 

The problem? A terrible accident befell all of them if they lingered around her for longer than it took for her to either run away (she did that), scream and run away (not her finest moment), or somehow managed to convince them she wasn’t interested.

 

What’s her tally now? Five broken legs, ten broken arms, a man with crotch rot, and the latest — an artistic young woman who might have interested Emma at a different point in her life — ended up in the hospital with typhoid fever.

 

Thankfully, they’ve all recovered. None of that matters, however, because Anya — the beautiful — needs her help. And with her cadre of doomed suitors, Emma is determined to help her friend fix her life and find happiness…

 

… before it’s too late.

 

Oh, and breaking the curse would be nice too.

Unintended Excerpt

Unintended Excerpt

Creativity is intelligence having fun. ~ Albert Einstein

So I didn’t mean to grab this screenshot (I have a bad habit of accidentally grabbing images of my home screen), but since I did, I thought I’d share. I’m terrible at sharing things before they’re ready, so this is an exercise for me to learn to let go of that control.

Enjoy!