Dear Wicked Witch, I’m sorry. Please take back your flying monkeys.

Please?

Those blasted monkeys have come in and done irrevocable damage to my best plans.

Problem #1

I set out to teach myself to write anywhere. I wanted to cope with large amounts of stress and still force myself to keep going. Well, that plan was based on a two week moving schedule, upon which we had a house and belongings. No, no way, no how, no deal.

Thanks pompous housing office, this is more than a little inconvenience. Goodness, it is apparently unreasonable of me to expect to see my things by Christmas though we left before Halloween.

Once the shock wore off, I figured I'd be able to get over that. I had my laptop after all, I had a good percentage of my work on it—I could do this.

This is where the flying monkeys get bored.

Set back #2

Settled into temporary housing, I figured I could pull this off, I could still complete Nano, I've been working while on the road, I'm behind but it's not horrible. Then, I contracted something my body has apparently never encountered before. I have, kind of, a lazy immune system to begin with, but I caught some kind of mutated super bug. A week of sitting up to nap between coughing fits, more decongestants than are approved of, and I'm still more akin to one of those mangy cats on the 'help the pound' commercials. Alright, I'll kick myself into superwoman mode. If I'm going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable doing what I love, right? Do you hear the monkeys cackling in the background yet? I didn't.

#3 You're kidding, really?

Well if not having my desk, my creature comforts, hell, even a microwave, while hacking up a couple chunks of lung isn't enough, what the heck lets crash the computer.

I'm upset with my space bar; we are normally on great terms, now I'm skeptical of its intentions. While attempting to find something online that I have on my big computers, I make a wrong click, anyone can do it, and well that's what I have virus protection for. Great, except that I'd stopped clicking and was in the middle of working on a freelance site starting to place a bid on a job. Well while typing happily away little did I know my laptop had apparently felt left out of the whole being sick thing. Hello, pop-up-yellow-warning message, I know you.

There is a gap between brain recognition, and stopping fingers that move at nearly 100 wpm. Well before I knew it my computer went into a meltdown which made my six-year-olds fits look like rainbows and unicorns.

Well, that was the end of that; laptop went down, and out.

I gave up for almost a week. I had my netbook, I checked my email, ordered recovery disks, watched TV, and read my kindle. It didn't help.

#4 Argh, it's all gone.

Yep, everything I've written in the last month and a half, and I've actually taken it better than I thought I would. Now, this might not have been so annoying because my husband actually had a great deal of my major projects on his external hard drive, which we brought with us. Except, guess what? Yep, you got it, that died too.

Here I sit, thousands of miles later, empty laptop, a trial version of word, and a new wireless keyboard, starting over for the moment.

Lessons learned: I love my things, I'm a creature of habit, I write better at my desk, strange couches do not make good computer chairs, and moving sucks. So if you happen to see the witch, would you put in a word and ask her to call off the monkeys?

Fall, Addiction to Writing Single Paragraphs, and toe socks.

Fall

I'm going to miss the Pacific Northwest, more than I care to think about at the moment. Fall is starting to settle in, the first good rain after a long goodbye to summer; the smell of wet grass, and dripping pine trees, being able to buy pumpkin and apple-cinnamon bread mix again. Normally I'm overjoyed to see fall coming. Halloween is on the way, the kids are back in school and I can have a semi-normal writing schedule, these are all fantastic things. This year won't mean driving to my hometown for Halloween, where bobbing for apples still takes place at the fire department. It's going to mean moving. On top of that, it seems I'm usually moving during Nanowrimo. This usually means I don't manage my goal.

National Novel Writing Month is always inspiring, and daunting, and chaotic, and when you add trying to drive from one side of the US to the other, it becomes an almost impossible task, the last two years I didn't even try, but this year, I'm going to give it a shot regardless. This will hopefully succeed in teaching me to write anywhere, instead of the slightly obsessive-compulsive habit of needing my own writing space.

If I am completely incapable of doing, or at least making a dent in, the project it is bound to push me off the deep end, so come the end of November my posts may be those of a mad woman rather than the only slightly sane one I am now.

Single Paragraphs

So I seem to have a major problem with single paragraphs. I went through my writing files, something checked off on the to do list at least, and found that I have a massive quantity of files containing single paragraphs. Am I alone in being in love with the single paragraph? Are other writers just as addicted?

Case # 1

"Murder?" I looked through him, as if he were as transparent as the wings on the dragonfly bouncing against the window. It's funny the things you notice when something happens, those few seconds where time shifts. I walked around him looking out the window, at the small life that was haphazardly throwing its existence away trying futilely to enter a world that it couldn't have. I thought about it for what felt like hours, but passed in mere moments before I felt his hand come around my waist. We aren't really much different from that dragonfly are we, all reaching for what it isn't possible to have. I pushed open the rain spotted glass letting the incandescent insect in.

I have abandoned this paragraph for so long that I don't quite know what it was born to be. Yet I save it, because someday it might be something, at least that's what I keep telling myself. So is there an island for misfit introduction paragraphs, those miscellaneous hook devices toyed with then abandoned? Or do they belong in the graveyard of files kept for later?

Case #2

The palms of her hands were moist, dripping with deception. Calm down she coaxed herself. Her long auburn hair fell haphazardly into her face, she brushed it away. It wasn't really that bad. Her subconscious desperately wanted to get through to her, make her realize just how horrible she had become.

This poor lonesome paragraph has been left to gather dust for so long that I had to double check to make sure I wrote it.

If nothing else, at some point, I will gather all my little forgotten and mistreated paragraphs together and breathe an ink life into them and tape them inside some journal to be kept and loved.

Toe socks

There is something about toe socks that makes me smile like a child at the fair getting cotton candy for the first time. Each time I slip the banded outrageously colored creations on another fairy gets their wings.

They also make it easier to write.

I think I've already established that being a writer coincides with being slightly out of your mind, but if not I'm fairly sure that this will seal the deal.

There is something magical about toe socks that make it easier for me to write, they're like hot apple cider in the fresh fall morning, they're a comfort.

So for now I'm off, to slip my feet into toe socks and work on my newest project. I'm sticking fairly close to my newly produced goals, given there were a few days off for my sister to have her baby. :)

New ground rules for productivity

1)

I will blog, regularly, not haphazardly and I will cease and desist being so particular over said blogging. It's a blog, it's not rocket science and I will from this point on stop treating it like a big mathematic equation I am incapable of solving. I will instead simply write.

2)

I will set dedicated times to write. Even if it's only for one hour, and I never actually produce anything worth keeping I will make time to write every day, and stop letting everything else come first.

3)

I will do a minimum of one warm up exercise per day, instead of letting the excessive books on the subject gather dust on over filled shelves.

4)

I will edit like a crazy woman and within the next two months accomplish moving on to draft two. Idealistically this would mean one chapter a day and finish exceedingly ahead of schedule, the two month buffer zone is for the fact that life often seems to get in the way of what is ideal. (Motivation to complete in two month deadline: Writing while moving is miserable, especially difficult when driving literally across country.)

5)

I will organize, categorize, and sub-folder all writing here forth. This means admitting that my writing files are a complete and total disaster and need to be revamped.

 

Ok, five new goals to increase my productivity, I will come back and edit this from time to time when I find something else that works, or that doesn't work. Now off to stick to it.

Letters to and from characters

Dear characters X, Y, and Z,

I understand that you want the story to go one way; however, what I am missing is how any of you got into a position of control. I know it's the story that you want to tell, I know that it's what you feel is important, but you seem to be forgetting I am in charge here.

Character X for instance. I understand that you have had a rough life, foster care gone wrong and growing up on the wet damp streets of Seattle, point taken. However, you're really starting to get on my nerves. This whole self sacrificing thing can be taken a step too far and as much as I know you would like to be the martyr of this story, I'm sorry, but I'm just simply not done with you yet. You have too much potential to simply do away with, and yes, I know it would make the ending easier to write but that really is isn't the point. That's not the way your life is going to end. I should know. I created you.

Character Y,

You are a milquetoast; I'm tired of you allowing the other characters to walk all over you. You're a man, act like one, at least once in a while. I am completely fine with your laid-back-good-guy attitude, but you're letting a dead guy steal your girlfriend, we really need to put a stop to that. Agreed? Because if you refuse I can always let him win, dead or not.

What's with you guys and having a death wish? When I say man up a smidge I don't mean do something foolish to prove your love. This will just piss character X off and create more problems than it will solve. Also, keep in mind she can bring you back from the dead.

Character Z,

Okay, you and I have issues. I wish we didn't but we do. Huge issues really, you think because I have granted you power over free will that suddenly you can rule the world. Ego much? Yes you can contort people's desires, and generally use that to do harm, but you're only one guy.

Yes, you could plausibly use character X's powers to dredge up your demonic minions and drinking buddies if I were willing to write it--I'm not. Your powers do not work on me, and most likely will never work on me (unless I somehow manage to lose my sanity completely.)

So, you may as well face the fact that you aren't going to rule the world. You don't even rule the underworld for that matter, what makes you think you'd do any better up here.

That voice of yours, the one that pours from your lips like hot chocolate on Christmas Eve, isn't going to secure you a position of all- controlling power.

The Characters Respond

From Character X,

So I'm a little self-sacrificing, verging perhaps on mildly suicidal, you would be, too, if you never got a moments peace. Maybe if I didn't need to listen to Angie whining in my ear every other day about how I ruined her life and I am the only reason she's dead, then I wouldn't be so willing to put an end to a bad situation the easiest way possible?

I never once whined or whimpered or complained about having grown up on the streets of Seattle. Those streets are what made me who I am, and they are something I am thankful for every day, what I'm not thankful for is this damn power you've given me. Then, as if this ability wasn't enough of a problem you felt the need to throw in a half-demon boyfriend. (Have I mentioned how much that word annoys me? Really, boyfriend, at my age, I'm pushing thirty you realize this right? Isn't boyfriend a little high school for the situation we're dealing with here, can't you pull anything more interesting out of that cavernous sized vocabulary of yours?)

From Character Y,

You do realize how contradictory your statements were, right? On one hand you are essentially calling me a loser and emasculating me, yet on the other claiming I am attempting to sacrifice myself for love, these two things do not naturally go hand- in-hand.

I also do not agree with the premise that I am allowing a non-living man to steal my girlfriend. I am carefully attempting not to destroy a delicate balance that she keeps her worlds in. She has no delusions of being with Jess. Perhaps the problem you are not noticing is that I know her better than you do. I do, in fact, concur that the situation should be carefully monitored as they both seem to have some form of attraction towards one another, though neither seems inclined to act upon it. I am not as passive as you perceive me.

I am in no way planning to die. I am particularly fond of life in its many aspects and forms, so I have no intentions of placing myself in the world of martyrdom. I do confirm that I would not hesitate to give my life to save hers, which is a flaw that I would prefer to keep if you don't mind.

From Character Z

Oh, my dear, how very wrong you are. I will indeed rule the world in one of its forms. I have before and I will again, no matter how much you think you have control over me as a creation, I am afraid that you do not.

As far as only being one creature (not man mind you, nor guy) it is amazing just how much damage someone with a smooth voice and the ability to change the greatest of minds can do. With a little cunning and ingenuity I could change the face of politics and religion as the world knows it.

Perhaps, my darling, you are underestimating the power you have given me.

Jelly Beans and Ominous Feelings

I love the idea of jelly beans.

They're the flavor coated, multicolored happy candy. At least that's what they are supposed to be. The problem is I like the idea of jelly beans instead of the actualities. Something always compels me to buy the multi-flavored variety when I'm standing in the candy aisle, this doesn't make the problem any better. I end up picking out the very few flavors I enjoy, and even at that I only tend to enjoy the sugar outer shell--the way it easily cracks away from the weird innards of the jelly bean. Then I find myself with a mostly full bag of jelly beans that will never be eaten and yet I can't bring myself to just throw them away, not for a while at least.

This tends to be the outlook I have lately on writing. It seems to have become (I blame the last two years of intensive writing known as college for this.) a task that I have to perform rather than something I enjoy.

So it's not entirely surprising that I'm having issues with the idea of spending an entire year doing just that--writing.

I've set myself into major panic mode. Yay me.

My brain is flickering in and out, horror movie style, trying to figure out what to do. In other words, I am doing everything but the task at hand--writing.

This week's problems seem to abound.

The whole butt in chair hands on keyboard idea is a great philosophy. Just one problem, one of my hands tends to have a mind of its own. It refuses to stay on the keyboard.

It always wanders off to the same place--the mouse.

The mouse and I have a love hate relationship. Once upon a time the mouse and I were good friends, we enjoyed our time together and we even made some vows, he's a special mouse, with a gleaming track ball and buttons in all the most comfortable places. Now however, Mr. Mouse and my hand do not seem to get on so well.

I'll instruct my hand to wander over and snuggle with Mr. Mouse to fix some spelling error or typo, (Because the red squiggly lines tend to make me want to cut out my eyes with dull glass after a few minutes.) and without intention somehow I find myself on a random web page following some tangent stray thought that rapidly turns into a train wreck.

Then *poof* before the dust and smoke even settles an hour has gone by and I've accomplished nothing, other than to silence some ADHD type thought. (Now, I don't really have ADHD, but I'm starting to believe it is contagious. I live with other humans with ADHD, well they have ADHD, not so sure about the human part.)

I then realize that it's nearing two in the morning and I force myself back to one project or another.

So it leaves me wondering, is this just me, or is it all writers that have a haphazard relationship with their mice?

For tonight my dear Mr. Mouse you will allow me to post this and click close so that I can go to bed.

The beginning struggle

So I've decided to start a blog, woo-hoo. Do I get a cookie now? I've joined the masses and placed my mark upon cyberspace. Wait did I just become a sheep? Naw, there aren't any formulas or standards for these, not yet anyway.

I decided to start writing this to keep track of what I was or, more to the point what I wasn't doing. I claim to be a writer; I even have a few unimportant publications under my belt. However, I've spent the last two years basically avoiding writing, okay maybe I won't go so far as to say avoiding, but I've been in school trying to figure out what I want to do with said writing.

I dabbled in journalism, until I realized I was a far cry from a writer who could follow formulas and be unbiased, and though I know this is an unrealistic idea of the current media, I believe it is what it should be, an unbiased observation. So I threw that out the window to go to a more arts driven concentration. Now I'm reaching the end of this stage and trying to decide what to do with the next evolution of myself.

I wrote the book, I actually had that first book nearly finished before I went back to school, and somehow in the midst of everything else have essentially finished it. Well as finished as I can generally call anything I write, I'm a perpetual editor; I would have fit in well during the time of Whitman when they re-published their work repeatedly in different editions, although admittedly it must have gotten boring.

Now I'm getting ready to test the waters, in about five different pools. Freelancing, short stories, poetry (although this admittedly isn't my favorite vein), and novels in about three different genres and a variety of age groups.

So, this blog will trace my semi-invisible tracks as I delve into the world of the writing process, including the ever horrifying moments of submission and query letters.

Read if you dare, be forewarned I have a tendency to rant. Also I ignore all the grammatical rules I don't care to follow at that moment. I will vent over rejections and probably never use "!'s" even if there are moments of success.

-AR