2012. I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go. The truth is, I'm not. A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost. Yes, milestones work in reverse.... Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had. The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed. I can tell you, for me, it's true. There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come. The sadness means a part of him is still here. Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me. I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.
Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance. For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually. We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free. Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me. As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened. Purpose. Life.
And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.
For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place. It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy. Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice. I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice. I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.
2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself. I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have a silver lining. But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.
May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all. I think most of us could use that.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Snippet
“Yeah, I was totally robbed.” A voice behind me sneered. “Claire only won champion because of that stupid flat class. Oh, and because she’s a Darling, obviously.”
The sudden, crushing power of my grip on my boyfriend Liam’s hand caused him to glance over at me. I didn’t turn to meet his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of even a twitch of response. Instead, I riveted my gaze to the uneven surface of the path we were traveling towards our stabling area.
She raised her voice, obviously wanting to be sure I heard. “It’s so crazy what you can buy these days.”
Your new boobs, for one, I smirked. If I hadn’t been representing my family’s riding stable, Hope Creek, at the horse show, I would have said it out loud. Her reaction would have been worth the catfight that was sure to follow.
“But I guess I’d be winning all of my classes, too, if daddy dearest bought me any horse I wanted.” The others giggled, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify them. Celestine (though everyone on the circuit knew her as “Tini”) Lowenstein and her her stuck-up shadows Ariana Llewellyn and Maria Gaudio.
I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me at the sheer craziness of her statement. Tini, of all people, was in no position to point fingers and accuse anyone else of being spoiled rotten. She was practically the poster child for privileged children. And, besides, I knew for a fact her horse, Sloan, cost more than most of the homes in my hometown. I knew that because her daddy waltzed into my family’s place, Hope Creek Farm, and plunked down a small fortune--Sloan’s purchase price--without so much as batting an eye... but who was keeping score?
“Yeah, “ one of the other girls offered. “Claire could be dead and Tally would still make her look amazing.” The three of them giggled.
Even though it was meant to be an insult, I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, they’d gotten something right. My Thoroughbred mare, Tally, could make anyone look like they knew what they were doing. Too bad for Tini and her henchwomen, I guess. As long as Tally was around to make up for my atrocious riding skills, they would continue finishing behind me in the rankings.
Before Tini could spout off anything else ridiculous or hateful, I steered Liam to the right, down the long row of temporary stalls that led to Hope Creek’s stabling area. The three girls kept walking, but I could almost feel the burning from their demonic eyes on my back.
“What’s their problem?” Liam asked when he was sure the girls were out of earshot. The thickness of his Irish accent made him sound way more irritated than I knew he really was, and I found it completely adorable.
“There’s no problem. That’s just Tini,” I sighed, releasing my grip on Liam’s hand so I could recapture the wayward strands of sandy brown hair with a ponytail holder. At least, I didn’t think there was a problem. With a petty girl like Tini, it was hard to say. The fact I was currently breathing the same air was probably enough reason for her to be ticked off.
Until last week, Tini and I didn’t need to worry about each other. Last week I changed all of that by standing up for myself. After 18 years of riding and working for my parents and their clients, I decided that it was time for me to compete and make a name for myself in the horse world. It’s a funny thing about following your dreams--most people would rather you didn’t because it messes with theirs. People are selfish.
****
Felt like sharing a little bit from the first draft of my second [untitled] book. It's rough because it hasn't yet been edited, so forgive its imperfection! Hope you enjoyed it! <3
The sudden, crushing power of my grip on my boyfriend Liam’s hand caused him to glance over at me. I didn’t turn to meet his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of even a twitch of response. Instead, I riveted my gaze to the uneven surface of the path we were traveling towards our stabling area.
She raised her voice, obviously wanting to be sure I heard. “It’s so crazy what you can buy these days.”
Your new boobs, for one, I smirked. If I hadn’t been representing my family’s riding stable, Hope Creek, at the horse show, I would have said it out loud. Her reaction would have been worth the catfight that was sure to follow.
“But I guess I’d be winning all of my classes, too, if daddy dearest bought me any horse I wanted.” The others giggled, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify them. Celestine (though everyone on the circuit knew her as “Tini”) Lowenstein and her her stuck-up shadows Ariana Llewellyn and Maria Gaudio.
I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me at the sheer craziness of her statement. Tini, of all people, was in no position to point fingers and accuse anyone else of being spoiled rotten. She was practically the poster child for privileged children. And, besides, I knew for a fact her horse, Sloan, cost more than most of the homes in my hometown. I knew that because her daddy waltzed into my family’s place, Hope Creek Farm, and plunked down a small fortune--Sloan’s purchase price--without so much as batting an eye... but who was keeping score?
“Yeah, “ one of the other girls offered. “Claire could be dead and Tally would still make her look amazing.” The three of them giggled.
Even though it was meant to be an insult, I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, they’d gotten something right. My Thoroughbred mare, Tally, could make anyone look like they knew what they were doing. Too bad for Tini and her henchwomen, I guess. As long as Tally was around to make up for my atrocious riding skills, they would continue finishing behind me in the rankings.
Before Tini could spout off anything else ridiculous or hateful, I steered Liam to the right, down the long row of temporary stalls that led to Hope Creek’s stabling area. The three girls kept walking, but I could almost feel the burning from their demonic eyes on my back.
“What’s their problem?” Liam asked when he was sure the girls were out of earshot. The thickness of his Irish accent made him sound way more irritated than I knew he really was, and I found it completely adorable.
“There’s no problem. That’s just Tini,” I sighed, releasing my grip on Liam’s hand so I could recapture the wayward strands of sandy brown hair with a ponytail holder. At least, I didn’t think there was a problem. With a petty girl like Tini, it was hard to say. The fact I was currently breathing the same air was probably enough reason for her to be ticked off.
Until last week, Tini and I didn’t need to worry about each other. Last week I changed all of that by standing up for myself. After 18 years of riding and working for my parents and their clients, I decided that it was time for me to compete and make a name for myself in the horse world. It’s a funny thing about following your dreams--most people would rather you didn’t because it messes with theirs. People are selfish.
****
Felt like sharing a little bit from the first draft of my second [untitled] book. It's rough because it hasn't yet been edited, so forgive its imperfection! Hope you enjoyed it! <3
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Social Interaction for Dummies
Something strange has happened to me. I have become content being by myself in social situations. If I am sitting alone somewhere, staring at the ceiling, please don't feel bad for me. It's probably the most peace and quiet I've had in days. In fact, if you come talk to me out of pity because I look lonely, you probably ruined the zen of the moment. Thanks for that.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Just the Facts, Ma'am.
WARNING: Letting my geek flag fly uninhibited for this one. I usually try to be a little bit more covert. Moving on....
I began this blog back in June of this year as a way to write about things that come up that are too long or personal for Facebook fodder. Also, as I go through the process of writing my first (and now my second) book, I wanted to get my feet wet, in terms of building a following with readers and other authors.
I'm ridiculously horrible at Math, but I love analytics. There's something addictive about checking on the statistics of my blog and my business website and seeing how many people visit, where they're coming from, what pages catch their eye, etc. It's humbling too, because I am aware that more than half of my blog posts are mindless babbling and the other half are me mourning my horse. Certainly there are better uses of one's time, but I appreciate that so many have spent a little of theirs here anyway.
Over the past six months my blog has received 1701 pageviews. I'd hoped to hit 2k by the end of the year, but there was really no reason for that number in particular. Most of my 70 blog posts receive an average of 20 views, with the highest ever being 120 views for my entry the day I lost Moe ("Broken"). For successful bloggers, 1000 views is a slow day, but I'm happy with where I am. Maybe someday I will be interesting enough to hit triple+ digits.
Thank you for stopping by and bumping up my numbers--for humoring my inner geek on this one thing. Even though you guys rarely comment, I know people are reading, which encourages me to keep sharing (and oversharing).
If you've stuck with me this far.... I'd love to hear from you, the twenty-or-so peeps who take the time to at least blindly click to this blog every few days--what do you like about this blog? What would you like to see more of?
I began this blog back in June of this year as a way to write about things that come up that are too long or personal for Facebook fodder. Also, as I go through the process of writing my first (and now my second) book, I wanted to get my feet wet, in terms of building a following with readers and other authors.
I'm ridiculously horrible at Math, but I love analytics. There's something addictive about checking on the statistics of my blog and my business website and seeing how many people visit, where they're coming from, what pages catch their eye, etc. It's humbling too, because I am aware that more than half of my blog posts are mindless babbling and the other half are me mourning my horse. Certainly there are better uses of one's time, but I appreciate that so many have spent a little of theirs here anyway.
Over the past six months my blog has received 1701 pageviews. I'd hoped to hit 2k by the end of the year, but there was really no reason for that number in particular. Most of my 70 blog posts receive an average of 20 views, with the highest ever being 120 views for my entry the day I lost Moe ("Broken"). For successful bloggers, 1000 views is a slow day, but I'm happy with where I am. Maybe someday I will be interesting enough to hit triple+ digits.
Thank you for stopping by and bumping up my numbers--for humoring my inner geek on this one thing. Even though you guys rarely comment, I know people are reading, which encourages me to keep sharing (and oversharing).
If you've stuck with me this far.... I'd love to hear from you, the twenty-or-so peeps who take the time to at least blindly click to this blog every few days--what do you like about this blog? What would you like to see more of?
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
She Should Be Ashamed.
Since deciding to pursue writing last year, I have been anxious to learn more about the practice of writing--the habits, struggles, and other odd things that make up this calling. I enjoy reading other books now to see how authors describe characters and paint their worlds. Lately I've been reading nearly as much as I've been writing, which I consider refueling and instruction. As I was riding home from a family Christmas meal this evening, I began re-reading Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" on my Christmas present, my awesomely awesome Kindle Fire HD.
Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it. Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day. The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline: Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves? Nah.... Totally not a dream.
What I loved most was reading about her background. Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work. She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions. That sounds vaguely familiar.
While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing. The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future. Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive. Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess.
And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure. For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason.
Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those.... I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud."
Ouch.
Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters. I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to. Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work. Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core.
Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there? I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt.
Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it. Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day. The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline: Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves? Nah.... Totally not a dream.
What I loved most was reading about her background. Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work. She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions. That sounds vaguely familiar.
While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing. The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future. Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive. Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess.
And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure. For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason.
Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those.... I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud."
Ouch.
Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters. I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to. Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work. Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core.
Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there? I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
It's Not the End, But If It Were....
If this were the end, I'd want you to know:
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Balance
My apologies for the silence. There hasn't be a lot to say lately. Or, more correctly, there just hasn't been a lot of energy with which to say the things I'd like to. It throws me into a spin when I go days without any forward progress on my novel or even taking a few moments to write here.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
My Reach Is Too Short, For Now
Here I am, the first morning of December. Up too early on a Saturday despite having only one child in the house at the moment (two if you count Mr. Ohboy) who is still sleeping under a thick cover of Angry Birds and purring kitties.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
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