So You Want To Be a Writer...

Photo credit, CreateSpace

I'll start this post by admitting that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an expert on writing. If you came here looking for a secret formula or the nuts and bolts of wordsmithing, well, I'm sorry to say you've come to the wrong place. Crafting a story, and doing it well, entails a lot more than could ever fit on one lousy blog post. Rules. Punctuation. Plots. Dialogue. So much to know before you can actually write. This doesn't align with our instant-gratification world. 

You should probably stop here. It's too much work.

But what if I told you that you could pick up your favorite pen--c'mon, you know you have a favorite!--or your laptop and GO? You don't have to have the perfect beginning, middle, and end.  It's not likely that you'll sit down with a cup of coffee and plunk out War and Peace on that first go. What stares back at you from the page might suck, and "suck" might be the understatement of the century. But even stories sucky-beyond-all-reason can be shaped into something more. A blank page cannot, at least not until your words end up there.  

Though I've always written for my own enjoyment, I never considered anything would come with it. Writing would be nothing more than a hobby. In 2011, my attitude changed. I wanted to take writing more seriously, to write books instead of rambling blog posts about coffee and kid-induced nervous breakdowns. And then came that day when I said, "Enough! I'm writing a book!" I didn't even have a story in mind, I just followed Chris Baty's advice and wrote the book I wanted to read. My first words after my attitude adjustment were, 

"I'm what you would call a simple girl, a chameleon."

If you think about it, that sentence doesn't make sense at all. Simple girls have nothing in common with ever-changing chameleons. And, if we're being real, it's a bit cliche to call yourself "simple". But those flawed words led to over 200,000 more. With a lot of hard, literally hands-on work, they have grown into stronger, more flexible versions of themselves. That never would have happened if I'd let the blank screen call my bluff. I wade through the suck every time I sit down to write, and you will, too. In the end, it's not about whether the writing is excellent or cringe-worthy. It's about letting the ideas out of your head and seeing what happens. It's getting past saying, "I always wanted to write a book/story/article/whatever" to actually doing it.

I can't read through that first manuscript without feeling sick to my stomach at its sheer awfulness, but I didn't let it stop me. That sheer awfulness became the first of three books in my Hope Creek series, which gained the attention of a publisher. While that might not happen for you, you can't possibly know for sure if you don't write that first word. And then the next. And then the one after that, and so on.

My advice to you? Go forth. Write all the horrible, wrong words. Laugh at yourself, and don't give up. 

That's truly all it takes to be a writer.

Third Time's a Charm

On July 22, 2011 I met Claire Darling for the very first time.  At the time, Claire was an 18-year-old high school student by morning, horse trainer by every spare hour after that.  She quickly became a friend of mine because she's sarcastic and self-deprecating, a good soul.  Two-and-a-half years and three books later, she and I are pretty tight.  I've fought for her to fall in love and I cried with her (over and over) when her heart was shattered into pieces.  She's struggled and she's endured.  She's no Super Woman, but that's why she's real.  Well, real is a relative term, but you know what I mean.

Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham.  I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen.  Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too.  If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.

There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away.  That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.  

Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:  

"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."


Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick. 

Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me.  You'll never know what you've done for me.

A Doll For Daphne

I press my lips together and follow him as he leads the way toward the nuns in the back.  He’s so focused he doesn’t realize a soft doll slips from one of the bags under his arm and falls to the ground.

“Liam!”  I call out.  “You--”

A girl with brown ringlets framing her round cheeks runs toward the doll before I catch Liam’s attention.  She looks both ways to be sure no one sees her, then snatches it up and into her arms.  The doll fits perfectly in the crook of her arm and a smile brightens her face.  

“Hey!  Little girl!”  I say.

She freezes and clutches the doll tightly to her body.  Her fearful blue eyes dart to me and back to the doll as I step toward her.     

“Hey!”  I repeat, coming closer.  From a few yards away I can see the tremble in her shoulders.  The little girl drops the doll and runs from me.  

I stoop down and pick the doll up from where she’s landed in a heap.  There’s a smudge of dirt on its plastic cheek and I wipe it away with my thumb.  Liam’s over talking with the nuns, and he glances my way.

“That girl--who is she?”  I ask when I reach them.  I don’t wait for introductions.  One of the nuns, the younger one with round spectacles and a pointy chin, looks like she really wants to give me a quick lesson in manners.

“I’m sorry, dear?”  The older nun says, wrinkling her forehead beneath her habit.

“There was a girl, maybe four years old.  Curly brown hair, blue eyes--or at least, I think they were blue.”  I scan the yard as I describe the little one.

The older woman smiles, bouncing the child on her hip.  “Ah.  You must mean Daphne.”

Do I mean Daphne?  I have no idea.  

“She ran from me.  Do you know where she might have gone?”

The thin, bookish nun nods towards a strand of trees near the rear of the property.  The trees are short and sparse, obviously very young, and don’t offer much shelter.  A little form huddles at the base of the one in the middle, facing away from us.

I peel back the corner of the foil around the cookies and grab a couple, then hand the tray to the young nun.  When I reach Daphne’s hiding spot, I find her with her knees tucked into her chest.  Tears streak her face, which she presses to her knees.

“Can I join you?”  I ask.  I don’t expect an answer, and she doesn’t disappoint.  I sink to the grass, leaving several feet between us.  “My name is Claire.  They told me your name is Daphne.”

She remains quiet except for a soft shudder.

“Daphne’s such a pretty name,”  I continue.  “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

The little girl raises her head to glare at me.  Blossoms of crimson burn at her cheeks.  “Go away.”  She hides her face again.

I place the doll next to her gently, so gently I’m not sure she knows I’ve done it.  “That’s a nice doll you have there.”

Daphne brings her head up again and starts to say something angry.  Our eyes connect and I glance down at the doll laying next to her.  She looks down, too, and then back at me.

“It’s okay, pick her up.”  I say.  “I brought her for you.  I knew you would take very good care of her.”

The girl scoops the doll into her arms again and snuggles her little cheek against its plastic face.  Her eyes squeeze shut in joy.  When she opens them again, I smile.  “Would you like a cookie?”

She nods and tentatively takes the cookie from my outstretched hand.  Daphne reminds me a lot of Taran--flighty, suspicious, and upset.  Like Taran, I don’t push her.  I eat my cookie as she eats hers. When it's gone I stand up and slip away.  She doesn’t follow behind me like the horse does, but that’s okay.

Right Away, Great Captain!

I'm guilty of turning on an album and leaving it on repeat for days.  Months, even.  My husband hates this about me because he and I tend to have very opposite tastes in music (him:  Anything Country.  Me:  Florence + the Machine, which is totally a genre, by the way!).  Though it's not working at the moment, we had an iPod jack in our room where we could plug in our iPods or phones and play our music over speakers in the ceiling or on the porch.

At some point while Moe was sick, I turned on Right Away, Great Captain and left it on.  I remember walking away from  his still-warm but lifeless body on the grass and wandering back to the house wondering what could possibly be left without him.  The only thing to do was crawl into bed in the middle of a sunny day and cry.  Right Away, Great Captain crooned me to sleep on that horrible, beautiful day.  I let it play on in the days to follow because it held Moe and I together, this thread of mournful music.

Tonight I'm getting ready to say good-bye to one of my characters and I don't want to because it's like letting my boy slip through my fingers again.  My heart hurts and it feels right to play Right Away, Great Captain! again to pull myself back into the grief.  

It's no more than two lines into the first song before I can see him stumbling and feel his slick neck against my cheek.  The curl of dread tightens in my belly as I watch the vet check his pupils and slowed breathing over and over and over until he is satisfied and I know it's done.  I'm broken, with pieces that will never go back together quite right.

Sixteen months and it surprises me how sharp the pain still is and how little it takes to bring me back to that good-bye.  That is the power and wonder of art.

Oh.  How will I ever do this?

The Problem

Liam

When I finally felt steady enough to rejoin Alfie, he'd moved on to replacing a broken fence board in one of the paddocks.  He didn't say a word about my breakdown, and I’m thankful for it.  I helped him in silence, holding the plank steady as he secured it to the fence post with a hammer and several nails.  Alfie was getting on in years, he shouldn’t be doing this work on his own.  

He took a breather after the next board was up, and stared off towards the few horses still living here.  

“Tell me about the horses, Alf.  It’s nice to see you, but they’re why I’m here.”

Alfie swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then gave a short nod.  “I hated to bring you back, y’know, but with Rowan out of the picture, I didn’t know who to ask.  Besides, you always were better with the horses than him.  He’s got a wicked temper, that one.”

“That he does.”  I agreed.   

We walked down the fence row until we stood in front of one of the few occupied enclosures.  “We’ve got six horses still here, but no one with any horse sense at all wants to help with them, especially the one mare in particular.”  I turned my head in the direction he's looking, toward the rear of the paddock to our right.  When she noticed us watching, the dark horse inside snapped her body into alert, her head high, eyes wide, and ears pricked.  Minus her sun-bleached coat from living outdoors, she was a nice-looking horse and would make someone a fine jumper.  The bone structure was all there, I could see it, but so was the fear.  The longer we stared, the more her terror echoed back.  Without taking her eyes or ears from us, she shrank back against the fence.

“That’s Tarantella.”

I scrunched up my face.  “Tarantula?  Like the spider?”  

“No, no.  Tarantella.  It’s a dance--Spanish, you know?”  Alfie hummed a tune and snapped his fingers as he crossed and uncrossed his arms a couple of times and shuffled his feet.  It looked like no dance I’d ever seen or probably would ever see again, thank heavens.  

With a shake of my head, I said, "You'd better stick to horses, Alf."  

He chuckled and stopped dancing, "Anyway, Tarantella... she was going by the name ‘Taran’, but some of the kids started on with calling her ‘Spider’, so you’re not so far off.”

Spider wasn't a friendly kind of nickname. I wasn't sure what to think about that.

I unlatched the gate to her paddock and walked inside.  Taran pinned herself up against the boards of the fence in response, but otherwise regarded me with curiosity.  “She looks all right,”  I said, fastening the gate closed behind me.  “So, then, what’s the problem?”

It happened then, quite literally, with the blink of an eye.  The dark horse studied me for all of three seconds before blinking her eye and charging after me.  There was no time to fumble with the gate--she’d be on me before I could have made it that far, anyway.  My only option was to climb the fence, and with any luck I would be faster than her.  With thundering hooves at my back, I launched myself at the fence and scrambled over.  Taran clamped her teeth around the heel of my boot before I could swing it over.  The old man was doubled over laughing at me dangling in a rather unpleasant position, with one leg in safety, the other in a wild horse’s mouth, and my crotch somewhere in the middle.  

“That,”  He sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes, “is our problem.”

Questioning

Four months ago I sent an e-mail ending my business relationship with the publisher courting me.  It wasn't easy to say no to a sure thing.  Every day I wonder if I made the wrong choice.

My novel had a projected publish date of mid-October.  A month from now, a dream could have come true.  Maybe.

Their first round of novels were supposed to launch in July, but I am not sure if that happened.  I keep tabs on some other authors who have signed with this company because I'm anxious to see what happens.  For them, things seem to be moving forward and they are pleased with the process.

I still made the right decision, right?

Just kidding.  I know I did what I felt made the most sense at the time.  Still, I'm so ready for my novels to find an audience beyond my circle of family and friends.  That's something that requires patience, but, frankly, I skipped that line when virtues were being passed out.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

The Creek

I couldn't tell you what it is about the forest that calms me.  Maybe it isn't the forest, at all, but the murmur of the river against the time-worn pebbles.  Or maybe the melody of the birds flitting from branch to bank, the cicadas joining in with their staccato rhythm.  Perhaps, even, the aroma of pine sap, damp earth, and moss drew me here--especially on days like today.  Mostly, I liked the quiet.  No one offered me advice or asked for my help out here.  No one spoke at all unless you counted the babble of the water, and I didn't.

Tally snorted and took a tentative step from the shore and into the edge of the creek.  I patted her shoulder as she took another swishing step, thankful for the distraction. I'd fought so hard to keep him from leaving, but, in the end, none of it mattered.

Yes or No

The fireflies froze in their lazy circles.  It seemed they waited for an answer, too.  My mouth dried up, probably because it had been hanging open in surprise for the past several minutes.   

I blinked.  Once.  It was promising, that flutter of movement.  It was reassuring to discover I hadn’t died of shock, after all.

“Claire?”  Liam asked.  Everything about Liam screamed his confusion:  The hesitation in his voice, the way his eyebrows pulled together over his dark eyes, the way he drew his hand away from my chin and tucked it in the pocket of his dress pants.  “Say something.  Please?”

He was looking for words, noises to come out of my mouth--my still-hanging-open mouth--that would amount to something.  That was asking a lot from me, a girl who always said the very worst thing at entirely the wrong time.  Besides, my brain swirled with all kinds of thoughts, none of them an answer.  I shut my mouth and swallowed, then turned back to look over the gently rolling surface of the pond.  

Liam waited for my response, but I remained silent, unless you counted my deafening thoughts.  I felt sure that anyone in a five-mile radius could hear them loud and clear.  If he heard anything, he didn’t let on.  

“Edwin’s lawyers requested that I come back and help wrap up things with the sale of the stable.”

I dropped my gaze to where my freshly-manicured fingers rested on the smooth wood railing of the gazebo.  “I don’t know what to say, here,”  I croaked, finally.

A puff of air escaped his lips as he ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair.  “It’s okay.  Forget I asked,” he sighed, turning away.  As usual, my reaction wasn’t what he hoped for.  You’d think he’d be used to that by now.  I related so much better to my horses than people, even the man I loved.

Yes, I loved him.  That much I knew for sure--but marriage?  Marriage.  Like forever, forever.  I’d just graduated from high school a few months ago. There was a lot of forever left ahead of me.  Still, he’d just spent the day pampering me with a trip to the spa, the beautiful dress I now wore, and dinner at the most amazing spot in town.  He deserved something more.  Maybe he deserved somebody more.  

We Meet Again. Now What?

Tonight I did it.  I finally completed--in 2-1/2 months--what I was hoping would only take me one.  But who's counting, anyway?

Book 2 Draft 1 is complete at 50,004 words.  It is not perfect, but I never expected it would be.  Show me someone who writes the perfect first draft, and I'll point out that it probably took them 20 years to do it.

There is a lot of smoothing to be done, details to be added, and probably I will end up with a completely different story when I eventually go through and do a second draft of the thing.....  Kind of like when I did a second draft of my FIRST book.  But right now I feel better about this one.  I think that's just denial.  Time and space will reveal how horrible it actually is.  For the moment, I am proud.

Thank you to the hundreds of people who endured my word count posts on Facebook.  I know it is one of the many reasons you hide me in your newsfeed, and I love you still.  Don't expect me to like the accomplishments you are proud of, but we're still okay.  Haha.  But, seriously, thank you for your encouragement--especially those who have no idea what I'm talking about most of the time.  Yes, I realize that's most of you.

(Is it weird that I still get surprised when people say, "You're writing a book?"  I've kept it this big secret and all.... ;-)  )

And even though I'm not 100% he deserves it, I'd like to say thank you to my amazing husband.  He's my biggest fan, always, and yet he gives me so much grief about my starting on a second book when I haven't published the first.  There's a method to my madness this time, dude.  Take a chill pill.  Just for your impatience, maybe I'll start writing installment three.

The flu has made me testy, my bad.

Tomorrow--today, officially--I will rest and do whatever it is when I'm not worried about self-imposed deadlines.  It likely involves mountains of laundry and even bigger mountains of pet fur lurking in every corner of the house.  Exotic, I know.

Unless I decide to do something really crazy like enter this contest, in which case I would have to forego said piles of things and figure out stuff I've never done before (pitch and picking an excerpt).

Tonight, I sleep.

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

Day Five

I'm 5071 words in to book #2, cleverly titled "Hope Creek Book 2" until I come up with something better.

Nevermind that I should be 1500 words further.

Nevermind that I have no clue where I'm going in the immediate future with this.

Nevermind that the inner editor won't shut her yap because I'm still in editing mode.

Nevermind I shouldn't be blogging because there's a novel to be fleshed out.

I hate playing catch-up, but I love the feeling of that goal number.

T Minus Two Days

A year ago I'd not quite finished the first draft of my novel.  If I recall correctly,   the bulk of my writing took place near the end of July and most of August 2011.    The draft wasn't complete, so I dribbled bits and pieces here and there until I finally felt it was complete in December.  Nearly 69k words, a surplus from the 50k I'd been shooting for initially.  Thousands of attempts to make something readable--a feat considering I'd sat down at my tiny HP netbook with no story and no direction.  Crazy what has happened in my life since then.

This year I'm going into National Novel Writing Month with an improved second draft under my belt.  This time, my biggest fear is going into this thing blind again.  I love writing, but forcing myself to spend months ripping apart and stitching back together the old with the new feels less like writing and more like playing Dr. Frankenstein.  Outlining and planning are two of my weakest points, I'm already aware, but even the crudest of ideas are a step up from blank pages and an oppressive deadline.

Scrivener is a snazzy program for writers who are in the drafting/research phase of a novel.  They offered a nice discount for 2012 NaNoWriMo participants (and something like 50% off for those who meet their 50k goal), so I hopped onto that bandwagon.  This blustery, miserable day was spent navigating the tutorial in an attempt to demystify the program.  Now I kind of have a clue what some of the features do instead of being convinced I'd wasted my dough on something I'd never figure out.  Plus, the guy who compiled the tutorial wrote like he was British, which is always fun to read.

Another positive:  This morning the name of the next big antagonist came to me, I don't even remember how.  Out of curiosity, a few minutes ago I looked up the meaning of her name and it means "heavenly".  That's pretty funny because she certainly believes she is God's gift to mankind.

I wish those minor accomplishments were enough to say I was ready for the start of this next journey, but I know it's not.

Two days to make some plans.  Scary.

The End Is Here

First of all, I know every one of you is sick of hearing about this novel (and most of the other things I go on about).  Word counts.  Chapter numbers.  The rather strange experience of having people living inside your head.  All of that.

Thank you for looking past that.

I realize that half of you will like what I've written, and half of you will think it is rubbish and will make fun of me behind my back.  It's okay.  What I've written isn't earth-shattering, but very few things are.  For me, it is a journey, a challenge, a dream.

Thank you for letting me be excited about my dream.

I'll probably never be a best-seller.  My book isn't about vampires, werewolves, zombies, or post-apocolyptic kids thrown into a death match.  There's no swearing, no sex, no drugs, no booze.

Thank you for letting me be PG.

I just can't believe it.

Thank you to Courtney and Tim who have stuck with me to the end of this one, and Rosie who suffered through the atrocity that was Draft 1.  Thank you to my muses, Moe and Ish.  And, most importantly, thank you, God.

Chapter 20

I am seriously going to be sick, I'm so excited to be done with this draft.  Here is it, my last chapter.

Mr. Ohboy, my biggest fan, has also been very skeptical when it comes to this whole novel ordeal.  He believes in me, I know.  It must seem that all I do is write, and it's been so much of what I've done for the past 16 months.  This shouldn't have taken that long, it's true.  My horse shouldn't have died, either.  The writer's block following that was incredibly frustrating.  Even now, I know that I haven't made my way back to the level I was at before.  Maybe I never will.... but I've learned a lot in the process.

It's not over yet -- these last words have to find their voice, and I think, first, I need to go ride a horse and give my hands (and mind) a break.

But I draw closer to it with each word I type.  That's nice.

The End Is Near

This could be the last chapter of draft two, which is pretty darn exciting!  I had to threaten myself with a Facebook hiatus until I wrap this thing up, which seems to have been effective.

Chapter 18 was awkward and I still don't love it.  I see revisions in the future, but at least I'm more at peace with where it is now.

I might be done with this just in time for National Novel Writing Month, where I would undertake another 50k-word novel during the month of November.  The question is:  How much do I hate myself?  ;-)

The Messenger

Last night I said goodbye.

It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure.  A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.

Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007.  It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft".  Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT.  Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered.  Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books?  I think I get it now.

At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind.  There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder.  For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it.  I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc.  And that's true for most of what I write.  The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics.  They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.

The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma.  They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others.  Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand.  It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense.  I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities.  If that's true, shhhhh!  I don't want to know.

This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives.  I laugh.  I hope.  I fall in love.  I get angry.  I feel their despair.  I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next.  I'm just the messenger.

Loss of Focus

Hopefully eventually words will decide to return.  I keep sitting here trying to force them to, and I haven't been able to concentrate.  Whether it's due to depression, distraction, or weariness is anyone's guess.  Likely, all of the above.

My goal was to finish the second draft of my novel by the end of July.  When I finally feel like typing, I think I'm going to spend much of my time recording memories of Moe.

A friend suggested I somehow incorporate the loss of my horse into the storyline, and I'm just not sure if I have the [lack of] heart to bring that on  someone else, even just a fictional character.

The Difference of a Year

I am still not back on Facebook.  But I enjoy you sneaky little things who keep sending me messages to try to entice me back.

This week I've managed to roll out chapter 11 of my second draft, and now I am undertaking chapter 12.  This would be so much easier/faster if it was just editing for grammatical errors instead of chopping it all up into bits and pieces, throwing most of it away, and rewriting to fill in all the holes.

~ Last year I felt a whole lot more adept with words.
~This year I feel more like a cavewoman, grunting and pointing (and sometimes jumping up and down and waving a club).

~ Last year I was all about the blind, no-questions-asked romance.
~ This year I pushed my way through far too much of the "Fifty Shades of Grey" trilogy to convince myself that blind "romance" was boring; and unrealistic dialogue was, to me, the literary equivalent of an unmedicated root canal.  I know I keep picking on this book, but honestly.  That's about all I can say about that.  I hope to have just an ounce of the success E. L. James has, but without all the drrrrrty.

~ Last year I was just trying to make that 50k word mark in one month.
~ This year I realize I want it to be 50+k words someone else could read without wanting to poke their eyes out at some point.

Always looking for willing readers who want to give feedback of any kind.  Who knows?  You might end up with a town named after you.....