Part 2 of the Story You Wrote.

From the corner of my vision, I catch movement inside the restaurant.  The woman at the table is on her feet, shoving the large book into a tote bag.  She is following me, I'm sure of it.  I don't know how I know this for certain after the nonsense with the cashier, but I know it.  Before I step off the curb and cross the street, I shoot one more glance over my shoulder towards her.  Our eyes meet through the glass, clear, despite the bubbled layer of window tinting.  The blood in my veins chills at the hardness of her expression and the hurried way she slings the bag over her shoulder.  I run.

Unfortunately, I run right into traffic, breaking the cardinal rule of kidhood.

The white sports car--the one about to take me out at the knees--squeals to a stop.  The bumper pushes my calf hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto its scorching hood.

"Hey, jerk!  Get off my car!"  The driver yells, and he fumbles with his seatbelt like he's going to get out of the car and finish the job the car didn't.

Despite the heat from the engine on my bare arms, all I can do is stare at the young man through the windshield.  I recognize him, I recognize that ridiculous pompadour hairstyle, but the shock from near-death has erased his name from my memory.  

"GET. OFF. OF. MY. CAR!"  His eyes are deadly.  The dark-haired girl in the passenger seat looks frightened and embarrassed, her pink lips pressed together in an apologetic smile.  The pieces click together too slowly.  I raise myself from the hood and slide off the side.

Finally, it comes to me, and my heart drops into my shoes.  "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Bieber.  I didn't mean to--"

The look on his face as I scrape across the hood is one of pure malice.  I cringe and drop to my feet on the asphalt, unwilling to acknowledge any damage I'd done to the sports car.  Somehow I'd scraped up just enough for a dumb taco filled with meat of questionable origin.  There was no chance I'd ever be able to afford a new paint job for The Biebs.

He clenches his jaw and slams his aviator sunglasses across his face.  "I don't need this publicity.  Leave me alone."  Without another word, without promise to make my life miserable, he speeds away.

The dark-haired girl turns to watch me, and all I can think is, "Why, Selena?  Of all people... Why him?"

My very next thought is to keep running.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What Happens When Friends Give Me Random Words To Write About...

I wanted to write, but I didn't know what to write about, so I asked you.  The list of words you so, uh, graciously offered are as follows:

Where's Waldo?
soup tendinitis
gun
cigar
beer
pink smile
Bieber & Gomez
dogs/monkeys riding horses
fragulous
Jaws
Godzilla
shark/dino porn
Taco Bell
Moon
South Park Chef
Jedi squirrels

So, without further ado, here is your story

***

"They're coming, you know."  The cashier hisses then pauses to shoot an anxious look left, then right, like we're being watched.  Judging by the thickness of his round glasses, I imagine all that movement of his beady black eyes must be dizzying.  He doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered, though, and instead leans closer toward me over the counter separating us.  "The government doesn't want us to know--they're in on it, too!"

A line of perspiration beads on his forehead at the edge of his red-and-white striped knit hat.  He's crazy, I'm sure of it.  You'd have to be crazy to work behind the counter of a Taco Bell in a long-sleeved shirt and a winter hat.  It must be a billion degrees in here!  Lucky for me he's not the one handling the food, because the thought of him sweating in my Hard Taco Supreme makes me gag a little.

Sure enough, a couple over at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant is watching us.  They consult a big book in front of them like it's a field guide or something, then point and stare like they've spotted a Dodo bird or a unicorn.  I'm neither of those things, just a hungry girl with not enough money to buy anything at a burger place.  Kind of pathetic, really, and not the kind of thing that would earn me any kind of notoriety.  Still, the couple keeps looking our way.  Now they're not even trying to pretend they are interested in something else.

The couple's attention, paired with the cashier's conspiracy theories, make my stomach roll.  Before things get any more weird, I take my change from the counter and snatch the paper bag from his outstretched hand.

"Uh, thanks for the... tip."  I mumble as I turn away.

"Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at--"  The door seals behind me, cutting off his words.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Full of Win

In the wee hours of the morning--3:14 a.m. if we're getting all technical and stuff--I finally brought my current manuscript to 50k words, the length of an average novel (or so the peeps at National Novel Writing Month tell me).  This story, best described as a young adult paranormal thriller, woke me up one chilly morning this past March.  I read a lot of paranormal fiction, but it's nothing I really had any desire to write until this story shook me by the shoulders and demanded I pay attention.

In April I tried to take this particular story (currently titled In the Middle) from about 13k to 50k by participating in Camp NaNoWriMo.  For those of you not familiar with the way NaNoWriMo works, allow me to explain.  The other NaNos want you to write a 50k-word novel in one month (typically November), with emphasis on daily word count goals. If you've got a a big enough stash of junk food and are good at disciplining yourself and/or know how to blacklist most of the Internet from your computer, you will sit down at a computer, write for a month and magically a book appears at the end of it.  You grin like a maniac and shake your aching fists in the air proclaiming your triumph over evil--I mean, words!  Words!  Then you quickly realize you haven't showered in a week (or three), clamp those armpits shut again, and wander off to tell your family they can call off the Search-and-Rescue mission.

If you're not so good at the whole NaNoWriMo thing, nothing happens.  You probably have a social life, a job, a family who still likes/recognizes you--all bonuses.  The most social we get during NaNoWriMo months is usually comparing word counts on our latest word battles.  On Twitter.  That's, like, not even a real website.  That's people simultaneously yelling their opinions into a crowded room.  #yesI'mtalkingtoyou.  Sometimes I write on my porch just to remember what the air feels like on my albino skin.

Why do I do this to myself, again?  Oh yeah, because I really, really love it.

All kidding aside, the lovely, caffeinated folks behind NaNoWriMo have inspired a staggering number of people to write books.  Most of the time, that's a good thing.  And, no, I'm not talking about you, E. L. James.  Stopit!

The beauty of Camp is the ability to pick a goal for your month of concentrated writing that fits in with your life instead of 50k, which used to be the only option (go big or go home!)  Optimistic, or possibly sadistic, I aimed high--That ended up too ambitious of a goal when it all boiled down to it.  I lost a horse to old age and arthritis and gained two more within the same month.  Historically, I'd say I'm pretty crappy with change, especially change involving the equine species.  Emotional upheaval doesn't usually lend itself to my creative process unless you consider my creative process eating a ton of chocolate and threatening to move away because, and I quote, "y'all are crazy!"

I managed six-thousand words that month.  That's, like, 1/8 of my goal.  Or something.  I'm bad at Math.  Numbers aside, it was no bueno.  My main character stuck in the middle of something big, something that changed the whole storyline... and I couldn't write myself out of it because I lost it all.  Poof!  The passion that woke me out of hibernation on a frigid Saturday morning fizzled away, even though I knew I had a story worthy of bleeding onto the page.  I began to feel anxiety that I would never rescue poor Lucy from her predicament.  I feared In the Middle would get buried in the old files on my laptop, never to see the light of day again.

A similar thing happened to me last July (and August.  And Septem--do you see where I'm going with this?) while working on the second draft of my first novel.  I'd lost my horse and best friend of 19 years to colic and the devastation wiped my mind completely clear of everything, including my creativity.  My main character, known for her sarcasm, couldn't think of anything funny to say.  For months, literally, I stared at my laptop screen all day, lucky to work out a couple sentences in all of that time.  The whole thing seemed pointless and discouraging.  I finished the redraft of that first novel only days before NaNoWriMo started up in November.  When NaNoWriMo began, I started the sequel to my first novel, which I eventually finished up on January 15th of this year.  Can't win 'em all, they say, but I won when I didn't give up.  The second book was just the icing on the cake.  (Did someone say cake?  It is NaNoWriMo again, which means JUNK FOOD!  It's for the books, I swear!)

Life, and death, runs in cycles--and I guess it is my Kryptonite, all this grief.  And I need to learn to deal with it like Superman does.  On second thought, no, probably not.  Kryptonite renders him a whiny cry-baby.  Dang it!  That's the only comic book analogy I have!

Thankfully Camp NaNoWriMo occurs each July, too, which doesn't make a lot of sense to me because it is the worst possible month for a mom of four to accomplish anything beyond brushing her teeth each morning (and often that is questionable).  But they didn't design their calendar around me, so I just have to deal.  Camp is the perfect excuse to push myself to get back into the habit of writing a lot, so I went for it.  This time, I set a goal of 26,394 words to bring "In the Middle" to 50k words.  At 3:14 this morning, and six days before my deadline, I hit my mark.  **

The novel's not completed, as much as I wish it was, but the finish line is so close I can almost taste it (have you ever noticed how much I talk about food?  I have.).  Now I'm pouring my focus into getting as close as possible to "The End" before July reaches its end.  This month's success is the total opposite of last year's July paralysis

Being trapped inside your own head trying to figure out how to heal is not pleasant.  Being able to look back and see how far you've come and realize you really CAN do anything is a feeling beyond words.  Three-fourteen this morning found me staring at a blinking cursor and the word count screen with my heart bursting full of allllllll the emotions.  No one can possibly know what it feels like unless it is your struggle and your triumph.  Today I feel very powerful, kinda like the opposite of Superman hugging a bar of Kryptonite.  I think the analogy worked that time!

Now back to the story...

~~~

**Special thanks goes out to my writing doula, Courtney, whose enthusiasm (or, at least facade of enthusiasm) keeps pushing me to press on even when my eyes are bursting into flames.  Thanks to the Camp NaNoWriMo crew, of course.  Also, a humungo shout out to the dude who wrote Write or Die!  I don't know what it is about that red computer screen that makes me want to type complete gibberish just to make it go away. And, as always, a big "whaddup!" to my muses, Ish and Moe.  Keep it up, boys.  Mama needs a new pair of riding boots!

Looking Over My Shoulder

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.

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.

Breathe.

My client sent me a text confessing she is scared to leave the hospital and the comfort of having a nurse or lactation consultant one button-press away.  I sent a text back to her to reassure her that we'd help her find support if it was needed.  What I was thinking at that moment was:

"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."

It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it?  Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?

For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit.  The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why.  Is it fear?  The complete scariness of letting go of control?  Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak? 

I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything.    Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be.  We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  

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.

Blocked

This endless blank screen is paralyzing.

This silence is suffocating.

At the end of the day once again, and I haven't opened this gift.

A terrible waste.

Trying For Unstuck

My writing had been going so well until losing Moe. For the past several weeks I'd been making progress on the second draft of my novel, putting in 20-30 hours a week before everything crumbled around me. And now, there's nothing. The only thing I can seem to string together are old stories about time spent with my old guy. It feels like there is a dam in place somewhere deep inside of me that isn't letting anything flow unless it's about him. And it's not for lack of trying. Yesterday I sat with my latest chapter staring me in the face and I managed to add only a few sentences in as many hours. It's frustrating. Yes, I want to write about Moe and all of these things we experienced together, but I also want to finish this draft.

A search on "grieving and writer's block" led me to this article. In the article, there was a specific quote that really resonated with me.

Considering that a writer's creativity is part of their psychological identity, it is not surprising that what affects people as individuals, also affects them as writers.

The part of me that allows me to weave tales is the part of me that is also still so much in shock with every emotion under the sun. I also read another bit in this article that makes me realize that maybe I'm in some kind of purgatory.

Writers hurt when they can’t write. They may not realize it, but their behavior speaks volumes. Often, writers will go through a series of stages before they are ready to write again and these stages are similar to the Kübler-Ross stages of grief in psychology. In other words, when writers can’t write they grieve, so it makes sense that the stages of writer’s block would parallel the stages of grief.

I am a writer; whether you consider me one or not is of no consequence to me. I know what I am, and the above quote is revealing itself to be true. It's painful not to write when you know it's one of the reasons you're here.

So if you wonder why I can't "get over it already", first of all, you don't "get it" at all. But also, I am determined to keep the words from petrifying within me and taking away my other great passion. The loss of two loves within the same week is surely more than I want to deal with now.

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.

Humdedum.

Don't feel like writing much.  Maybe I'm just tired.  Maybe he just took my passion with him.... at least for a little while.  I am still a writer.

Man, I miss that horse.  I came home from the hospital last night after having waited around most of the day and went out to ride for a few minutes before the sun set.  It was so quiet without him.  Again, no one standing at the gate, anxious for his dinner.  No one sharing a pile of hay with Fansi.  No one trying to sneak out when I brought Trinity out to the crossties.  No one testing the limits as to how far the fence could bend.  It was a blow to the heart to have to move his brush box and halter to get to Trinity's things.

I am just home from the birth of a sweet baby boy, one I am jokingly referring to as Baby Moe.  His parents called me to tell me they were headed to the hospital to be induced as my Moe was breathing his last.  Tonight, I feel sad that my Moe is gone, but I think I'm too tired to cry.  I'm sure that will change soon enough, once I come down from the emotions of the birthing room.

And I feel sad that I'm not more sad tonight.