Tag: story

Writing Update (I am, as usual, a lovely mess)

January 30th, 2021

So it’s 11:30 at night, and I’m up writing. I have a deadline this week, and I have started five different projects without getting past the beginning of any of them. I only need one.

Yeah, this is the part where the little voice in the back of my head that keeps me on track in life just starts screaming into a pillow. I feel a little guilty about that.

There’s really no logic to the block, though. I’ve had plenty of ideas. Ideas are not the problem.

No, it’s more the total and completely crippling self-doubt.

I just keep second(or third or fifth)-guessing myself. Maybe this isn’t good. Maybe it isn’t worth writing to the end. I could write to the end of this story, sure. But I bleed over my stories–I put everything into them. I can’t just write it and let it be “okay.” If it doesn’t say something worth saying, why bother?

My laziness has teeth.

Do you know what would be awesome? Having one day where you only have good ideas. No writing ideas that you can’t carry into a good story, that would peter out after 500 words. Or having the confidence in yourself that you can write something worth reading because you’ve done it before, plenty of times, and it’s still in there, in you. Like Felix Felicis for writers.

It’s okay. Nothing that gritting my teeth, a tankard of matcha tea, and actually catching a full night’s sleep won’t fix.

It’s just a little scary, taking that step off the cliff into dark unknown. Writing is scary, sometimes. I think that’s part of what makes it beautiful. Like seeing the world from the top of a tree. You can see everything below you from up there, small and perfect. But would it be the same if the limbs didn’t sway beneath you in a strong breeze? If you didn’t always have to keep one hand laced through the branches, every muscle just a little tight? Just a little more alive?

What do I know? Maybe it would be.

How am I otherwise?

Finally got my claws on Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill. About time, too. I’ve been hunting it–what, nearly five years now? It was one of those books I couldn’t bring myself to ask for at the circulation desk. I mean, imagine walking up and saying “Yes, hallo, have you got Puck of Pook’s Hill? Yes, Pook. That’s the word.” I don’t think I could have gotten through it without laughing. In a library.

Listening to The Count of Monte Cristo musical soundtrack (again). Realizing the plot similarities between it and Colfer’s Airman–but that’s for another day. I need something to listen to as I write. Been bouncing back and forth between Frankenstein: A New Musical, Monte Cristo, and The Phantom of the Opera for the last few days. The Sierra Boggess version of Phantom. You know. If you were curious.

Also, there is a Percy Jackson musical? That one takes the cake for “I would totally not have expected that” this round.

Anyway. I’m off to go catch a fish. In ink, of course. Wish me luck.

This time. This time I’ll make it to the end.

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NaNoWriMo Writing Update: The 50,000

November 20th, 2020

Cue two o’clock in the morning me, typing away before crashing hard. Today was the day.

I won NaNoWriMo. For the third year running. Only this time it’s ten days early.

I should be celebrating. Throwing confetti in the air and treating myself to chocolate puddings.

It hasn’t quite registered in my brain, I think.

My novel, for its part, isn’t even kind of done. The plot has gone to fluff, I am still adding new characters, and the final dramatic ending scenes reside only in my head. So I can’t fully accept the idea of being done.

I knew this would happen. Short stories for me hit their sweet spot at 15-17,000 words. So a 50,000 word novel feels like it’s just warming up (Also, what’s the deal with 5,000 word stories? In fantasy genre? How can you even worldbuild? It’s like a sneeze! Either flash-fiction or don’t. Sorry). The length is one of the hazards of fantasy writing, especially when I’m spending so much time to go hunt trolls or develop characters or theorize about the nature of dryads and shape-shifters. In a sort of Elizabethan-steampunk world. If that’s a thing.

And yes, sometimes I just like to luxuriate in detail. Sometimes. When appropriate.

So if I didn’t celebrate riotously and wake the neighborhood at 2:30 a.m., what did I do?

Slept a lot. Drank my matcha tea. Ate an oat muffin.

And now?

Now I’m going to keep writing. Until the story tells me to stop. Until November 30th comes and I can’t write another word.

Because I’ve got unicorns and shadow-things and mechanical engineers to deal with over here. I can’t leave them yet, now can I?

To all those still writing, and all those not NaNoing, best of luck. May your plots always be present and your pens never run out of ink.
NaNoWriMo2020!

October 25th, 2020
To write 50,000 words in a month or not write 50,000 words in a month?

To stay up into the small hours of the morning on most weekends, typing a furious descent to madness, or to stay healthy, get a proper(ish) amount of sleep, and be psychologically well-balanced or at least without another item of excess stress?

It really isn’t a question.

I’m doing it. NaNoWriMo Round 3.

As an explanation, I am, quite certainly, when it comes to writing
- Mad
- Obsessed
- In love
- Addicted
…not in any particular order. And this year I really had no idea what I’d be writing. Zilch plan.

My creative-writing brain’s solution? Stay up until 2:30 a.m. creating a glorious steampunk (or is it medievalpunk–technically Renaissance-punk, but I wasn’t actually aware that was a thing) fantasy story plan that I absolutely cannot refuse.

But before that…I really couldn’t answer even to myself if I’d be doing it. And trust me, I know NaNo isn’t everyone’s thing. One of my writing buddies has been patiently nagged to do it for the last two years and just can’t with life. I get it. If I were really a level-headed person, I’d be looking at how crazy my little world already is and laugh at the whole idea.

…right.

I’ve always been more a Jabberwocky than Alice in Wonderland kind of girl…you get the point. We’re quite mad here. Photo from clker.com

I think NaNo is made for people like me. People who crave the challenge (and maybe a smidge of suffering). A reason to write. An adventure. A game to play you might very well lose.

Anyway, now it feels a little bit like a countdown to Christmas morning. I know, it’s a weird mixture of excitement and dread that goes into NaNo, but the truth is, as soon as I had my horribly messy plan, I couldn’t actually wait for it to start. I wanted to write it. I wanted it to be NaNo already.

I can almost feel the gasps of horror from the other writers who haven’t finished stockpiling their caffeine or polishing their outlines. I think eventually they might forgive the moment of weakness. That’s the other thing about NaNo–no matter what genre, what style, what life struggles we have, this challenge brings us all together, and makes allies out of people that have never met.

It’s a beautiful moment when you get to see that.

So with six days and counting, good luck to all the Wrimos out there, and a very peaceful November to all those who aren’t involved.

May we all find stories worthy of a dragon’s hoard.

Not a clue about NaNoWriMo? Join the madness online! We have plot bunnies and sporks! https://nanowrimo.org/.
On Daring to Write…despite all the voices in my head telling me not to…

September 12th, 2020

I think everyone has a small grimy goblin sitting in the back of their head saying all the things we shouldn’t dare to do.

Well. At least, that’s the way it seems.

Mine is particularly vocal. And I hate it with a passion that is not to be denied.

Most people would say caution is a good thing. Knowing what you are and what you can safely do. No bumps, broken bones, or accidents. You avoid saying the wrong thing if you say nothing at all.

Caution is not particularly helpful when trying to write. In this post alone, I’ve probably deleted as many lines as I’ve left typed. Why is it that I have to feel I’ll break if my characters fall? Is it because I think I really am flying with them as the pages dance by?

Or is it from all the criticism I hear of books that seemed alright, but somehow gained, I don’t know–an antifandom? of people who hate the story to its core. What about the books that are simply ignored? Not good enough to warrant a second look? What about the books, so delicate, so innocuous, that bring so many subtle, terrible things to life, poison minds, and send the good things in the world crashing to the ground?

All because of the smallest little words?

Books can do that. It isn’t even all they can do.

It’s quite paralyzing, really.

So I don’t write. For all the little reasons. I say tomorrow will be better and set my titanic drafts aside. Procrastinate. Later. It’s just a waste of time to sit with fingers poised over black keys, not typing a single word. It really is.

I don’t try to give writing advice. I don’t know if what I do works for anyone else because I’m only myself. But I know what I have to do when this happens.

Lie to myself. At first. Don’t misunderstand. Writing is all about telling yourself stories, after all.

So I don’t write. I indulge the bad TV-chocolate-hot tea-good book-new movie-no blogging-unhealthy lifestyle habit. And behind the lie, the rest of my brain is still awake, watching for the slightest glimmer of something in my ordinary life that might spark an adventure. A story.

I have to remember how much writing feels like flying before I can forget about the fall. I have to remember that I still am head over heels in love with what I do before I can take that first step into empty air and make something new.

And then I can forget about who might one day be watching my every word. I can sit down at my laptop, take a deep breath, imagine where I’m going,

and just

write.
Do and Don’t Read

April 14th, 2020

I don’t read because I think it makes me sound cool.

I don’t read to learn new things.

I don’t read so I can say I’ve read it.

I don’t read because someone else tells me to.

I don’t read so I can seem smarter than everyone else.

I don’t read because the book has won awards or sold millions of copies.

I don’t read because whatever the book is about actually happened.

I don’t read to better understand complicated social issues.

I don’t read so I can run a book blog.

I don’t read so I can talk about books.

I don’t read so I can argue about whether the story was any good or not later.

I don’t.

I read because I need to.

I read because if I don’t I can’t stand hearing all the thoughts in my head screaming at me how starved they are for words.

I read because I’m lonely.

I read because I need to disappear. I need the world to disappear.

I read because the world is boring and I want to see something new.

I read because I want to see dragons.

I read because I need words.

Because I get book-hungry.

I don’t.

I devour books like a ravenous wolf.

I tear them apart and let them do the same to me.

I shout, I cry, I make strange faces that earn stares from the odd passerby.

I earn terrible library late fines.

I open the cover and climb inside so I can forget about the world.

I hike up a mountain of pages to find what book is waiting at the top, what forgotten secrets it holds.

I fall in love and let my heart be broken time after time.

I meet old friends and make new ones and throw others away because they betray my trust.

I climb mountains, feel the wind in my hair, race horses across green meadows where the shadows flicker from distant clouds,

I spend the night staring up at the stars peeking between the deep black sky with a red fire at my feet,

I feel the weight of a sword and the weight of a heavy book.

I dwell in a realm entirely my own, a bulwark of bookshelves the fortress walls, ignoring thrones of overstuffed chairs and sitting gemütlich on the floor.

I spend hour after hour alone. In a book. Sitting still.

Far away. In another world. I can’t say I ever really was alone.

Tag: story

Writing Update (I am, as usual, a lovely mess)

NaNoWriMo Writing Update: The 50,000

NaNoWriMo2020!

On Daring to Write…despite all the voices in my head telling me not to…

Do and Don’t Read