Sometimes writing is perilous, but even worse is not much sleep.
Makes for a loopy afternoon. Which is how I'm feeling about now, having waked at 3.15 AM and still going.
Not strong, I'll admit! Time for some tea, I'm thinking, then an early bedtime, but not too early. Tomorrow I finish the WIP, from which the excerpt below was taken.
Okay. Time to click on the kettle! I've posted some old family pics at the Mothership, if you're interested...
Monday, 8 February 2010
Thursday, 4 February 2010
excerpt
A chapter from the WIP, Two Dans...
In bed that night, and for the next several evenings, Miles only held Holly, still struck by the events of Thanksgiving. He’d never have given it that much thought if not for Danny Snyder and that pained Miles as much as Holly’s tears. For as much as Miles loved Holly, knew Holly, her father seemed to love and know her more.
Danny didn’t love Holly as Miles did, but as her father he would go to any lengths to protect her, shield her, assuage her heart in some manner that Miles just wasn’t able. He allowed it was time, time and yeah, his age. His fucking younger age, but there wasn’t anything Miles could do for that. He could only love her this way, in bed, naked, bare. They were bared to the other in ways Danny Snyder never could breach.
And again Miles sighed, for he liked Holly’s dad. Really liked him, thought the world of Danny Snyder. But that night Daddy had known best, knew more than Miles, and maybe that was just going to be how it was for a good number of years to come. Instead of accepting it was part fatherly knowledge and a whole lot more due to life’s lessons learned over time, Miles allowed it was because that man and Holly shared a bond Miles would never breach; that of loving Lane Hillerman.
Danny and Holly loved that woman, Holly by proxy, Danny like this, in bed with nothing between them. They’d shared a child, even more to bond them, and suddenly Miles wanted Holly pregnant. Only to cement them, leave no stone unturned. The love he felt for her was so strong, drowning, and if they had a baby, Miles was sure his age wouldn’t matter.
Then he smiled, old enough or just aware that it wasn’t only a child that Danny and Lane had shared, there had been more. They were in their thirties when Holly was born, had known each other for a long time when compared to how long Miles had known Holly. Yet it felt like more, felt like forever. Sometimes Miles thought he’d loved Holly before he was born.
She was nearly asleep, snug against his body. He’d told her they’d have lots of kids, making up for families that, as Danny had said, were somewhat splintered. Graham’s had been swirling in that mix, not only Miles and Holly’s, and Siggy being an only child had reared its head. Miles had learned that her mother, Bitsy, hadn’t wanted any more than Sigourney, but that Harmon had hoped for a large brood. It became a moot point after Siggy’s birth, difficult and ultimately life-threatening. Bitsy Hart had nearly bled to death, enduring a hysterectomy right after her daughter emerged. There were no more children for the Harts, only one perfect, blonde California girl.
Until Thanksgiving Miles only wanted two, maybe three. Maybe three kids, like what his dad had. Miles was one of three, although sometimes he felt like an only child. He’d wanted kids for a long time, but only Holly knew it. Miles had wanted to be a father since he was eleven years old.
A strange age with a story of equal weight. When Miles was eleven, Mary Beth was pregnant again, another daughter to be delivered to her and Dan. Miles only knew his father as Dan, what MB called him, all their friends. Only a select few of his father’s most long-gathered associates called him Daniel. Guys from The Gray Resistors, The Band Days. MB would refer to those years before her as The Band Days, those men now like Dan Schneider, in their early sixties, looking at the end of their lives no longer far away. At one point they’d been young, like Miles, who loved hearing the old stories, his father a different man then, one called Daniel, with NO CHILDREN, and pre-Diane. There was a time in Dan’s life before Miles’s mother, but no woman was associated with those recollections, as if Dan had no need for a lover. Only his guitar, a companion and children appearing much later.
Later for Dan, who was fifty-two when MB was ready to have their second baby, Dan’s third. Another girl, the family aware of the gender and the name. Miles and Wendy would be joined by a Rebecca, and on the day Rebecca arrived, Miles was home, a Saturday. Arrangements had been made for Wendy’s care, some friends of MB’s to look after that toddler. Wendy Schneider was only two, not much time between Dan’s last offspring. More to MB’s mind than her lover’s, for she wanted to get the birthing aspect of parenthood out of the way, return her body to as close to previous as a gym and regimented diet would allow. It was good for Dan too; he was now fifty-three years old, that red hair mostly gray, those green eyes not as sharp with the little sleep babies allowed. With Wendy Schneider’s care sorted, there was only eleven-year-old Miles left that morning MB was in labor, and of course she’d not considered that boy’s situation.
Miles remembered it was his father to ask if he wanted to accompany them to the hospital, and Miles was eager to accept, not wanting to be left out, shut away. Miles knew how his father bent over to include him, not adding to a young boy’s worries that again he was superfluous, unnecessary. Miles never felt that with this father, but did sense it with MB.
The family arrived at the Beth Israel Medical Center and Miles was set outside in the maternity ward lobby, surrounded by other families awaiting the same news as he, new lives being brought forth in a place used to the routine. For Miles it was all new, amazing, stunning in what was happening. Also that he was included, along with MB’s mother, sisters, and some close friends. They treated him as Mary Beth’s child, which also shocked; what was it about Miles that MB found so intrusive? That day opened Miles’s eyes to two distinct revelations. That to all of Mary Beth Cunningham’s clan, he was as meaningful and important as the baby she’d birthed and the one forthcoming. The second was all about Dan.
Miles read The Phantom Tollbooth while waiting, or else was peppered with questions about where he went to school, what he liked to do. People were interested in him, a family that was his, but not within his house. Here, in a hospital, Miles was part of MB’s sphere, and why she treated him as only some leftover of his father’s past, Miles couldn’t figure. He became aware later, but by then a sociable frost clung to the relationship that was Miles and MB. Nothing to do to change it, but Miles realized just what was happening once his little sister, Rebecca Camilla Schneider, had arrived.
A nurse announced the baby’s details, her gender known but not that she was eight pounds, two ounces, twenty inches long with her father’s red hair a fluff over her head. Mary Beth’s mother was in tears, her sisters and MB’s one cousin all hugging and laughing. Miles was grabbed and he felt large bosoms pressed against his cheek, warm, motherly, accommodating. Miles felt wrapped into something so precious but fleeting as the women let him go.
“Miles, come on.”
It was his dad, dressed in scrubs, with small flecks of blood on his trousers. But there was no look of anxiety or distress, only pleasure, joy, a mood Miles rarely saw in such abundance on his father’s face.
“What?” Miles asked.
Dan’s grin widened, then his hand extended. “Son, you want to meet your sister?”
Miles only nodded, no idea this was possible. What about MB’s mother, her family?
That day Miles realized who he was within his family, but more was waiting.
***
Miles had to don a similar outfit to his dad, only in that MB would prefer it. What Dan said, leading his son through double doors, past rooms where women made sounds that didn’t bother Miles nearly as much as his father seemed to worry. Miles at eleven held great heartache within him, far more than a few shouting pregnant women could ruffle. They reached where MB had given birth and a too-large shirt and pants were held for Miles to slip into. The pants were far past his feet and he rolled them up as his father chatted. The baby was fine, only a few minutes old. Mary Beth had a much easier time with Rebecca, but it was her second baby. “Do you want to hold her?” Dan asked his son.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Miles had said.
Dan Schneider only smiled. “We’ll see what you think in a minute.”
They entered the room and Miles swallowed, seeing his father’s normally flawless girlfriend with her hair askew, looking exhausted and sweaty. She wore a hospital gown, an ID bracelet on her wrist. She had an IV taped to her hand and then Miles saw the baby at her side, a small, compact bundle that was quiet, still. Miles thought babies were supposed to be loud and crying, but this little girl wasn’t anything like Wendy, who’d suffered from colic and still pitched a fit when she didn’t get her way. Whatever it was with this new sister, at least she was starting off more subdued.
Miles didn’t know she’d been nursed and was now in that restful state newborns coveted, when the process of birth was past, eyes doctored, noses sucked. Swaddled in a warm blanket and held against the body of a familiar voice, little Rebecca Schneider was as calm and placid as she’d be for the next several days. Like her older sister, Rebecca would suffer from colic, but it wouldn’t come into force for a week.
At that moment she was only sleeping, with no idea of her fate, only that things were quiet, not longer traumatic or difficult. MB’s labor hadn’t been bad for her, but who knew the extent of all that pushing and shoving on a baby!
Miles looked at that infant, what of her he could see. Mary Beth offered him a smile, the most generous she had been with him, or would be for a long time. Then Miles noticed his father, the beatific grin and great bliss exuding from every pore. Tremendous happiness, more than Miles had ever known from his dad, had ever witnessed. It was in that moment that Miles knew he wanted to be a parent. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, as he’d been told HOW babies were made, and he had no desire to ever get that close to any girl! But somehow it would occur, because in Dan Schneider’s immense ecstasy, Miles realized his worth as a son, Rebecca’s worth, Wendy’s too. For Miles was certain, assured beyond doubt that as his father appeared in that room, he’d felt the same when Miles was born.
“Miles you want to hold her?” Mary Beth’s voice was croaky but tender.
“Oh, uh, I…”
“Son, come here.”
Miles did as he was told, an obedient child. That stemmed from long hoping if he was good enough Diane would return. She never did, but Miles remained compliant, just in case.
Dan took the baby from the bed, his hands not shaky or unfamiliar as he’d been with Wendy. It had been nine years between Dan’s two eldest children and he’d forgotten a few things between them. It had only been two years with the girls and Dan was an expert, but then Rebecca was so well-bundled, it was like holding a solid object. What he told Miles, that all he had to do was sit in the rocker, put out his hands and Dan would do the rest.
Miles only nodded and his father bent over, placing into Miles’s small arms a baby. A sister, one whom would be Miles’s favorite. She outgrew colic much quicker than Wendy and Miles had given her bottles, fed her cereal, played with her often. He’d not had to change a diaper, but was adept with smaller siblings. He was pliable, his heart opening to all sorts of new ideas that day. That being a dad was something for which he’d wait, but enjoy. That MB could be nice to him, but maybe it was from the drugs she’d had during Rebecca’s birth. That MB’s family liked him, which would be reinforced over the years, making Mary Beth’s own attitude even more difficult to swallow.
And then there was Dan, or Dad, as Miles thought of him. Not Daddy, for that had been discarded when Miles learned the truth behind Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy. Daddy had fallen away then too, but it was okay. Now there were little girls to whom Dan would be Daddy, probably for all their lives. Danny was Daddy to Holly, Miles mused, feeling all those memories settling into the back of his brain, where they were usually kept. Then he remembered he’d not gotten the two Dans to talking on the phone a week ago, a week ago Thursday when Holly had wept so hard in his arms, also in the arms of her daddy. Both men loved her beyond words, only in different ways.
Miles thought of that as he went to sleep, of wanting not only two or three but several of Holly Snyder’s children, to repeatedly experience that complete contentment and fullness. Then of his own father’s bliss, seeing within Miles’s arms a daughter, but not the one Dan had held, then lost, so many years before.
In bed that night, and for the next several evenings, Miles only held Holly, still struck by the events of Thanksgiving. He’d never have given it that much thought if not for Danny Snyder and that pained Miles as much as Holly’s tears. For as much as Miles loved Holly, knew Holly, her father seemed to love and know her more.
Danny didn’t love Holly as Miles did, but as her father he would go to any lengths to protect her, shield her, assuage her heart in some manner that Miles just wasn’t able. He allowed it was time, time and yeah, his age. His fucking younger age, but there wasn’t anything Miles could do for that. He could only love her this way, in bed, naked, bare. They were bared to the other in ways Danny Snyder never could breach.
And again Miles sighed, for he liked Holly’s dad. Really liked him, thought the world of Danny Snyder. But that night Daddy had known best, knew more than Miles, and maybe that was just going to be how it was for a good number of years to come. Instead of accepting it was part fatherly knowledge and a whole lot more due to life’s lessons learned over time, Miles allowed it was because that man and Holly shared a bond Miles would never breach; that of loving Lane Hillerman.
Danny and Holly loved that woman, Holly by proxy, Danny like this, in bed with nothing between them. They’d shared a child, even more to bond them, and suddenly Miles wanted Holly pregnant. Only to cement them, leave no stone unturned. The love he felt for her was so strong, drowning, and if they had a baby, Miles was sure his age wouldn’t matter.
Then he smiled, old enough or just aware that it wasn’t only a child that Danny and Lane had shared, there had been more. They were in their thirties when Holly was born, had known each other for a long time when compared to how long Miles had known Holly. Yet it felt like more, felt like forever. Sometimes Miles thought he’d loved Holly before he was born.
She was nearly asleep, snug against his body. He’d told her they’d have lots of kids, making up for families that, as Danny had said, were somewhat splintered. Graham’s had been swirling in that mix, not only Miles and Holly’s, and Siggy being an only child had reared its head. Miles had learned that her mother, Bitsy, hadn’t wanted any more than Sigourney, but that Harmon had hoped for a large brood. It became a moot point after Siggy’s birth, difficult and ultimately life-threatening. Bitsy Hart had nearly bled to death, enduring a hysterectomy right after her daughter emerged. There were no more children for the Harts, only one perfect, blonde California girl.
Until Thanksgiving Miles only wanted two, maybe three. Maybe three kids, like what his dad had. Miles was one of three, although sometimes he felt like an only child. He’d wanted kids for a long time, but only Holly knew it. Miles had wanted to be a father since he was eleven years old.
A strange age with a story of equal weight. When Miles was eleven, Mary Beth was pregnant again, another daughter to be delivered to her and Dan. Miles only knew his father as Dan, what MB called him, all their friends. Only a select few of his father’s most long-gathered associates called him Daniel. Guys from The Gray Resistors, The Band Days. MB would refer to those years before her as The Band Days, those men now like Dan Schneider, in their early sixties, looking at the end of their lives no longer far away. At one point they’d been young, like Miles, who loved hearing the old stories, his father a different man then, one called Daniel, with NO CHILDREN, and pre-Diane. There was a time in Dan’s life before Miles’s mother, but no woman was associated with those recollections, as if Dan had no need for a lover. Only his guitar, a companion and children appearing much later.
Later for Dan, who was fifty-two when MB was ready to have their second baby, Dan’s third. Another girl, the family aware of the gender and the name. Miles and Wendy would be joined by a Rebecca, and on the day Rebecca arrived, Miles was home, a Saturday. Arrangements had been made for Wendy’s care, some friends of MB’s to look after that toddler. Wendy Schneider was only two, not much time between Dan’s last offspring. More to MB’s mind than her lover’s, for she wanted to get the birthing aspect of parenthood out of the way, return her body to as close to previous as a gym and regimented diet would allow. It was good for Dan too; he was now fifty-three years old, that red hair mostly gray, those green eyes not as sharp with the little sleep babies allowed. With Wendy Schneider’s care sorted, there was only eleven-year-old Miles left that morning MB was in labor, and of course she’d not considered that boy’s situation.
Miles remembered it was his father to ask if he wanted to accompany them to the hospital, and Miles was eager to accept, not wanting to be left out, shut away. Miles knew how his father bent over to include him, not adding to a young boy’s worries that again he was superfluous, unnecessary. Miles never felt that with this father, but did sense it with MB.
The family arrived at the Beth Israel Medical Center and Miles was set outside in the maternity ward lobby, surrounded by other families awaiting the same news as he, new lives being brought forth in a place used to the routine. For Miles it was all new, amazing, stunning in what was happening. Also that he was included, along with MB’s mother, sisters, and some close friends. They treated him as Mary Beth’s child, which also shocked; what was it about Miles that MB found so intrusive? That day opened Miles’s eyes to two distinct revelations. That to all of Mary Beth Cunningham’s clan, he was as meaningful and important as the baby she’d birthed and the one forthcoming. The second was all about Dan.
Miles read The Phantom Tollbooth while waiting, or else was peppered with questions about where he went to school, what he liked to do. People were interested in him, a family that was his, but not within his house. Here, in a hospital, Miles was part of MB’s sphere, and why she treated him as only some leftover of his father’s past, Miles couldn’t figure. He became aware later, but by then a sociable frost clung to the relationship that was Miles and MB. Nothing to do to change it, but Miles realized just what was happening once his little sister, Rebecca Camilla Schneider, had arrived.
A nurse announced the baby’s details, her gender known but not that she was eight pounds, two ounces, twenty inches long with her father’s red hair a fluff over her head. Mary Beth’s mother was in tears, her sisters and MB’s one cousin all hugging and laughing. Miles was grabbed and he felt large bosoms pressed against his cheek, warm, motherly, accommodating. Miles felt wrapped into something so precious but fleeting as the women let him go.
“Miles, come on.”
It was his dad, dressed in scrubs, with small flecks of blood on his trousers. But there was no look of anxiety or distress, only pleasure, joy, a mood Miles rarely saw in such abundance on his father’s face.
“What?” Miles asked.
Dan’s grin widened, then his hand extended. “Son, you want to meet your sister?”
Miles only nodded, no idea this was possible. What about MB’s mother, her family?
That day Miles realized who he was within his family, but more was waiting.
***
Miles had to don a similar outfit to his dad, only in that MB would prefer it. What Dan said, leading his son through double doors, past rooms where women made sounds that didn’t bother Miles nearly as much as his father seemed to worry. Miles at eleven held great heartache within him, far more than a few shouting pregnant women could ruffle. They reached where MB had given birth and a too-large shirt and pants were held for Miles to slip into. The pants were far past his feet and he rolled them up as his father chatted. The baby was fine, only a few minutes old. Mary Beth had a much easier time with Rebecca, but it was her second baby. “Do you want to hold her?” Dan asked his son.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Miles had said.
Dan Schneider only smiled. “We’ll see what you think in a minute.”
They entered the room and Miles swallowed, seeing his father’s normally flawless girlfriend with her hair askew, looking exhausted and sweaty. She wore a hospital gown, an ID bracelet on her wrist. She had an IV taped to her hand and then Miles saw the baby at her side, a small, compact bundle that was quiet, still. Miles thought babies were supposed to be loud and crying, but this little girl wasn’t anything like Wendy, who’d suffered from colic and still pitched a fit when she didn’t get her way. Whatever it was with this new sister, at least she was starting off more subdued.
Miles didn’t know she’d been nursed and was now in that restful state newborns coveted, when the process of birth was past, eyes doctored, noses sucked. Swaddled in a warm blanket and held against the body of a familiar voice, little Rebecca Schneider was as calm and placid as she’d be for the next several days. Like her older sister, Rebecca would suffer from colic, but it wouldn’t come into force for a week.
At that moment she was only sleeping, with no idea of her fate, only that things were quiet, not longer traumatic or difficult. MB’s labor hadn’t been bad for her, but who knew the extent of all that pushing and shoving on a baby!
Miles looked at that infant, what of her he could see. Mary Beth offered him a smile, the most generous she had been with him, or would be for a long time. Then Miles noticed his father, the beatific grin and great bliss exuding from every pore. Tremendous happiness, more than Miles had ever known from his dad, had ever witnessed. It was in that moment that Miles knew he wanted to be a parent. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, as he’d been told HOW babies were made, and he had no desire to ever get that close to any girl! But somehow it would occur, because in Dan Schneider’s immense ecstasy, Miles realized his worth as a son, Rebecca’s worth, Wendy’s too. For Miles was certain, assured beyond doubt that as his father appeared in that room, he’d felt the same when Miles was born.
“Miles you want to hold her?” Mary Beth’s voice was croaky but tender.
“Oh, uh, I…”
“Son, come here.”
Miles did as he was told, an obedient child. That stemmed from long hoping if he was good enough Diane would return. She never did, but Miles remained compliant, just in case.
Dan took the baby from the bed, his hands not shaky or unfamiliar as he’d been with Wendy. It had been nine years between Dan’s two eldest children and he’d forgotten a few things between them. It had only been two years with the girls and Dan was an expert, but then Rebecca was so well-bundled, it was like holding a solid object. What he told Miles, that all he had to do was sit in the rocker, put out his hands and Dan would do the rest.
Miles only nodded and his father bent over, placing into Miles’s small arms a baby. A sister, one whom would be Miles’s favorite. She outgrew colic much quicker than Wendy and Miles had given her bottles, fed her cereal, played with her often. He’d not had to change a diaper, but was adept with smaller siblings. He was pliable, his heart opening to all sorts of new ideas that day. That being a dad was something for which he’d wait, but enjoy. That MB could be nice to him, but maybe it was from the drugs she’d had during Rebecca’s birth. That MB’s family liked him, which would be reinforced over the years, making Mary Beth’s own attitude even more difficult to swallow.
And then there was Dan, or Dad, as Miles thought of him. Not Daddy, for that had been discarded when Miles learned the truth behind Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy. Daddy had fallen away then too, but it was okay. Now there were little girls to whom Dan would be Daddy, probably for all their lives. Danny was Daddy to Holly, Miles mused, feeling all those memories settling into the back of his brain, where they were usually kept. Then he remembered he’d not gotten the two Dans to talking on the phone a week ago, a week ago Thursday when Holly had wept so hard in his arms, also in the arms of her daddy. Both men loved her beyond words, only in different ways.
Miles thought of that as he went to sleep, of wanting not only two or three but several of Holly Snyder’s children, to repeatedly experience that complete contentment and fullness. Then of his own father’s bliss, seeing within Miles’s arms a daughter, but not the one Dan had held, then lost, so many years before.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
January review
It's already the third of February, and just where in the hey did January go?
Tied up in editing and pitch writing, post-holiday festing and one road trip. But mostly, in editing.
Now my contest entry is safe and out of my hands, but last month, oh my goodness!! So much to prepare, whittle, write, whittle again, then load that baby into the site, and brush myself off, then walk away. Which proved to be as time consuming as getting everything sorted!
It took days to debrief myself from that manuscript, but now, a good ten days out, I'm not thinking about it. Instead I'm writing, but that's this month.
Back to last month... I also poked about with some other manuscripts, a little dipping of toes into perusing waters that kept me from drowning in the contest hullabaloo. It was a strange few weeks, kids home, back to school, rain, a nice bit of rain, actually making the month feel wintry.
There was plenty of footie, and the novel I began at the end of the month, once the contest was out of my hands was coming along (still is) and it was great to write again, as I hadn't written any fiction since the beginning of December. Six weeks, maybe seven, and I was reminded of why I do this.
Because I love it, and I need it, both.
I was also prompted to note that in doing this, I'm only looking to please myself, in that contests aside, why I write is for pleasure, to keep me occupied, but it's not housework or something that I don't find all that appealing. I mean, I LIKE to do laundry, but I LOVE to write.
So, there were words edited, words written. The January word count for Two Dans ended up being 32,693. I was getting a chapter a day in, a little more now, but it felt really satisfying to pound that out, opening my brain and letting the words fall onto the keyboard.
An end of the month treat with Bob, at our favorite ice cream spot! (And no, we didn't eat it all. Most of it, but not all of it!)A good start to 2010, and a pretty nice mid-way mark in this year of writing, dangerously...
Sunday, 31 January 2010
copacetic
It's copacetic, how I'm feeling right now about things. About wrting, my life, doing laundry, vacuuming, all of it. Copacetic.
Today was one of those days when I woke and felt like all my ducks were in a row. I woke, chatted and laughed with my husband, got out of bed and made us breakfast. Oatmeal for him, Grape Nuts and bran flakes for me. Tea for two, very good tea.
Then he went to church and I wrote. I knew what I was going to write from when I woke, adding some back story, then some current story. I did some laundry, then when Bob got home I fixed us bagels. Then ate some apricot cake, checked the laundry, also getting some hand wash sorted as it's a sunny day. Perfect for putting a few things on the drying rack.
Just one of those sorts of days where everything falls into place. I love those kinds of days, aware they could all be like this if I just let go of things more than I do. But sometimes I hold onto things with both fists when I really shouldn't.
Anyways, today was just the sort of day that makes me so relaxed, pleased, not with anything I've done except for letting go. There were words written, clothes washed, carpet hoovered, food prepared, affection shared, but not of my making. Only in the simple acceptance of a day's gift with waiting, open hands.
Today was one of those days when I woke and felt like all my ducks were in a row. I woke, chatted and laughed with my husband, got out of bed and made us breakfast. Oatmeal for him, Grape Nuts and bran flakes for me. Tea for two, very good tea.
Then he went to church and I wrote. I knew what I was going to write from when I woke, adding some back story, then some current story. I did some laundry, then when Bob got home I fixed us bagels. Then ate some apricot cake, checked the laundry, also getting some hand wash sorted as it's a sunny day. Perfect for putting a few things on the drying rack.
Just one of those sorts of days where everything falls into place. I love those kinds of days, aware they could all be like this if I just let go of things more than I do. But sometimes I hold onto things with both fists when I really shouldn't.
Anyways, today was just the sort of day that makes me so relaxed, pleased, not with anything I've done except for letting go. There were words written, clothes washed, carpet hoovered, food prepared, affection shared, but not of my making. Only in the simple acceptance of a day's gift with waiting, open hands.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Monday Monday
A new day, new week, new novel. After rounds and rounds of edits and pitch writing, it's time to play!
A novel is like that, words put into use, paragraphs and sentences, chapters and scenes, all piled together, stringing along ideas and nuances, thoughts and dreams. My dreams, the dreams of my characters, stories that on occasion begin as dreams. Not this one in particular, a story within a story, one that emerged first, then turned into another. But it all starts from somewhere, and today another manuscript was born.
Judy Harper recently asked if I find life getting in the way of the writing. Laundry, which I actually do enjoy (only because I don't iron), organizing, that sort of thing. Usually no, as I'm fairly obsessed (or compulsive, either one) when the writing starts. I have a routine, one that begins after I've dropped my daughter at school, which is preceded by waking, making my husband's ubiquitous PBJ's, getting my breakfast and a shower. Then I take her down the road, come home, make tea, finish looking at all my sites, and around 8 AM, up comes that day's work. Whether it be writing, editing or something in between, that's what I do. While I LOVE this activity, I do treat it as a job of sorts, in that it's an 8-4 sort of endeavor. Maybe that sounds contained, but really it's for my own sanity. Because I LOVE it so much, if left to my own devices, the laundry, organizing, shopping, cooking, etc would simply be forgotten.
I can't explain it other than to say for the last three years, how long I've been at this gig, that's how it's been. Especially the last two. Since the beginning of 2008, I've not been able to set aside ideas, and because I'm so blessed to have TIME, I pursue them. Maybe it's to make up for years of kids at home, living a life devoted to family. Now I have one daughter around, when she is here, and come summer, she'll flee this nest, and my days will truly be only for myself, a small bit of housework, and caring for my spouse. The writing has come at a time when my hands were suddenly empty, having moved back to the States and no longer homeschooling. What this particular blog addresses is one year of solid writing with no real querying or looking to advance this work in a professional, business type manner. I don't consider the contest as trying to obtain an agent, only an outlet that adds to my skills, puts me into as much contact as I wish with other writers, at least at this point. If I'm lucky enough to make it into further rounds, an excerpt will be available online for people to critique, which is a gift as well. All the writing in the world won't do anything unless there are eyes willing to scrutinize and comment.
But back to distractions with writing. We joke our eldest daughter is a distraction monster of sorts, for she loves to call and chat. But she's tied up back at university again today, and other than having to call an exterminator this morning to deal with our small ant problem, as soon as I was home from getting youngest daughter to school and the tea was brewed, I sat my butt in the chair, pulled up a new word document, and off I went. One paragraph in I sorted times for the pest control people to stop by, then it was nothing but writing, tea refills, a stop in the loo, then back to the chair until a chapter was done. That's how I do it, one chapter at a time, then a break for lunch and blogging. Jay will be home from school in another hour, and while she's seventeen and doesn't need copious amounts of attention, she'll want to tell me of her day, and I'll listen to her stories, then my husband will arrive home. He has turned into a morning person since we moved back, why I knock off around four in the afternoon. Time for the family, unless I'm scrambling to complete edits.
I don't expect this to be the way it goes forever. I have a feeling this sort of routine is not for a lifetime, only a season, more likely a reason. There's a reason for everything, and I've had to watch myself for burnout. But the stories are there, words right withing my reach. A grasp that is sometimes difficult, but what I've leaned so far this fiscal writing year, nearly six months' in, is not to question it too much. I feel guided to this, to writing and all it entails. And if I've learned anything in my life, I hope I know that when told to Use the Force Luke, the helmet comes off and I let go. If NOTHING else, this is not about me and what I think I can do.
A novel is like that, words put into use, paragraphs and sentences, chapters and scenes, all piled together, stringing along ideas and nuances, thoughts and dreams. My dreams, the dreams of my characters, stories that on occasion begin as dreams. Not this one in particular, a story within a story, one that emerged first, then turned into another. But it all starts from somewhere, and today another manuscript was born.
Judy Harper recently asked if I find life getting in the way of the writing. Laundry, which I actually do enjoy (only because I don't iron), organizing, that sort of thing. Usually no, as I'm fairly obsessed (or compulsive, either one) when the writing starts. I have a routine, one that begins after I've dropped my daughter at school, which is preceded by waking, making my husband's ubiquitous PBJ's, getting my breakfast and a shower. Then I take her down the road, come home, make tea, finish looking at all my sites, and around 8 AM, up comes that day's work. Whether it be writing, editing or something in between, that's what I do. While I LOVE this activity, I do treat it as a job of sorts, in that it's an 8-4 sort of endeavor. Maybe that sounds contained, but really it's for my own sanity. Because I LOVE it so much, if left to my own devices, the laundry, organizing, shopping, cooking, etc would simply be forgotten.
I can't explain it other than to say for the last three years, how long I've been at this gig, that's how it's been. Especially the last two. Since the beginning of 2008, I've not been able to set aside ideas, and because I'm so blessed to have TIME, I pursue them. Maybe it's to make up for years of kids at home, living a life devoted to family. Now I have one daughter around, when she is here, and come summer, she'll flee this nest, and my days will truly be only for myself, a small bit of housework, and caring for my spouse. The writing has come at a time when my hands were suddenly empty, having moved back to the States and no longer homeschooling. What this particular blog addresses is one year of solid writing with no real querying or looking to advance this work in a professional, business type manner. I don't consider the contest as trying to obtain an agent, only an outlet that adds to my skills, puts me into as much contact as I wish with other writers, at least at this point. If I'm lucky enough to make it into further rounds, an excerpt will be available online for people to critique, which is a gift as well. All the writing in the world won't do anything unless there are eyes willing to scrutinize and comment.
But back to distractions with writing. We joke our eldest daughter is a distraction monster of sorts, for she loves to call and chat. But she's tied up back at university again today, and other than having to call an exterminator this morning to deal with our small ant problem, as soon as I was home from getting youngest daughter to school and the tea was brewed, I sat my butt in the chair, pulled up a new word document, and off I went. One paragraph in I sorted times for the pest control people to stop by, then it was nothing but writing, tea refills, a stop in the loo, then back to the chair until a chapter was done. That's how I do it, one chapter at a time, then a break for lunch and blogging. Jay will be home from school in another hour, and while she's seventeen and doesn't need copious amounts of attention, she'll want to tell me of her day, and I'll listen to her stories, then my husband will arrive home. He has turned into a morning person since we moved back, why I knock off around four in the afternoon. Time for the family, unless I'm scrambling to complete edits.
I don't expect this to be the way it goes forever. I have a feeling this sort of routine is not for a lifetime, only a season, more likely a reason. There's a reason for everything, and I've had to watch myself for burnout. But the stories are there, words right withing my reach. A grasp that is sometimes difficult, but what I've leaned so far this fiscal writing year, nearly six months' in, is not to question it too much. I feel guided to this, to writing and all it entails. And if I've learned anything in my life, I hope I know that when told to Use the Force Luke, the helmet comes off and I let go. If NOTHING else, this is not about me and what I think I can do.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
a minute to chill
We've had some incredible rain come down in our area over the last few days, wind too, so much wind my husband had to go out in the driving precipitation to prop up the lemon tree that seemed ready to topple right over!
He went four times, although he was staying home sick today, poor chap! But better that he was here, for if it had only been me, that tree would be laying across the grass tonight.
Instead, as he braved the elements, I sucked up a synopsis, tinkered with a biography, battled that pitch, then attacked the first chapter of the manuscript that will be the excerpt. I must have gone over it about four times, whittling and primping, making sure it was just so.
Then I double spaced the whole thing, and started from that already worked over first 4,500 words. As it sits tonight, I'm a quarter through, having to stop to clean the kitchen.
And now it's after eight, Comet having been rinsed from the sink, stove wiped down, teapot washed and ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow the editing will continue, so that at nine PM on Sunday night I can pull up the website, and begin the entry process.
How many more times I'll tinker with the pitch between now and then, oh, maybe...
Ten, fifteen times. Not sure the AMOUNT that will be altered, but I know I'll be giving it an eagle eye. As for the MS, I'll finish this double space edit (as I write and edit with the text single spaced), then we'll see. All depends on how sick of it I am by then.
Plus there is football this weekend, the NFC and AFC championships. Sunday will be a plethora of games, well, two, then that night, once all the gridiron action is over, the contest hoo haa will heat up. One of the cool bits about being on the West Coast.
When a contest is open at midnight Eastern Time, it's only nine PM here in California!
He went four times, although he was staying home sick today, poor chap! But better that he was here, for if it had only been me, that tree would be laying across the grass tonight.
Instead, as he braved the elements, I sucked up a synopsis, tinkered with a biography, battled that pitch, then attacked the first chapter of the manuscript that will be the excerpt. I must have gone over it about four times, whittling and primping, making sure it was just so.
Then I double spaced the whole thing, and started from that already worked over first 4,500 words. As it sits tonight, I'm a quarter through, having to stop to clean the kitchen.
And now it's after eight, Comet having been rinsed from the sink, stove wiped down, teapot washed and ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow the editing will continue, so that at nine PM on Sunday night I can pull up the website, and begin the entry process.
How many more times I'll tinker with the pitch between now and then, oh, maybe...
Ten, fifteen times. Not sure the AMOUNT that will be altered, but I know I'll be giving it an eagle eye. As for the MS, I'll finish this double space edit (as I write and edit with the text single spaced), then we'll see. All depends on how sick of it I am by then.
Plus there is football this weekend, the NFC and AFC championships. Sunday will be a plethora of games, well, two, then that night, once all the gridiron action is over, the contest hoo haa will heat up. One of the cool bits about being on the West Coast.
When a contest is open at midnight Eastern Time, it's only nine PM here in California!
Saturday, 16 January 2010
a month of editing, busily
That's what's been happening. Edit edit edit. And then edit some more.
And write a pitch (a query for all intents and purposes). And rewrite it, then some more. Then get some comments and write it again. Then show it to my husband who takes a long time to look at it (But bless him for taking the time to look at it in the first place!), then write it again and send it out some more.
Then watch some blow-out football games, then pick up eldest daughter from the BART station after she spent the day in San Francisco with a friend. Then come home and write this blog entry.
Whew! Good thing it's nearly bedtime. (So tomorrow I can do it all again...)
That's what happens when a contest is being prepared for, all this prep work. I need to read through the manuscript another 2-3 times, then format it, but that won't happen until the twenty-fifth, when I can enter. In between now and then, I need to get the pitch solid, from where the entry is initially judged. Once the pitch is where I want it to be, then it's only a matter of waiting to enter, then wait again. Three weeks after the entries are closed, they'll announce those who pitches are selected for the next stage, which is one's excerpt under the hammer.
But the pitch comes first. The next nine days will be a pitch frenzy, except for Monday, when I drive eldest daughter back to school. Thea's time at home is nearly over, and it's been a lovely five weeks with her around. The last few days have been full of her math conference business, easing me into her coming absence.
And giving me time to edit both the MS and that pitch.
On Monday I'll drive her north, spend the day getting her settled, seeing my folks, enjoying a day off. Once that comes to pass, it will be a frenzy of contest hoo haa, including some writing happening once that entry has been sent off, as if I needed more to do...
But this last month, it's been nice. Mellow, a break after last year's writing extravaganza. I needed this down time to think about things, about the work, about my life, inside writing and out.
I discovered that I need it, this writing gig. I need it, and it also offers great bits of trepidation. That comes from how it's landed on me, with all barrels, but then, there is it. Like a flood, how the next few days will be. Full of scrambling to get the right words in the perfect places. Get that pitch so smooth, slick, which makes me feel a little strange, because I accept life as full of idiosyncratic pieces that don't always appear to fit perfectly.
But there are times when the pieces do fall as they are slotted. And I hope the pitch for the contest will be one of my less haphazard moments. If I needed a situation for all to be just so, this is one of them!
And write a pitch (a query for all intents and purposes). And rewrite it, then some more. Then get some comments and write it again. Then show it to my husband who takes a long time to look at it (But bless him for taking the time to look at it in the first place!), then write it again and send it out some more.
Then watch some blow-out football games, then pick up eldest daughter from the BART station after she spent the day in San Francisco with a friend. Then come home and write this blog entry.
Whew! Good thing it's nearly bedtime. (So tomorrow I can do it all again...)
That's what happens when a contest is being prepared for, all this prep work. I need to read through the manuscript another 2-3 times, then format it, but that won't happen until the twenty-fifth, when I can enter. In between now and then, I need to get the pitch solid, from where the entry is initially judged. Once the pitch is where I want it to be, then it's only a matter of waiting to enter, then wait again. Three weeks after the entries are closed, they'll announce those who pitches are selected for the next stage, which is one's excerpt under the hammer.
But the pitch comes first. The next nine days will be a pitch frenzy, except for Monday, when I drive eldest daughter back to school. Thea's time at home is nearly over, and it's been a lovely five weeks with her around. The last few days have been full of her math conference business, easing me into her coming absence.
And giving me time to edit both the MS and that pitch.
On Monday I'll drive her north, spend the day getting her settled, seeing my folks, enjoying a day off. Once that comes to pass, it will be a frenzy of contest hoo haa, including some writing happening once that entry has been sent off, as if I needed more to do...
But this last month, it's been nice. Mellow, a break after last year's writing extravaganza. I needed this down time to think about things, about the work, about my life, inside writing and out.
I discovered that I need it, this writing gig. I need it, and it also offers great bits of trepidation. That comes from how it's landed on me, with all barrels, but then, there is it. Like a flood, how the next few days will be. Full of scrambling to get the right words in the perfect places. Get that pitch so smooth, slick, which makes me feel a little strange, because I accept life as full of idiosyncratic pieces that don't always appear to fit perfectly.
But there are times when the pieces do fall as they are slotted. And I hope the pitch for the contest will be one of my less haphazard moments. If I needed a situation for all to be just so, this is one of them!
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