Progress is being made and GenreCon tomorrow!

On Wednesday, I had a writing date with Becky, and words came with me. That was pretty cool. A lot of the time on writing dates, or when I sit down to write during the day, I’ll spend a long time rereading. Or researching. Or … heh, blogging. Usually it’s writing-adjacent, but still quantifiably avoidance behavior, and almost always entirely fear-based. Not sure where I’m going from here. Not sure if I’m going to be able to pull it off. Not sure I’m doing it right, at all. Not sure if I’m going to offend, or be ignorant. But on Wednesday, after I got my computer plugged in, my chai and danish into my facehole, and my shoes off, the words just came.

It’s a good feeling, when it happens.

The unfortunate (maybe? Hopefully not) part is that I got to a transition point of the story just as we were wrapping up. That means two things: I got to a stopping place (which means that starting again isn’t as easy as I’d like it to be), and the story is about to go in a new direction. Which reboots the whole “am I doing it wrong” train of thought. Especially since it’s going to go places this story hasn’t yet gone, in any of the other 2.25 drafts. I used to write ghost / horror stories back in high school, but Cassidy has never treaded those corridors, and I’ve worn down such a groove with Cassidy that trying to bump her into that territory is proving… quite difficult. So, one tiny baby step at a time.

Tomorrow is GenreCon, a writer’s conference in Golden, Colorado. I’m really nervous. Not only have I never been to a writing conference, I’ve never been to any cons, ever. Unless the Renaissance Festival counts, cause from what I’ve heard about cons they seem kinda similar. But in my mind, at least, writing cons are different from, say, comic cons or anime cons or PAX. Maybe because it’s less fan-based? I don’t know. Anyway, if I bring the first three pages of my story, there’s a chance they’ll get read and critiqued. I think I’m going to do it, because what could it hurt? But I know it’s the equivalent of a first draft again, quality-wise, so I’m a bit embarrassed of it. I know that it’s almost certainly going to change, that this isn’t as polished and squeaky as it could be. But, as Cassidy would think, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

On Monday, I shall regale you with the epic stories of GenreCon and how I took the writing world by storm. Until then!

Word count: 6,494 (ᥞ)

Scared of my feelings

As I’ve been making (slow, slow) progress through my book, I’ve realized something that isn’t very encouraging. I’m wondering if it’s normal for other writers, or if it’s indicative of my feelings for my book.

I get really excited when I’m thinking about the story, the twists and turns, and the way the pieces fit together. I enjoy thinking about it. But when it comes time to actually write it? It all drains away. It feels dry and uninteresting, and my overwhelming feeling is that the book is going to be “nothing special,” or possibly just a giant waste of time.

I don’t want to listen to that voice, for obvious reasons. I have ideas for other stories, and I haven’t yet tried to write them, so I can’t say whether or not I have more enthusiasm for writing something else. I really, really want to finish this book before moving on to another project, so I probably won’t be receptive to “just write something different for a little while” advice. Cassidy is my baby and there are so many things I want to say with this story. I just wish the stream of good feels didn’t dry up as soon as I start trying to put words on “paper.”

My apprehensions aside, I have been writing. I got Scrivener for Christmas and I’ve been trying out the “write scenes in separate files” technique that so many people talk about. Historically, I haven’t really thought in “scenes,” but more in progression of events. Trying it this way is definitely helping me understand where scenes are delineated in my writing, and that really helps me understand the flow of tension. Because if each scene needs to be a book-in-miniature, with rising- and falling-action and a climax, then I think it helps you get a feel for if the scene is doing what it is supposed to, and if it’s necessary to the story.

Tangent: just because it has the three ingredients, doesn’t mean each of these climaxes need to be dramatic and extreme. They just need to be identifiable.

Well, that’s all for now, folks.

Word count: 4,513 (ᆡ) (NaNo in May is... not. But at least it got me writing!!)

New Year, same resolutions

Hello faithful readers,

I haven’t been posting much recently. This is primarily because I have nothing at all to say. Holidays are crazy for me as much as for anyone else, and I have made very little progress on my book. In the month of December, I participated in Advent of Code, a daily code puzzle for programmers of all levels. I got considerably better at Java, doing these puzzles. So, that made me happy. But I did use it as an excuse to not write.

There’s always one of those, isn’t there?

To be fair, I have also been exhausted nearly all the time. Right now, the screen is swimming in front of my eyes. I have to trust that I’m not typing gobbledygook because I tend to be a fairly good typist.

My idea for Cassidy keeps evolving, in good ways. I’m excited because it seems like it’s not evolving its main construction anymore, just minor details. It’s all good stuff.

Last week I had a dream I was writing. I was super proud of myself for writing, for once. I was very close to the surface, coming up, and I remember thinking, “oh, I’m not actually writing. I’m dreaming about writing. But at least I’m thinking about writing.” Then I actually woke up and realized the thing I was dreaming about writing… wasn’t my story. It was something about a cat. I was very disappointed. But it all evened out because I ended up forgetting everything that I’d been trying to retain, anyway.

So, that’s pretty much what I have to show for the last month: a dream about writing about a cat.

No, no, hold your applause.

I’m not optimistic about finishing Cassidy this month. But I’m going try, regardless. No more excuses! Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try. (Timely Star Wars Quote™.)

I will report back at regular intervals. Stay tuned.

Tips for overcoming writers' paralysis and cultivating enthusiasm for your writing

Long title is long!

I was at the gym yesterday and I was finishing up my stretches. After stretches, I do ab workout—situps, crunches, leg-lifts, or jackknifes, depending on the day. Yesterday was jackknifes. After that, weights, then a half-hour of cardio. And I was lying on my back, looking at the wasp nest in the highest tippy-top of the cathedral-vaulted ceiling and dreading every single step of it with my whole self.

I probably don’t need to tell you, but dread is one of those ingredients in a workout (or any other chore) that really dominates the flavor and ruins the dish.

So I thought to myself, “Self, stop it! Why do you dread this so hard? You know it exactly. You have done it so many times you could do it in your sleep. Dreading it only makes it take longer; and when that’s not true, it sure makes it seem to take longer!”

“But, Self,” I protested, “What should I do to dispel this awful funk? You make it sound easy. I assure you, it is not.”

“Fear not, Self,” I laughed, “There is a solution! Behold!” I flourished my cape. “When you started coming to the gym, you were infused with feelings of accomplishment, pride, and self-power. These feelings have waned as the gym routine has become mundane, but in truth, the fact that the gym routine has lasted long enough to become mundane is an indication of exactly how accomplished, proud, and powerful you should feel!

“In short, do not focus on the mundanity, the sloggishness. Focus on the things that made you start coming in the first place! The way it draws into focus the ways in which your body is succeeding at being strong, beautiful, bendy—what have you. After all, what are you anxious for? Have you elsewhere to be? I think not. Now is your time. Enjoy it.”

Well, it got me through the rest of the workout, and I realized that the same technique can be applied to most things we dread. Staring at the blank page, fingers poised over the keyboard, thinking, “I know I was gonna say something… what was it again?” we have started looking at our writing as an obligation, a chore. What if we spent a few minutes right before we start writing to remember exactly why we write? If we can recapture the feeling of the joy of creation, the freedom of crafting a world to our own specifications, the way it used to be an escape rather than a prison, then writing will be a breeze.

Yesterday, after my workout, I was victim to a sustained headache and stomach ache and did not return to the world of creation, but I’m going to try out this technique today and see if it works as well for writing as it did for finishing my gym routine. Happy writing, everyone!

Word count: 2,778 (૚)

New and unanticipated difficulties, hooray!

I was so excited to start writing narrative. My outline was complete and finally everything made sense: all the clues pointed in all the right directions, and I’m no longer relying on Cassidy’s biases and lack of experience to create tension where there really isn’t any. I think—I really do—that this book is going to be good.

So why can’t I write it?

I think the biggest problem is that I haven’t found Cassidy’s voice yet. Exploring the feminist/sexist aspect of the story was a choice that I made from the get-go, but it’s really not fun to write the scenes, especially so early in the writing process. (Note to self: maybe I could put this scene on hold and come back to it once I’m on more secure footing?)

So, Cassidy is less inexperienced in this version. She needs to start with a good amount of confidence and authority so that when the shit hits the fan, her loss of objectivity and her feelings of being “at sea” are more powerful. There are clues gotten from interrogation, from intuition, from observation, and from hands-on investigation. (In my reading, it seems that all of these things are necessary to make the hardboiled detective who s/he is.) There is a world outside Cassidy’s investigation, and some of the people-of-interest have other shady shit going on that is unrelated to the case but will influence they way they deal with her. And, she gets to start building contacts in her new city.

But when I sit down to the keyboard, the words don’t seem to come.

Here’s the kind of stupid shit I do to avoid writing but still claim I’m “being productive”: I made an HTML version of the Google doc of my story so far. I mean, I set the page width, the font, font size, there’s a gray border around the “page,” there are page breaks and page numbers and everything. Why? I dunno. Cause. Now it’s in a format I could, theoretically, email my friends and it wouldn’t take as long to load as a Google doc. Also cause playing with CSS is fun. And it’s both easier and more technically challenging than writing. I am just so... tense about writing.

It’s super bizarre, too, because over the last few days (weeks?) I’ve really started understanding, intellectually, that I can’t “screw it up.” Text is so much kinder than any other creative medium if you make a mistake: you just hit backspace. Yes, you might end up deleting entire sentences, paragraphs, pages... or even entire drafts. But you can try, try again at virtually no cost. So why am I so freaked out?

There are no words.

But I’ve decided I’m not going to beat myself up. It really doesn’t do any good.

Word count: 1,989 (߅)

Omigosh omigosh omigosh plane ride tomorrow!

So, faithful readers, I have to admit my blunder. I realized on the 15th that I had completely failed to buy the plane tickets to Seattle. I had begun the purchase; I got all the way to the end, in fact. It escapes me that I didn't complete the purchase. I honestly don't know how that happened, because every screen of the purchase process was familiar to me. I guess I must not have clicked that final, fateful button. So, flying to Seattle got a whole lot more expensive. I am so pissed at myself.

On the upside, I did not fail to reserve a room, which I was doing concurrently to buying the plane tickets. So at least when we get there, we won't be wandering the streets begging for alms. (Actually guys, do you have any alms? Considering our tickets cost 134% of what we were anticipating, we could really use some alms. Anyone?)

We're going to do plenty of fluffy touristy things, but we'll also spend a greater-than-normal time just driving around, looking at architecture, layout, neighborhoods. I'll visit the University of Washington campus. Ride the monorail. I need to try to get a sense of living in Seattle in just 48 hours. I guess it's a good thing that Cassidy has only lived there for a week.

Well, Wednesday I was struggling with my outline and chatting with Rachel, who kindly gave me an in-depth critique of my second draft… which I had subsequently put off reading because I was finding the first few notes too emotional to deal with. I didn't think it was perfect; far from it. But the things that got picked on were unexpected, and I didn't have my armor up. So, I put off reading it until I was finished reading all my research reads—and then I conveniently forgot to read it once I was done.

So I was struggling with the outline! and realized that I hadn't finished receiving the critique from my second draft. So I sat down Wednesday and Thursday and reread my second-draft with in-line comments, then read her editor's letter. Having given myself time to know that what I was going to read wouldn't make me feel good and wouldn't be all the things I expected them to be, reading them was a lot less hard than I'd feared. I didn't agree with all of them, but those that I didn't agree with have been made somewhat irrelevant by the changes I already know I'm making to the narrative.

I finished reading all the critiques and started hammering away again at the outline. I made some progress, and I continue to be happy with the development. I'm starting to get invested in just the outline, where before it felt a lot like pulling teeth. And I'm realizing some more things that need to research. Like: If someone took an alias a long time ago, how does a PI trace that person back to their original identity? We all assume that without something like witness protection, we'd have a very hard time picking up a new identity, but honestly, how would you know if the guy in the next cubicle used to be named Harold Muller and wrote fliers for the IRA? Seriously, I'm asking.

On an unrelated note, have you guys heard anything about the London rents crisis? This is the only thing I've seen about it, but based on this it seems pretty messed up.

Until next week!

Reading complete!

I finished The Big Sleep last night. It’s a wonderful book and I’m certainly going to be reading more Raymond Chandler from now on (in fact, I have just now checked out Farewell, My Lovely from the library). He is where all the awesome hardboiled tropes come from. He warms my guts.

I feel like I am armed and armored, where before I was naked and wielded only a stick. Yes, I survived the wilderness, but I wasn’t pretty at the end.

My metaphor isn’t holding up too well. That’s okay.

I am very excited to begin writing again. Given the changes I feel are necessary to make my book not just good but great, I’m going to have to start by outlining—again. Yes, I’m starting completely over once more. But this time, I’m keeping all the same characters and they’re playing the same roles, if in different ways. This means that I will almost certainly need at least one more draft between this one and the final draft, but hey, what else am I gonna be doing? Might as well write something worth reading.

As with the first day of anything, I start out excited and quickly become overwhelmed and terrified. (Not to mention that I’m tired as balls.) My brain is trying to tell me that it’s okay to play some Don’t Starve before getting started. My brain is wrong. The metaphor for my feels about writing is, if I were to have five energetic kittens fighting each other in my lap, playing with my hair, pulling on my earrings, that’s about how focused I feel. This may be at least partially because this is actually happening to me right now. I need to put myself into an environment where I control the stimuli. It doesn’t have to be quiet but the noise and tumult should be present by my will.

I wish I had more to say about writing right now. Being at the very beginning of a new draft makes for thought storm but word drought. So I will talk about other things.

My friend and Writers’ Group cohort Becky has been participating in Twitter pitch contests, and that is most excellent! She actually has a finished book to pitch. I’m a little jealous, not gonna lie. But it’s been making me think that I could really use a community. Blogs I follow, comment on, and/or contribute to. Twitter banter. Forum friends. Self-promotion would probably be a lot easier if I felt like less of an internet spectator and more of an internet participant.

I would love to have shorter stories to share, so that people might read my work and enjoy it, and maybe long for more. I have shared a few things on deviantArt, but have never gotten any feedback. Does anyone have suggestions about where to share short fiction with a community? I’m not a writer of fanfic, though I sort of wish I were; that comes with some built-in exposure.

Later today I’m going up to the city park to sign a petition to recall all members of the Jefferson County school board, because reasons. Though I do not and will not have a child in any school district, I still believe that education is basically the most important thing when it comes to bettering one’s life, becoming a creative person, and becoming a good neighbor. Having a school board dominated by people who prioritize money and “patriotism” over quality of education will simply perpetuate the problems that exist in society today.

Anyway. I’m gonna wrap this up, I feel I may be participating in avoidance behavior at this point. Wish me luck, and happy writing, all!

Still. Reading.

So, July has begun. My high hopes of having a third draft by now are flapping, shredded, in the wind. My hopes of having a third draft sometime this year are hiding behind things, hoping to not get stomped by hard-hearted reality as it thunders past.

I finished The Maltese Falcon (67,000 words, by the way). 179 pages (the other 10 were discussion questions) never took so long to read, ugh. The book is good, and tight, and I enjoyed it, but it would never have gotten published today. The book starts off with the physical description of the protagonist, followed immediately by the physical description of the secretary, followed immediately by the physical description of the femme fatale, followed immediately by the physical description of the protagonist’s business partner… there were step-by-step descriptions of how Sam Spade rolls a cigarette, how he sits up in bed, how he eats. I can’t imagine how long the book would have been if Hammett had been forced to cut those descriptions, like he would be if he were trying to get published now. The prose is utilitarian and without flourish. You can clearly hear the whisky-and-cigarrette-smoke-ruined voice reading the book; growling, begrudging, yet trying to hide the fact that he’s enjoying himself.

It was a relief to finish the book, and I immediately tried to check out The Big Sleep, but of course it was checked out of the library. Instead I checked out a copy of K Is For Killer, a book that was picked on by Hardboiled and High Heeled as dealing directly with women filling traditionally men’s roles, their independence, and the theme of the “wrong body” that pervades the female detective genre. I read it in about three days and found it highly enjoyable, and when I finished it, The Big Sleep was still checked out. What to do now?

I read for pleasure for a few days, but today I was just starting to get an itch in my britches to start writing again. Just in time, I got an email saying that The Big Sleep was back in stock—thank god! Who knows what may have happened if I had started writing, all willy-nilly. Perish the thought.

My third draft is going to be very different from the second; all in good ways. It’s not going to be quite the reinvention that happened between Cassidy0 and Cassidy1, and I’m very happy about that. It is in my nature to look at my experiences and average them, and make predictions based on them. Like, “The first time I ever wrote a second draft, I completely rewrote the whole book from the very ground up.” So, obviously, that’s what every subsequent draft will be… until I have a larger sample size to draw from. Now, I’m looking at keeping most or all of the same characters, tweaking their roles minimally, tweaking their personalities considerably, adding scenes aimed at developing characters and themes, and generally grab the steering wheel and aim the car back onto the more acceptable, less self-involved road (where the “self” is Cassidy). It’s fascinating to me how a book can be vehicles for themes and messages that aren’t visible to the naked eye; one must unwrap them, one thin layer at a time, like an onion, to arrive at the pungent nugget of truth underneath.

Maybe it’s just true that, when you’re writing, you see the jewel of the message you’re trying to convey. The words are the wrapping paper. Your finished product is never going to look like that jewel, but that’s okay, because if it did, it wouldn’t be interesting—it’d be a necklace with no neck; a mustache with no one to twirl it. The reader needs to arrive at the jewel on their own to grasp the full impact.

Anyway, I post this and I begin The Big Sleep, as one. Happy reading to us all!

Well, this has been anticlimactic

Just as I embarked on my third draft journey, I received the feedback from my writers’ group that I had so craved. While it has been overwhelmingly positive, the things that got picked on surprised me, and to my surprise, stung me quite a bit. I don’t want to go into them at this point, since I haven’t even mustered the courage to finish reading all of it. I know that intentions matter little when writing inclusive fiction—just because you don’t realize you’re furthering a negative stereotype or trope doesn’t mean you shouldn’t correct it when it happens. Still. I feel a little picked on, which I know is something I need to get past.

I found myself reacting to some of the feedback with, “But... I feel like that’s true to the genre,” which made me realize that I’m actually not all that well-versed in the hard-boiled detective genre (previously mis-identified [by me] as noir, which is a whoopsie made by the film industry, check it out if you’re interested) despite reading many contemporary examples of same. As they say, you can’t break the rules until you know them.

I picked up a couple of academic-style books about the Hardboiled genre, Unless the Threat of Death is Behind Them by John T. Irwin and Hardboiled and High Heeled by Linda Mizejewski. So far, I’m about 82% of the way through UtToDiBT (that’s a fun acronym), and it’s really opened my eyes to what’s “important” about the genre. The tropes are fun, but they aren’t what makes it literary. It’s surprised me on many levels: one, how close I came to a lot of the marks without having been aware of them. Two, the fact that there are a lot of different ways to write correctly within this genre. Three, the best things about literature are present in the best Hardboiled and/or Noir novels.

Discovering this stuff has really raised the bar for me. I’m simultaneously invigorated and goddamned terrified. I have seriously considered straight giving up. I have reminded my writers’ group that wunderkinds are bullshit, but it seems like the inventers of the genre all wrote literary-level novels on their very first try. I have a hard time imagining juggling all those balls, to be totally honest. But, if I think through the process, I have realize that either, they actually got very lucky without realizing it (which actually is a thing that happens), or they had this in mind as they wrote, and possibly shoehorned some things in which might have felt very unnatural to them at the time in order to get that level of literary value. Dashiell Hammett may have had a notecard that said: “Theme: contrast the repetitive with the extraordinary with the singular” and then another notecard that said “parable: Flitcraft? Features: flying shrapnel, breaking machinery” and looked back at these notecards as he crafted the dialogue—certainly a final-draft problem. The Maltese Falcon didn’t spring forth from his forehead, fully formed. It was designed, and he took as much time writing it as it took to get it as close to right as he could. (And, to be fair, it wasn’t his first work in the genre.) Hammett, Chandler, Cain and other authors within the genre were all striving throughout their careers to master their craft—more than just telling stories, they were telling the Human Story, even if those who fancied themselves authorities in the world of literature considered detective novels to be pulp fiction.

Writing is a marathon, not a sprint.

I was reading UtToDiBT earlier and was suddenly overcome with the urge to fill out some notecards before I forgot all the brilliant things that had just occurred to me. So, instead of being OCD and forcing myself to keep reading, I went and got my notecards. I filled out six notecards with two character’s starting and ending points and the events that trigger the changes. I am happy that I did this. Now I’m done and am going to go back to reading. I’ll notecard again if the mood strikes me. If not, I’ll roll right into HaHH. After that, I’m going to be reading at least The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett and The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. And then I’ll feel at least a little more secure in asserting that something that may be considered a “bad” thing to do falls within my genre.

I may even feel empowered to do it differently.

June first! Back to the novel!

Yesterday, I was chafing against the “rules” keeping me from starting to edit my story again. I had over-filled my video game and TV meters, and was craving a creative outlet. I was sincerely frustrated, and felt thwarted in life in general. Luckily, I realized fairly quickly the cause. (That sort of existential crisis can seem world-ending if you don’t know why you’re having it.) The fact that it was May 31 and I was a mere twenty-four hours from being able to pick up my manuscript again gave me a lifeline.

In May, I had hoped to resume my four-day-a-week gym schedule, but alas, it was not to be. Branden and I went this past Saturday, skipped Sunday for sleep reasons, and today I attended the gym all on my own. I’m shaky all over because my muscles aren’t used to this kind of exertion any more. My stomach is upset, I think because I’m hungry. But for the first time in weeks, my back isn’t in searing, terrifying pain. The shakiness will subside, the hunger is treatable... I’m so glad I went.

Today has been a good day, so far. In addition to the gym, I ran a couple of errands and have knocked out about half the chores I need to do today. Although I could extend myself and finish them all before starting to write, I decided that starting the process is more important, more fulfilling. Also, if I can lasso the muse while she’s hanging around, I have a much better chance of actually being able to do something today, rather than staring bleakly at the page wondering where to begin.

Once again, I have high hopes of note cards and cork boards, and it seems slightly more likely to happen this time if only because everything is already there, waiting for me, not floating in the ether. But I don’t care too much if it doesn’t happen, because trying to force a certain method will only end up stifling me instead of helping. So I’ma let it flow as it flows, we’ll see what ends up happening. I may start out simply making notes in the margin, as it were, like “develop setting here” or “you could fit in more worldbuilding here.” I think that I may have the most luck trying to make a scaffolding for future edits, rather than trying to make the edits themselves. My idea, originally, before I knew what revision was, was that I would read a scene and rewrite it from scratch, telling the same story but in new words. Don’t know if that would help me. OMG I’m so out of my depth. At least I’m not getting graded, right?

My goal is to have my third draft, Cassidy2, done by the next Writers’ Group meetup in the end of June. I think it might be possible? I might also be proposing that I could have the Ark done by the end of June. We’ll see. Wish me luck!

Hiatus continued

I have deeply enjoyed my month of break from my novel. Indulging in self-loathing-free video game time has been a blessing. I’ve forgotten what my novel is even about while at the same time seeing, at a distance, some of its weaknesses and realizing some ways to make it better. Also, I’ve had the beginnings of an entirely new and different idea percolating in my head, which is pretty huge for me, considering.

We had our writers’ group meetup on Sunday. Branden had finished his draft and posted it all in enough time that everyone had read it for the meetup, so it was “the one” for both of us: the meetup that would prove most helpful because the beta readers have finally seen the whole picture and can review based on that. I really, really need to get better about writing down questions in advance for my group, because I always think some up and then forget what they were by the time group rolls around.

In lieu of my own questions that I thought up, I sent out a link to a list of “fifteen questions to ask your beta readers.” It’s better than nothing, but a lot of them were sorta iffy considering that my girls have been reading this draft since January and the beginning is probably a bit hazy at this point. Still, I sent it out and hopefully a couple of them will be able to get back to me with some answers. I also know that at least Rachel is planning on rereading it and giving comprehensive feedback, a service for which I really, really should be paying her, and am intellectually and spiritually indebted to her for insisting on providing it for free. (The same goes for anyone else who would do that for me. Thank you, in advance, so very very much.)

Which brings me to the fraught topic of feedback. I love feedback. Can’t get enough of it. In particular, I love critical feedback; meaning that I really like it when people can tell me what things they didn’t like or that didn’t work for them. That’s because, I know that my book isn’t perfect, that it’s very far from perfect. I’m trying to train myself out of the habit of poisoning the well before a meetup and saying “I’m aware I could be worldbuilding more” because that tells people that they don’t need to mention it—even if they were going to. I want to hear them tell me this, because if I tell them in advance, then I can’t know if it’s something they would have mentioned. And without people telling me what didn’t work for them, I don’t know where to start. Is that thing that really irks me something that my readers really enjoy? Or vice-versa? I have a very hard time working with “everything was great, I loved all of it!” at this stage, when I know it’s not finished.

Happily for me, I did get a fair amount of critical feedback. Not as much as I would have if everyone had read it all of-a-piece before the meetup like they did with Cassidy0, but definitely a starting place.

Thematically similar: I think that it is a reflex, when one finishes a creative work, to immediately believe that it is terrible. I don’t think it’s something you can control. You’ve been spending a massive amount of time and internal energy on a thing, and suddenly it’s gone—it’s almost like you’ve broken up with someone. Things rush in to fill that gap. There’s emotional backlash. It’s normal. It’s also very important to realize that it’s a physical reaction, not a truth. You will probably never believe that your work is as good as it could be; as good as it looked on the shelf of your brain. Your readers never saw it in its original packaging. They will never know how far short you fell. They will also never look as closely at it as you have. Don’t make their minds up for them in advance. Can you imagine how bleak the world would be if a story was only told when the writer was 100% satisfied with it? Beowulf wouldn’t exist.

You will probably be able to read your book with a glow of pride some years after you’ve pushed it out of the nest. You’ll like the nicks and dents. In the end, that’s part of what makes it what it is. But even if you hate it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, you should still push it out of the nest. Someone will love it.

Next Monday, I will be dusting off Cassidy1: rereading, making notes, etc. I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to start making changes. I’ve never gotten to a real second draft before. I’m nervous. Wish me luck!

And on the sixth month, I rested

Yes, yes, yes, I did it. I finished my second draft, also known as Cassidy1, on April 30 at 9:00pm, having written 5,767 words that day in order to finish. I’m not 100% happy with the end, but so what‽ that’ll be a Third Draft Problem. And now, I put it in a drawer for a month, to be reread and revisited on June 1.

In the meantime, what will I do?

Branden and I made a date yesterday to write with some of the Writers’ Group girls. I forgot, when I made the date, that by the time it happened, I wouldn’t have anything I was working on anymore. I still planned to write something, if only just to develop a few of the ideas I’ve had for other NaNo projects, or maybe 1-page short stories, but instead I caught up on Tumblr. And really, that was fine. I think I want to take this month to give my creative plumbing a small break. It has been a solidly long time since I was able to play Don’t Starve—especially without guilt.

Now I’m looking down the barrel of my actual-second-draft, let’s call it Cassidy2, and I’m quite nervous. I’ve never done an edit like this before. On the one hand, it’s much smaller scale than Cassidy1, but on the other hand… I know how to rewrite. I’ve never tried to restructure what I’ve already got. I expect it’ll take a much shorter time, because it won’t have the agonizing hair-pulling angst of creating something from nothing, but on the other hand, I am in the habit of looking at my work as “right the first time.” It’s not that I’m necessarily convinced that it couldn’t possibly be better, it’s just that once I’ve written/drawn/designed a thing, it’s very hard for me to imagine it being any other way than exactly how I made it. So, I have a tendency to resist even very helpful suggestions, and coming up with them myself is practically impossible.

But learning how to do this is part of being a responsible artist. I feel that anyone participating in art will get better unless they are actively resisting it—and even if they are, it will probably happen anyway. But something like editing is a thing you can fail to ever learn to do, because it is a defined activity that is separate from creating. It is by no means a requisite to writing. But it is a requisite to writing things you want other people to read and enjoy. Recognizing your own imperfections and being willing to revisit and refine your work… well, I don’t really have to tell you why it’s a good thing. You already know. Even if you’re like me and you always do everything right the first time.

Final word count: 56,603 (�)

A new experience

I’m going to be going to Old Firehouse Books in Fort Collins today for Neil Gaiman’s book signing. I’m weirdly nervous. I’ve never been to a book signing, and I have the impression (based on nothing, as far as I know) that Neil Gaiman is super-serious and intimidating. I feel like I’ll hand him my book and he’ll look up at me from under his eyebrows, with his face clearly saying, “and?” and I’ll stammer something hideously stupid, and he’ll shake his head and shrug and scribble something on the page, hand the book back to me and shout, “NEXT!”

But that’s cause I’m crazy and I know it, clap my hands.

In an effort to make sure that I actually get there on time, I’m writing both my blog and my story before checking my comics, Tumblr, and deviantArt. Usually those last two are “where I get my inspiration.” I put that in quotes because it’s always avoidance behavior, and I pretend it’s inspiring, and that’s a harmless pretense most of the time. Today it wouldn’t be, so I’m delaying it until I’ve gotten my “important” stuff done. Go me?

This is actually indicative of huge progress for me, though. I was reading over my blog posts the other day, and had a conversation with a writer friend of mine last night, and I remembered how paralyzed I was so very, very recently. The fact that I look at writing two thousand words a day as a minor annoying chore instead of an insurmountable barrier is... it’s extraordinary, in the true sense of the word. And I know how fragile it is. I know that if I take a week off, the day I try to start again I’ll be crumpled into a little ball and discarded on the floor, emotionally. Once more, there will be a seemingly impenetrable shell around my story and I will want to not even try to crack it.

Long story short, a word-per-day goal really saved my bacon.

I can give good advice to people about getting past their writing anxiety, and it really is good advice... but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to follow. There are so many people on Tumblr asking their favorite authors, “how do I write? It’s so hard, I get so discouraged,” and their advice is always “Just don’t stop, pick yourself up again, and keep writing.” I know from experience that the people are asking not “how do I write” but rather, “how can I have something written without having to write it? Writing is hard and scary,” and the fact that there is no shortcut is baffling. How can there be so many books if there isn’t a shortcut? Writing is too hard for this many people to be doing it. What’s the secret? How do I make it easy? And the fact that when they sit down to write it doesn’t flow right away means that they walk away in frustration and say that writing is just hard.

Well, writing is hard. But if you’re writing something you enjoy, and you make the time for it, the difficulty comes from finding the right words, balancing the tension and release, making sure your story makes sense and works and is interesting—the task seems surmountable, even if difficult, but it now seems challenging, instead of hard. And it’s always scary, that’s for sure. But the more you do it, the less you feel like an intruder or a pretender and the more natural it feels. So unfortunately, the advice “keep writing” is the only advice. There’s something in your head. Get it out. No one will judge you. No one will even know unless you want them to. Write for you. Write because you have to.

That being said, I’m not sure I’m doing a good job on my story. Branden says it’s good so far, but I feel like it’s thin skin spread over bones, and surely everyone can see the bones. But it is not for me to judge the quality of my own work (more good advice), only to do the best job I can.

Fun problem: I went back through a few scenes in my story and added cussing. I didn’t previously realize how G-rated the story was before one of my beta readers pointed out that it’s kinda hard to have a gritty detective novel where no one cusses. Or smokes, or drinks, but that’s sorta plotty so I’m keeping that. Plus I address vice in other areas. (I do think it’s pretty much impossible to have a noir novel without the main character having one or more vices.)

An excerpt:

While I was waiting, I surveyed my domain. I did a daily evaluation of atmosphere; I wanted to make sure that my office gave clients what they wanted. It was on the seventh floor: a long, narrow space squished between two other long, narrow spaces on a long, narrow hallway. I had a window behind the desk that I kept a floor-to-ceiling cupboard pressed up against to block the natural light. Natural light was the gritty detective’s natural enemy, as far as Bogart enthusiasts knew. For my part, I liked to cater to that clientele; it suited my mood. [. . . ] The lampshades in my Seattle office were tea-colored, much more to my liking. I kept an ashtray on the desk and a pack of tobacco cigarettes in my desk drawer even though I didn’t smoke. If I had an appointment, I’d light one and let it burn about halfway before stubbing it out in the ashtray. The lacey curl of smoke climbing ceilingward was an aphrodisiac to people who were romanced by their own mysteries.

How goes your writing, or other creative endeavors, dear reader? Any advice for going to book signings? Let me know in the comments!

Word count: 19,394 (䯂)

You think you're nearer your destination when in fact you're slip-sliding away

So. You may or may not have noticed, but I failed to blog yesterday. I try to keep a M-W-F schedule, but yesterday... yesterday was one of those days.

In the course of my disease, there are some things I’ve learned that are going to happen. These things happen with the best, most effective medication. There is no real way to predict when it’s going to happen, but it’s most frequently on days after days that I’ve spent a lot of energy, either mentally or physically.

These “things” of which I speak are mostly days on which I can’t—or don’t—do anything. I mean anything. I laid on the couch from 8:30 am till 5:50 pm, only getting up to go to the bathroom or, at about 3:30, pour myself a bowl of cereal (technically my breakfast). I had a cut on my thumb, and the neosporin was about two inches out of my reach, and I just couldn’t be bothered to reach over and get it. I’m slightly amazed that I got up the motivation required to turn on Netflix. I didn’t open my laptop to read my comics or Tumblr.

That level of apathy is, I feel, incomprehensible to a normal, healthy person. I think that that kind of behavior is associated with depression, but for me, it’s not. I’m not depressed. There were moments, yesterday, that I was like, “Elly, you really should eat something. Elly, you could be doing something more fun,” but the fact that I wasn’t eating or having any fun didn’t really bother me.

I spent months and months, possibly years, getting really angry at myself, frustrated, and pretty freaked out when this sort of thing would happen. Then I got therapy, coincidentally with a therapist whose mom has MS, and she helped me understand a few things. These things have been key to not descending into misery and guilt.

1. Blaming and punishing myself doesn’t help anything. If anything, it makes it more likely to happen.
2. Sometimes days like that are going to happen, and the most healthy thing to do is acknowledge it and deal with it as it comes, like you would a headache. One doesn’t blame oneself for a headache, or feel guilty for not powering through it, so why should I do that with my fatigue?
3. It’s a real biochemical thing, not a choice I’m making. Not being able to force myself to get up and be productive isn’t a failing any more than not being able to grow wings and fly.

So I deal with it, and I am kind to myself when it happens, but I won’t pretend it’s a blessing or something to have an unannounced “relaxation” day.

Because it’s not relaxation. There’s a large difference between fatigue and relaxation, which is a thing that a lot of people really fail to understand. It’s a day completely lost. It’s like going to sleep on Sunday night and waking up Tuesday morning. I’m not more rested, really (metaphor aside), and that’s a day of my life that’s gone. The chili I was going to make, the shopping trip I was going to do, those things are still not done. And now there are more things that need doing. (For example, today I’m going to write 4,000 words.) And thinking about that makes things seem overwhelming. I don’t know if this is normal, but a lot of days, the only way I get anything done is to approach it with baby steps, or I don’t get off the couch.

And to me, that’s scary.

Anyway, I don’t want to focus on that, because today is another day.

I am writing as soon as I post this blog. I made a lot of progress over the week, and I’m super excited about that. My current word count is 11,180. I feel like the pacing of my story is good and that I’m going to have more than enough content to reach and surpass 50k, hopefully 75k. Of course, that’s hard to see from here, but I’m getting better at gauging stuff like that. NaNo and the revision have really helped me get a handle on pacing and how much content is actually in a thousand words.

Somehow, this story is very writable. Before I started it, I was writing a different story (which I find I can’t really describe in a sentence), and I would struggle for every word. When last I wrote, my word count was 38,640, and it felt like at least three times that, based solely on how long I spent writing it and how much mental anguish went into it. Despite the fact that my writers’ group was enjoying it and giving me kudos, I hated it more and more every time I wrote. This story isn’t like that; for all my insecurities, I still write like a house afire when I can focus long enough to do it.

And that is exciting, and encouraging. We’ve got writers’ group this weekend and I’m very excited for it, even though, as I’ve said in other posts, feedback on a work in progress is only so helpful.

So, do you have hard days? Are you making progress on your stories or revisions? Let me know in the comments!

Timers are magic

I’m getting around to blogging quite late in the day today. I’m blaming Branden for that. Because it’s more relaxing than blaming myself, because certainly it’s not more his fault than mine. I just like his company too damn much.

Yesterday, I accidentally read things about Gamer Gate. I have been aware of this... shall we say travesty... since its inception, but I didn’t really know the affect it was having on real people. Then I happened upon this post by Zoë Quinn, and it made me realize that things are really not okay. I don’t feel well-informed enough to really comment on the GG situation specifically, but I want to make it loudly known that I support babes—in gaming, on the internet, and in the world at large. Yes, there are women who could be more civil and less sensitive to guys who neither intend nor actually do any harm. But a minority of rude women does not excuse the vile vitriol that has been spewing forth from the misogynistic underbelly that has spawned from anonymity on the internet.

I think it would be a really good idea for there to be some kind of real-life consequences—or, hell, I’d settle for actual online consequences—for bad behaviours online. You can’t call someone the n-word (nor most other names) in public without some amount of backlash, whether that be getting punched or getting shamed by their friends; the fact that this is not really possible online is a damned shame. The ability to verbally, mentally, and emotionally abuse someone in the context of an online game is undoing decades of work done by marginalized groups to teach children how to be good citizens and good neighbors, and it should not be tolerated by we who know better.

But how do we who know better collect any amount of influence, let alone wield it? It seems like an insurmountable problem. But I would propose immediately quitting any game in which someone calls someone else something that is racially, sexually, sexuality-ly, gender-ly, or identity-ly charged and taking all like-minded players with you. You train animals by refusing to reward their bad behavior with attention or play, and humans can be trained the same way.

But I don’t know anyone who is willing to do that, unfortunately. Even my most civic-minded friends call it the cost of doing business, which is complete BS in my humble opinion.

But I’m not an online gamer, and no one cares what I think. So I should get back to what I do know: how to fumble about scribbling words onto a page.

Today’s word count: 9,185. Translation: I wrote a hair more than 2,000 words on Wednesday, and a hair more than 2,000 words yesterday. When I publish this, I’m getting to work on today’s 2,000 words, and then I take the weekend off.

I am most looking forward to taking the weekend off.

I’ve taken the same approach to my last 4,000 words that I did for NaNoWriMo: set a timer and write as many words as possible. Race myself, essentially. It means I don’t spend a lot of time overthinking my content... which means things happen that I don’t expect. Let’s just say I’m really looking forward to my writers’ group reading the scene in which Cassidy meets BeBé.

Thoughts on online citizenship? Feminism? Writing your writing with no handlebars? Comment below!

Interrobang‽

This isn’t news to most people following this blog, as most people following this blog are either my own doppelgänger (Branden), follow the same nerdy sites as me, or are well-versed in their own right, but this. This bit of punctuation! I didn’t know that there was a way to type it. There’s apparently also a punctuation mark that is a backwards question mark and a forward-facing question mark that share the same dot, which is called a “love mark” and is meant to end a sentence that expresses love, like “Happy anniversary.” I wish there was a way to type that, but so far I haven’t found it. (There are also many other cool punctuation marks that mostly don’t have a way to type them. See here.)

Second super-fun thing: Neil Gaiman will be signing books at Old Firehouse Books in Fort Collins on February 6, starting at 4pm! I think I’d like to try to get there, but I don’t know if I actually will, knowing me. If I did go, I’d bring Neverwhere for him to sign. And maybe book #1 of Sandman. Is that how book-signings work?

Having just reviewed my blog post from Monday, I can say, wow, I was loopy. That’s okay, I’ve written things while loopy that I wonder why I can’t write like that while fully intact. On Monday, after my blog, I did manage to write a little more. Not a lot; only about 200 words, but better than nothing.

I’ve been reading my tumblr and checking my deviantArt feeds till now and I think—I think—that I’m going to be able to open up my writing and write! That will be excellent. I have to say, I’m looking forward to having a finished project. And that anticipation should carry me through the rewrite.

I’m starting to identify more with Cassidy, and that is extremely helpful. I still stress about my ability to pepper clues and red herrings throughout the book, but I can’t fail until I try. What’s more is that the clues, while important, are actually much more understated than it seems they might be if you’re not really analyzing a work. I mean, a lot of the time, “clues” are just things that happen that your investigator doesn’t have the proper context for, that make sense after the mystery is solved. Only very occasionally are clues going to be the fingernail trimmings found in the ashtray, or the discarded zorro mask. More often it’s the fact that the baby’s blanket disappeared, or the friend you haven’t seen in a decade happens to drop by.

I’m trying to work Cassidy’s history into the “present-tense” narrative of the story, and I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job, but hey, that’s what writers’ group is for, right? I’m liking how the theme of the book—identity—is working its way into the peripheral parts of the story without my having meant to squish it in. That’s pretty cool. Mostly, I’m appreciating the things that happen when my brain percolates the story, and I really look forward to writing those things down. So now I just have to conquer the sleepies and the what-if’s and the what-then’s and start writing things down. I managed the first draft in thirty days. Twenty-eight, maybe. If I set myself a word goal, maybe I could manage the second draft in, say, sixty days.

That’s it. I’m setting myself a weekday word goal of 2,000 words per day. I don’t have a top limit, so that’ll be until the book is written, however long that is. On my blog posts I’ll be posting my word count, so all of you readers, you many readers, you legion of readers can keep me honest.

To infinity. And beyond! (Today’s word count: 5,129. Special character? ᐉ [typography is fun])

One tall step down... the rest of the book to go

Moments ago, I finished the outline/synopsis/What God Knows for my story. There are some middle parts missing, but considering how I tend to “follow” outlines, that may not be too bad of a thing. I also wrote several more cards for my corkboard. I did more writing today than I thought that I could, and tomorrow I can start writing narrative again. Weirdly, I think I need to get further in my narrative before I can flesh out the corkboard much more, but I can probably add a card or two before putting it on hold.

I admit I’m nervous about writing narrative. The voice of my narrator (now also my main character) is really different from last time, and somehow I’m not sure I’m fully behind it. I think it’s better, but it’s not what I had envisioned it at the onset.

Part of what kept my momentum up during NaNoWriMo was the fact that I was fully engaged in the tone of my story. It was my voice, and I didn’t care overmuch what anyone else thought. Now I’m hoping to make a work that will stand up on its own among other works within the genre, and it sounds really egotistical in my own head to say that.

But if it doesn’t stand up, what’s the point? I mean, you don’t literally “level up” in writing. You get better with practice, to be sure, but your first book needn’t be crap. Look at John Kennedy Toole—he wrote two books ever, and the one he wrote first was published second, and both after his death. A Confederacy of Dunces, the first-published one, won a Pulitzer Prize.

So, just because you aren’t published doesn’t mean you aren’t a good, skilled writer. It does mean that your attempts may require a little more editing/revising than some other authors’. But you can revise and edit it until it, the work itself, is a venerated old guy with a grizzled beard and a grizzled voice, and it speaks with authority when it tells the story that was etched into it over months and weeks and years of hard, hard work.

Anyway. I’m sick and I think I’m rambling and I started this entry over four hours ago and keep getting sidetracked from finishing it. I’m proud of the work I did today, meager as it was, and I hope to do as well or better tomorrow—but we’ll see, because tomorrow has this whole other set of responsibilities, and I imagine I’ll still be sick.

I’m proud of my work. I just wish I could work up the willpower and momentum to work every day. Once I get to narrative stuff, I think I’ll set myself a daily word goal, like in NaNo. We’ll see.

At any rate, now I sleep. See you Friday.

There are always excuses

I meant to blog on Friday, but it ended up not happening.

Friday, at least, I had a good excuse.

Due to an unfortunate series of events, I ended up taking two doses of my medicine on accident. My Gilenya (MS medicine) and my Adderall. Because of the double dose of Gilenya, I first attempted to induce vomiting (which I failed. I could never be bulimic) and then spent about fifteen minutes on hold with the hospital trying to find out what I should do. The safety information on the drug said I should go immediately to the ER and that I would have to spend the night there with continuous EKG/heart rate monitoring. I was not excited about that prospect, so I really wanted to make sure that it was actually necessary—thus the long wait on hold.

(As a note, the more relevant reason I chose not to go immediately to the ER was the very valid fear that they wouldn’t know what to do with me. My medication is not particularly common, and I would be surprised if the doctors on call knew what it was, what it treated, and what to do in the case of overdose. So... yeah.)

Anyway, after waiting on hold for a total of twenty minutes, I finally got someone who could ask someone to call me back.

Shortly, the nurse called me back, scolded me for taking two doses in one day ( O_o ) and said I’d be fine.

Whew.

Once that emergency passed, I was able to focus on the issue at hand: I had twice the usual amount of Adderall in my system. I felt like I could have cleaned my whole house, twice.

Luckily, I had a friend on hand to keep me busy, so I did no such thing. Luckily.

So, between panicking and being distracted, I wasn’t able to blog on Friday. That combined with the fact that I didn’t have much to say, I didn’t feel too bad about letting it slide.

The following day, I was exhausted (perhaps predictably), but I did my best to add to my summary. I made significant progress, and I’m happy with that. But I haven’t written a word since then. Which brings me to my post title: there are always excuses.

Frequently, they’re very good excuses. Frequently, they’re reasons and you should do whatever the thing is that you need to do. For example, I needed to get my prescription filled today, and pick up food for tonight’s dinner, and then subsequently cook that food.

But even more frequently, they’re not good excuses. The reasons are “poor time management,” “lack of prioritization,” and the like. (Even today, there was plenty of those.) It’s very frustrating to me when I sincerely want to write; I’m even inspired to write, and I just can’t seem to do it. I don’t know how it manifests for other people, but I open up my file and immediately get incredibly sleepy.

The bitch of it is, I can’t seem to actually sleep at those times. I’m just a zombie. But, it’s not a good excuse. It’s my body writing me a note to give to my writing, excusing me because I “have asthma”. But I don’t have asthma. If I just pushed through it, the sleepiness would subside and give up, crawl back in the cave it came from.

And because I know that, my body or mind have found other ways of cutting my legs out from under me.

Now, this concerns me a lot. On days that I go to the gym, I find it very difficult to write (or do anything creative) afterwards. I don’t know why, but I hate it. I want exercise to be an invigorating, energizing activity, not something that shuts me down for the whole rest of the day. Because if it is something that shuts me down, that means I should probably do it after writing... but then I know I’d never get up the motivation to go at all. And it’s very important for disease management and maintaining this hot body that I get to the gym on a regular basis. Also, going to the gym gets me physically out of the house, which is definitely not guaranteed in a day, otherwise. I don’t know if employed people can actually sympathize, but sitting for sixteen hours a day is... really not good.

Anyway, this is sort of a venty post. I’m going to spend some time working on my summary tonight and hopefully I’ll have something more interesting to post about on Wednesday. Thanks for listening!

Enthusiasm wanes as capability increases

I received my corkboard and my index cards! I also started reading another mystery novel within the set of books that I would call my inspiration for my story. This one, Gun, With Occasional Music by Jonathan Lethem is entirely different from Dennis Lehane in terms of... well, everything. Gun, With Occasional Music is a satirical science fiction detective novel that adheres faithfully to the more cliché tropes of the noir genre. While it is telling a story, it seems to me that the focus is more on the tone and the world that it builds than the story itself. I say this in part because I’ve read the book at least twice now, and I still can’t remember what the story was at all. But I can remember that I loved it, and that the world that it built was engrossing and entertaining, and the tone was engaging and usually hilarious.

In Gun, the protagonist is a disillusioned, mostly broken PI in a world where no one but private inquisitors and the police are even legally allowed to ask questions, not even the most basic ones like “what’s your name?” (I assume this gave Lethem fits trying to write.) I think this adheres more to the literary ‘definition’ of the noir trope in that we see the PI go from a state of jaded apathy about the client who walks through his door—knowing there’s little he can do to help and sending him on his way—to a grudging, ungenerous refusal to accept that anyone is beyond hope in a just world; refusing to let go of the idea that maybe, just maybe, the world is still just.

My favorite definition of a noir protagonist, and the one I’m calling the ‘literary definition,’ is this:

But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The story is his adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in.

If there were enough like him, I think the world would be a very safe place to live in, and yet not too dull to be worth living in.

—Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder

I’m trying to keep that definition in mind while writing my main character, Cassidy. I think much of my difficulty comes from the fact that I want her to be so much braver than I am.

My first draft came out very tame. While I believe that the mystery was interesting, no character was pushed to the point of desperation, and no real danger was ever encountered—because I have a hard time imagining a person actually taking the actions of a desperate man and sincerely intending to do bodily harm to another person.

When I read it in my mystery novels, it’s shocking because it’s not an action genre with bullets flying and punches punctuating every paragraph; it’s gritty and ugly and real and when someone gets shot, they don’t get back up and keep running. So while I don’t think I’d have a hard time writing the more exaggerated, unrealistic combat scenes that you might see in a Marvel movie or an episode of Buffy, I hesitate to broach the kind of violence that belongs in a noir book, because it needs to be grave, not glorified. It needs to be tense and terrifying, not inconvenient or irritating. In a noir book, the violence should be the thing that ends the book, because it ends either the good guy or the bad guy. It’s not an obstacle.

And then, when the protagonist does struggle to his or her feet, it seems all the more triumphant.

Anyway.

Now that I have my tools in hand, I am predictably hesitant to begin the process of rewriting. After all, I messed it up so bad the first time... of course, without my first try, this story wouldn’t exist at all. I need to start thinking of the words of my first draft as being the shell around the nut of the story. Crack it off and throw it away, and you’ve still got more than you had before. Sure it’s incorporeal, and the second draft may not be much better than the first... but it’s a lot more likely to be closer to the truth of the story than the first was.

So, I am now picking up my index cards and my sharpies and I’m writing things on them. For example:

Cassidy Byrne

Lonely. Brave. Realistic. Observant. Intuitive. Driven. Disadvantaged. Aloof. Curious. Honest. Snarky. Educated. Blunt. Careful. Self-assured. Self-alienated.

Puts ‘morally right’ in front of ‘legal’ in the alphabet, but operates within the confines of the law as often as possible. Desperately wants to know who she was before she ‘woke up,’ but not to the detriment of her clients. When presented with leads on her own case, has a hesitancy to follow them that she doesn’t understand.

Anyone out there struggling with their own re-writes, or first drafts, or inspirations?

Untitled Story, 1st installment

       It had begun with the best of intentions. A small village with only the most rudimentary government and a major road running through it; they needed protection, and no one would do it but themselves. So, they organized a civilian’s militia whose job it was to protect the village and the people in it.
       Of course, "village" refers not just to the village proper with the inn and the tavern and the village square, but the outlying farms as well—which meant that the job of protection was a full-time job. Unsubsidized, the men of the militia depended on the generosity of the people they protected for food for themselves and money for their families, who themselves were farmers or tradesmen of the village, left without the man of the house who was, traditionally, the primary workhorse. These men were vigilantes and their only objective was the safety of the persons and prosperity of the village, and regrettably had to take extreme measures from time to time to ensure that safety.
       This was all well and good, and was actually quite effective in keeping the village safe for about 40 years.
       That was when things began to change.
~~~       The streets were no longer pounded dirt but cobblestone, which was beautiful when it was new but had since become chipped and broken after years of neglect. Mud oozed up from the spaces between the stones and the sharp edges proved hazardous to the village children, who regrettably had few other places to play since the green had dried up. No one lit the lamps after dark; in fact, when an enterprising citizen scrambled up and lit the lamp himself, the wind soon snuffed it out since the glass funnel had long since been broken. Those who prowled the streets at night preferred the dark, and they kept it that way.
       The typical youth of the village chafed against the stifling curfew of violence. As one might imagine, there was little for the youth to do, but they still wanted to be out from under their parents’ eyes for their trysts and romances. On occasion, a brave couple would venture out after dark, assuming more than hoping that the Enforcers would be elsewhere while they kissed and groped and attempted some level of intimacy; a bright light in the darkness of the oppression that hung over the village like a cloud.
       The couples who were found by the Enforcers never ventured out after dark again.
~~~       A pair of feet cruelly pinned her wrists to the cobblestones. A dirty handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth. The boy she'd stepped out with, Thomas, was nowhere to be seen, but she kept hearing disturbing, meaty sounds and muffled cries. However upsetting that was, she couldn't spare room in her brain to think about that, as the men who were pushing up her skirts and wrenching her legs apart were a bit more pressing on her mind. She knew what was coming, she had heard the stories, but she had never really believed that it could happen to her. Tears streamed down her face, running into her ears and hair, blurring her vision. She was unmercifully sealed into a world where the primary sensory input was pain and violation. Their hands were rough where she was delicate and they furthered this indignity by being disgusting pigs of men: clearing their throats and spitting on the cobblestones by her head, laughing at comments unheard, rubbing their saliva on her. She kept her jaws clenched as tightly as the handkerchief allowed. If she could just keep her anguish inside, she would have one small victory over these thugs.
       However strong her resolve, though, when the first of the men shoved his way into her, she released a low, tortured moan. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or further humiliated that no one seemed to care that she had lost her last bit of control. It was only the most minor of concerns, though, compared to the feeling of her body seeming to tear and rend apart under the influence of this man’s exertions. She sobbed and tried to fill her head with something to drown out the pain.
       The first man finished with her. There were three others.
       An hour or more later, they left her in the alleyway, her dress torn and muddy, hair matted, blood on her thighs. They told her that she should tell her parents to upgrade their protection package. She couldn't stand. Thomas was never the same. His thoughts were slightly slower, and he was more likely to laugh at inappropriate times.
~~~       They walked the streets, looking for supple young flesh or vulnerable purses. The Enforcers were now the village council's subsidized police force. They were still effective at protecting the village from bandits, though they rarely made rounds out to the outlying farms anymore; which, if you asked the farmers, wasn't necessarily a bad thing. They also kept the crime rate down; mainly by declaring their own activities not crime. The council lived in fear of the Enforcers as much as any of the other villagers. This system was what had grown out of the vigilante citizen's militia passed down from father to son two or three generations ago, degenerating into thugs as the need for their services had decreased and their personal loyalty to the people had disappeared. It had become "just a job," and a poorly paying job at that, and the Enforcers had decided to take all they could get, whenever they could get it. And, following that, the job they were supposed to be performing fell to the wayside, all pretenses of legitimacy disappeared, and they were predators, rabid animals with no higher power in the village to keep them in check.
       The villagers despaired; peaceful people by nature, craftsmen and farmers, with no training in personal defense beside the inevitable brute force of people who reap wheat and slaughter animals by the power of their own two hands. They couldn't leave their homes, their farms, and their trades; they couldn't feel safe here in the village. They were mistrustful of any organized effort to oust the Enforcers, because vigilantism is what had gotten them into this situation to begin with. So, they huddled in their homes, trembling at the thought of not being able to pay their protection money, nervous when their children were unaccounted for for even a few minutes, and praying to the ever-more-vengeful gods that the world would become a better place.
       Who knows? Maybe the gods even heard.
~~~       Of course, during the day the village was not such a dire place. It had an active monthly marketplace with thriving trade. Apple brandy, fresh-baked honeybuns and farm-fresh vegetables and fruits were the perfect refreshments for those who attended the market looking for shoes, clothing, and other goods. Children ran and played together, underfoot in the most welcome way, and more distant neighbors took the opportunity to catch up on family news. Village state of affairs was staunchly avoided as a conversation topic as some of the tavern owners did their best to redistribute the wealth that the Enforcers bestowed upon them through their libations each and every night. The more socially conscious of them quietly overpaid for their purchases; the others simply bought everything they thought they might have any chance of needing over the next month or so. Through this crowd, a farmer's son wandered.
       This farmer's son was no longer a boy to play with the others underfoot, but not yet a man with his own family and land. Still sheltered from the realities of the village law enforcement and living far enough from the village to have suffered few ill effects from the Enforcers, he had dreams of justice, law, and standing up for the underdogs. His older brother was looking forward to inheriting the farm and would be an excellent farmer to follow his father; he himself had grander dreams.
       "Duncan! Duncan, come play!" screamed his little sister, Elsie. Still young enough to wear her hair loose and run with the other little boys and girls, Elsie was a gorgeous girl. Unlike other younger sisters, she was pleasant to be around, always cheerful and friendly, oddly insightful for a girl her age but not so mature as to be unsettling. Duncan did not pick up on the way the adults regarded her with apprehension and protectiveness. He didn't know, yet, what dangers could threaten her sweet innocence.