Road Maps and Novel-Writing: Keep Me Away from Indigo.

I went to write in a coffee shop today because being home meant distractions. I started to work on my book while sitting on my parent’s loveseat, but plot thread and character development were replaced every minute with imhungrymyfacehurtswhydoesmyfacestillhurtthedentistsaiditwouldonlytakeaweektohealmaybeishould

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Replace a few of these with endless YouTube video mini-marathons and I lost a good two hours of writing time being home. At that point, I took a stand. I refused to lose to the curiosity of my twenty-first century teenaged brain, and so I packed up my things, left my laptop at home and headed to my local Starbucks to grab a latte, scribble out a dozen pages of draft one and praise my decision to put my Master’s degree on hold lest I join the ranks of overqualified baristas who serve people like me and wonder why they aren’t working at a job they’re qualified for.

Sorry, Starbucks folk. Our job market is awful, but you do make a mean chai tea.

I got some pretty important work done before I realized that I needed to do some research, not necessarily for accuracy, as most of what I’m writing is indeed fiction, but to give me an idea of the sort of thing I was getting myself into, and how to write it. Most of the subject was unimportant; probably something I could look up online later, but as a kid who still can’t comprehend things unless she’s underlining them on paper, I did, in fact, need a road map. Why I needed the map isn’t really worth telling (at least right now), but I should note that I was in the perfect position to get one. See, in Canada–and I’m not sure about anywhere else, so don’t murder me for thinking we’re unique–our main bookstore chain, Indigo, and its sister stores usually come with a Starbucks on the inside. Of course, I was sitting twenty feet away to the gates of this chic and modern Heaven-on-Earth. If Indigo didn’t have a road map for the area I was looking for, then I don’t know who would.

So I wandered from the Starbucks into the main store and was immediately caught by the adorable Kate Spade collection of journals that looked like old library books. No, I didn’t buy one. But I contemplated it. Oh yes, for five minutes, actually. (Ten points for self-control, what what).

Not for long.
Can someone freeze my credit cards, too?

No worries, my steel will didn’t hold up too long. I bought literary magazines. I bought the newest book from an author I’m going to see at the end of the month (Joseph Boyden; I first read Three Day Road, a story of two Cree friends who go off to fight in WWI, and fell in love). I bought a neat little question and answer book to fuel thought and make my evenings a little more fun. I bought a collection of C.S. Lewis essays (I love that man, impeccable genius, both as a fantasy author and Christian apologetic), and then, and only then did I reach the travel section to collect my map. They had it, just like I knew they would, but as I did the walk of shame to the cash register, I did not feel triumph, but sympathy for my debit card.

My addiction to literature– and cute things and shopping in general– is getting out of hand. I suppose it could be worse, but sending me into an Indigo is like sending a recovered drug-addict into a crack house to pick up a jacket for a friend who left it there.

If you were wondering the map did come in handy.

Sorry, little guy.

Grace, Boats and Neil Gaiman.

I spent three hours today on a boat by myself with sixty or so strangers, two books, and a notepad. The situation was a kettle, a few teabags and a deep mug away from perfection, let me tell you. I live for long trips. If, in the rare case that I’ve neglected to bring some sort of reading material, I can occupy myself by exploring the many corners of my brain. I can’t even begin to tell you how many characters I’ve dreamed up on family road trips; most of them I use right away if I feel that I can’t get to know them well enough for a full-on novel venture. Sometimes though, sometimes I’m introduced to a boy or a girl that just won’t go away. I’ll get a funny image, and blow it up, and stretch it until I’ve got some more information, and by the time I’m satisfied, I’ve got a fully rounded– usually obnoxious, loud and mouthy– person in my head.

I swear I’m not crazy.

Gracie was one of those characters. I’ve had her hiding in there for awhile; long enough for family and friends to start joining the pack, and by the time I clued into what was happening, I had the tools to bring every single one of them to life. With three hours to kill, I started getting to know Gracie and the five-odd people that came with her. I had a blue ballpoint and a little Marvel-themed pocketbook (I keep my grocery lists in there… desperate times call for desperate measures, right?) and as the boat took off from the dock, I sat in my chair and I bled as much of them as I could onto the tiny little scraps of paper I had left. When I was satisfied that enough of their story had been told for the afternoon (also, I was running out of space), I put them away for a bit–I’m sorry, I’ll let you all back out later, I promise— and picked up someone else’s brain babies.

I’ve not had a chance to read much of Neil Gaiman, but he’s an author I’ve wanted to check out for a very long time. I picked up American Gods at a used book store where I live months ago, but without time to read, I put it away for a little bit. This week, a friend lent me another of his stories: The Ocean at the End of the Lane. It’s only about 180 pages or so, and I ate it up in two, hour and a half long sessions. Talk about a haunting tale. The beauty of this man’s words mixed with the fog swirling over stormy waters that looked green from where I was sitting, and all I could think about was how perfect my surroundings were for a story of that magnitude. For a small book, Gaiman’s narrative really packs a punch. If anyone is interested in a review, I might do one, I loved it that much.

A final note on public transport: there was easily over a hundred people in total on the boat today. No one gave any notice to anyone that they hadn’t known before. There were many, but each acted as though they were all alone. I find this to be the case on other modes of travel, too. Except for planes. Planes bring strangers together.

I wonder what happened to making friends on the bus?

Am I the only person who enjoys people-watching, or is that weird now?

I watch people like most people watch “Grey’s Anatomy.”

 

GeekyRed Reviews: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

I’ve got this rule about books that I’m quite sure I share with many literature lovers: if there is a screen adaptation I MUST, no IFS ANDS OR BUTS, read the story before I watch it. Why? Because, nine times out of ten ALL THE TIME, the book itself is much better than the movie.

Relax, film buffs. I’m not saying that movie adaptations are bad. In fact, some of them I find quite enjoyable. The thing is, you can’t critique a film and a movie in the same category. Why? Because trying to fit 350 pages into two hours (as the days of the 90-minute epic come to an end) is just impossible. Things that went so well in the novel just won’t work with the plot the producers are trying to squeeze into their scripts. Most of these come out very nicely; there are quite a few book-films that I would go see more than once, however, as a self-proclaimed bibliophile (I promise, that word isn’t dirty, look it up) I will always and forever love the books more. Unless it’s The Notebook. I’m sorry, Nicholas Sparks, that novel just didn’t do it for me.

Now why on God’s green earth did I start a book review with that little spiel? I must confess– and I feel positively wretched for admitting this to the entire internet– that I was introduced to Stieg Larsson’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo because I watched the movie first.

I know! I know! I can’t believe I said it! But, you’ll have to cut me some slack, I did watch the movie in class, and because it was required, I’m not going to think of this as a complete breaking of my rules. Besides, I enjoyed the film so much, I went out that week and bought myself a copy of the novel. Except, because university is a parasite whose favourite meal seems to be free time, then I had to leave it on my shelf until about two weeks ago when I finally got to pick it up again.

And my oh my, what a fantastic read. For those of you who haven’t heard of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, stop reading this post, and do yourself a favour by going to get it right this second. In about 380 pages, Larsson brought adrenaline raging through my veins like those bullet trains in Japan. He made me so uncomfortable at points that I wanted to put the book down but couldn’t– you sneaky bastard, talk about a page turner– and by the time I made it to the end, he had me screaming like a pre-teen after an episode of Pretty Little Liars, or whatever kids are watching these days (even though I’m nineteen, you catch my drift). Oh yes, it’s one of those books.

Larsson manages to mix a riveting murder mystery into a political-slash-financial drama into an insane commentary on modern maltreatment and abuse of Swedish women– did I mention the book has been translated into dozens of languages and has been sold worldwide?!– and through this intricate plot web, spins readers along, keeping them willingly caught until they’re forced to set the book down at the very end. I mean, I knew how the thing was going to end and I STILL broke a sweat in the climb to the climax. I fell in love with Lisbeth Salander– the most badass character I have ever read, like, ever— and Mikael Blomkvist, two protagonists who were written so well I felt I had gotten to know them as friends by the end of it, which is weird and totally made me feel like I’d checked out of reality for awhile, but if that’s what I book is supposed to do– and I wholeheartedly believe it is–then four for you, Stieg Larsson.

Of course, because I had seen the movie first, I found the ending of the book to be rather long. Without ruining too much, I felt that the climax I had seen should have been how the book ended, but there were still eighty or more pages to go before I hit the true ending. Not that those pages ruined my experience at all; but I would send out the warning to anyone who is taking the path that I did (curse you, Strategies class!). The other thing to be wary of is the immense amount of violence that appears in the book. There were moments included that I felt that anyone, regardless of gender, would cringe upon reading. In fact, the original, Swedish title for the book directly translates to Men Who Hate Women, if that’s any hint toward what is coming. That being said, the book is a commentary on a pretty uncomfortable topic; I don’t think that it should deter anyone from checking the book out (unless they can’t handle that stuff, of course), especially because it’s something that I think people need to talk about, but that’s a topic for another time.

I’m trying to keep these posts shorter than normal, just because I can go on forever, especially about a book like this. All in all, I’d give it five stars, and a recommendation to anyone who enjoys mystery, action, suspense, a blockbuster film in a novel… (really, guys, I’m just gushing now). The plot is just so clever; I really need people to scream about this book with, and even though it isn’t brand new or anything, it’s new to me, so if anyone out there is feeling what I’m feeling right now leave me comments. I need to relate.

Somebody help.

Check out this synopsis from Goodreads:

Mikael Blomkvist, a once-respected financial journalist, watches his professional life rapidly crumble around him. Prospects appear bleak until an unexpected (and unsettling) offer to resurrect his name is extended by an old-school titan of Swedish industry. The catch—and there’s always a catch—is that Blomkvist must first spend a year researching a mysterious disappearance that has remained unsolved for nearly four decades. With few other options, he accepts and enlists the help of investigator Lisbeth Salander, a misunderstood genius with a cache of authority issues. Little is as it seems in Larsson’s novel, but there is at least one constant: you really don’t want to mess with the girl with the dragon tattoo.

 

Go. Go get it. Right now. Just do it. You’re doing yourself a huge favour.

 

Also, if you like book reviews, leave me a comment with encouragement and suggestions. It gives me something to do in my spare time, and since I love sharing stories, this seems like a really fun thing to do.

Down With the A Grades: I am Going to be the Right Kind of Selfish.

It’s been an interesting year. At this point, I’m not sure where to begin, and before anyone with good intentions tells me that “it’s best to start at the beginning, dear,” hear me out, because the beginning isn’t so easy to pick out. I suppose I could start with last April, but if I’ve got to jump all over a timeline, don’t start picking this apart like you would Slaughterhouse Five if you get confused, okay? Okay.

About this time last year, I was convinced that I was stark, raving mad. Not because I’ve got a fantastic imagination– I believe everyone who writes is insane to an extent, but that’s a good kind of insane. This time, I was sure that there was something wrong with me. I’m not going to go into everything, because I haven’t quite come to terms with things yet, but to put it simply, I got sick. Not the kind of sick that you can sit in bed for a few hours on a Sunday and sleep through classes on a Monday and feel better, but the kind of sick that eats at you from the inside and since the outside is okay, then nobody knows anything is wrong until its too late.

From the latter half of 2012, to the first four months of 2013, I suffered from something I didn’t even know I had. See, the beauty– and I mean beauty in the most sinister of ways– of mental illness is that it tricks you into thinking that the things going on in your head are your fault. You’re trapped, afraid to tell people that you need help for fear of judgement, hospitalization, the whole shebang, and so you’re stuck, until someone who’s got enough know how catches you with your guard down and convinces you that you’re OK, and that there are ways to fix what’s going on.

I got lucky. I’ve got a family that supports, loves, and knows me better than anyone on the planet, and eventually, I got the help that I needed. A year ago in May, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and I began the journey towards being healthy. Let me tell you, kiddies, it ain’t as easy as it looks. There was a period after I began treatment where I did feel better. I started at a new school with a new outlook on life and a new plan to move forward with the things that I loved. Except, other stuff got in the way.

Ahh, the age old excuse. “Life got in the way.” It’s like you’re sixteen with stars in your eyes, ready to take on the world, and suddenly ten years pass and you’re working at an entry level office job with a degree you busted your butt for, hoping for a promotion and wondering why you didn’t pursue marine biology like you had hoped. And almost every person who asks this question to themselves comes up with an answer that directly translates to “life got in the way.”

Old friend #1: “What ever happened to that detailing business you were going to set up?”

Old friend #2: “Ahh, man, I got offered this summer job at the firm, and they keep asking me back. It’s money, and a stable job, so why not? Besides, I have Dad’s old T-Bird in the garage; I’ll fiddle with it on my spare time. Next week, they’re thinking of moving me to head office.”

Dude, it would have saved you like, five breaths had you only said “life got in the way.”

As I was working on healing myself, without realizing it, I had fallen into the same old routine of working as hard as I could to get straight A’s, and nail all of the extra-curricular activities, working on massive projects because I had myself convinced that I was doing good things for people who deserved it. I’ve got OCD. I’m a perfectionist. If I don’t have all of the best grades, the best body, the best of myself, then I feel like a failure. It’s a messed up cycle of hope, trying to put too much on my plate to achieve my dreams, and then a full-on crash where I lose all energy and motivation and sit depressed for three weeks. Then the whole thing begins again. The sad thing about the cycle I’ve been in since I realized that good grades and involvement got you stickers and certificates, is that it draws me further and further away from the things that make me happy. I lose sight of me, tricked into thinking whatever I’m succeeding at is going to help me be happy and healthy and free.

I think I realized that something had to change after my adviser for Honours History told me my thesis topic was a one way ticket to Law School. Well wouldn’t you bet I took to the internet, had my mum buy me LSAT books (which I still do for fun, because, man, those brain puzzles are addicting), researched different programs and had my bearings set for a new adventure. Of course I had to tell everyone, and they were all so proud. Not to mention that this happened after I made the decision to stop writing for my school newspaper, something that gave me great joy, because I didn’t have enough time.

That’s it. I’m done. I’m not even proud to say I pulled straight A’s this semester, yet again, and have a GPA of a 3.97. Why? For awhile it was because it wasn’t a 4.0. Is that not sick? Does that not make you want to slap me? If I were into violence, I’d totally give my ears a box. No, right now, I’m not proud of that because I finished out my year unhappy. I finished out my year lost, and unsure of where to go. So I turned to the only thing that I knew would make me happy and healthy. I turned to the bare-boned, base level of anything that has ever made my heart swell: my God, my writing, my books, my runs, and my want for adventure. The only thing that will make me happy is a day of sitting in my little sunny nook writing my stories and my poems and my scripts and my skits and scribbling out the tickles of my imagination until I’m empty for the day. Then, I would get up from my chair and making myself a meal of fruit, water and other cool, juicy, simple things that you can get at a store down the road. I’d go for a run to clear my head and drum up new ideas for the next day. I’d meet up with friends and laugh until my belly hurt, and then go home, read a book, pray and thank God for giving me another day, and then sleep so I could do it all again tomorrow. There will be curve balls, as there always are, but I’ll be able to take them on, because I’ll be on the right track, and when you’re on the right track, you’re motivated to take on things as they happen.

This summer, I can do these things. I’m still pushing myself to get up and start my day and do the things that I love. It’s hard, but I’m doing it. And then come September, I’m going to say no. To everything. To things that I don’t want to do. No more head of societies, no more tutoring sessions (though most likely I’ll keep doing those; I love watching people learn), no more staying up till three to finish a paper two weeks before it’s due. No more straight A’s. If I can pull off a year where I feel good about myself, where I sleep, where I have my disorder under control, where I write and read what I love and still manage to keep my grades, fantastic. If not, it’s not a big deal. I’d rather peace of mind and my imagination intact than letters of congratulations from the Dean.

I’m going to write for the newspaper. That’s it. I’m going to go for my runs, and take creative writing classes. I’m going to sing in the shower again. I’m going to like getting up at eight, just to see the sun. I’m going to fall in love with my degree, and eventually get a job that I love, without sacrificing my need to write. And I’m not going to law school. Then, I’m going to get published. I’m going to get published so much that I’m going to be able to quit that job and write for myself. I’ll write what makes me happy, and I’ll feed my family and I’ll love everyone and everything with the passion of a child, because even though this sounds way too pretty to be a plausible goal, it’s mine, and I’m going to get there because I owe it to my brain and my body to do something for them for once.

In a way, working myself sick for the wrong things is selfish. I think I was heading down a path I shouldn’t have been on because people told me I was good at it, and since I didn’t feel good about myself, I lived for praise like that. I told myself I was doing it for other people, but I think it was justification for something that made me feel less… gross. The high, however, is only temporary. It’s time to do the things I should have done all along.

Yesterday, on my Facebook page, I asked my friends what they would do with their lives if nothing stood in their way. The response was staggering. I know so many inspiring people; and I hope that someday, they will push life to the side of the road and start living. I hope that they get to do the things they told me they’d do, and I hope it makes them happy. Until then, I’m going to work on getting my happy back. And you know what? It’s going to be difficult, but it’s also going to be lovely.

I have my parents, my little sister, my loved ones and friends to thank for helping me get here.

So here’s to another April to April year mark. This one, I’d grade a C.

Let’s push for the only A that matters, shall we?

Now that’s the kind of high I’m looking for.

 

The Itch.

The cool thing about having the kind of mind that I do, is that I can get inspiration from just about anything. To put things into perspective, I once wrote a story about fish oil and a christmas present and had it published in a literary magazine. I’ve got an imagination; stuff like that happens all the time. 

Being in an academic setting for as long as I have been (I know. Two whole years. I’m ancient. -.-), I’ve discovered two things: unless you’re attending an arts institution, or have enrolled in some sort of creativity-based elective at the post-secondary level, there isn’t much room for imagination. Now, usually, that would be enough to put a damper on anyone’s muses; do enough research under the guidelines provided and you begin to lose the ability to “think outside the box.” However, recently, I’ve found that in my own situation, the exact opposite is occurring. 

The more I’m stuck writing things that I don’t want to write, the more ideas about the things I do want to write start to pop up in really inconvenient situations. (During a midterm last week I wrote a little note on the back of my test booklet so that when I got it back, I’d remember the quirky little thought that sneaked in while I was supposed to be doing short answer questions. It’s like, no, Dr. P, that isn’t for you).

I would liken it to one of those itches that you get where you can’t quite tell where the irritation is coming from, so you end up scratching around your knee for five minutes hoping to get rid of that tickle ’round your ankle. You know what I mean. I can’t get rid of it. It’s fantastic (the creativity, not the itch).

And I’m not just getting bits about things I want to write, either. It’s about things I want to film, about things I want to do with my dorm room, about places I want to go to see about things I want to write about… the list goes on and on. 

I’ve had to start keeping a notebook; it’s rather silly. 

To make matters worse, I’ve gotten my hands on a video camera. There’s about ten pages worth of scribbles perfect for digital capture. Saturdays are going to be fun for the next few weeks. 

Or weird.

Probably weird.

I’ll letcha know. 

Scary Stories Before Breakfast: Getting up Early Was the Best Part of my Day

http://topyaps.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Rapid-Deep-Breathing.jpg

If you want any advice on how to make yourself feel great, get yourself out of bed early on a morning following a decent bedtime. 

I’m energized– despite the nagging chest congestion that seems not to have gotten the memo that the cold it visited with has left the building– and with enough time to kill to brew some tea and sit at my desk with my pen and my thoughts before class starts, I’m a happy girl. 

I’ve decided that my favourite time to write is in the morning– I’m currently working on a horror short story, and things got positively creepy in my little spinning chair after breakfast. (Nothing like twisted jaunt through the dark corners of the brain to get you up and rolling, eh?) The way things are going, I’ll have it finished and edited by the end of the week. Who knows? If I like it enough, I might submit it to a magazine and see if they’ll publish it. 

I’ll keep you updated. 

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The Second Someday

I’ve spent most of the last four months wishing that I could blow the dust off of this corner of the internet so I could put some sort of effort into my blog– poor, lonely, little blog– but you know what they say about good intentions: you can wish to do something all you want, but if you don’t actually start it then–

Though there hasn’t been much in the way of updates since August, I’ve lived a life worthy of posting; I just spent more time doing than I did recording. Which, if you’re like me, is positively depressing. But what would a good story be without some sort of experience behind it, right? In the four months since I unintentionally left my internet footprint alone, I’ve learned quite a few things about what it means to be me, some wonderful, some uncomfortable, but regardless of the nature of the whats, whos, and whys I discovered on this mini adventure, I have not escaped unchanged. I am now more sure about who I am than I have ever been before, and I know exactly where I want to be. Between new friends, learning to live on my own, and an existential crisis (the ghosts of which still haunt me), I think I can honestly say I’m okay with where I’m at. It’s the “get up, get going” part that scares me.

It’s easy to have goals. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Paediatric Cardiologist (say that five times fast, Mum); the idea of it gave me such a thrill that I could barely contain myself if someone ever made the mistake of bringing it up. I told anyone who would listen that I was going to get there someday. 

Someday. What a funny word. Based on my experiences, it can have one or two meanings depending on the context that it is used. In the first instance, it appears with a positive connotation; it is chalk full of childlike optimism, and hints toward a successful outcome. The second situation comes with a similar tinge of yes, but often results in the disappointment of those silly enough to wait for it to happen– for example’s sake, it’s used most frequently by one too scared to say no.

ex: “Daddy? Dad? Can I have a pony? It’ll make me the happiest girl in the world                        andifyoudontillscreamuntilyoucaveandbringonehome.”

“I’m not so sure about right now, babydoll, but someday, for sure.”

Nice save, Dad. In the short term, that “someday” might soothe some inner desire, but, in the case of the pony example, unless Pa decides to save up, buy a bigger house, build a barn and actually make the effort to look for and purchase a horse good enough for his little princess, then babydoll can hope for the pony ’til she’s blue in the face, but she’ll never get it.

As you can probably tell from all previous posts, the Cardiologist dream was lost amidst the waters of the second someday example, and I’m completely okay with that. For one, I’m not a fan of blood, or Chemistry, and as I found out rather quickly, I lack the emotional blockades to deal with sick children calmly in dire situations. And, of course, I realized that I’d rather swallow a live jellyfish every day for the rest of my life than support myself with something that doesn’t involve writing creatively.

And here we have the problem that I’ve been trying to combat since I left for school in August. With classes and committees and scholarship work and volunteer hours and exams, my dream is in danger of being trapped in the dangerous web of the second someday. Of course, with dreams like this, it’s all a matter of knowing what you want, and believe me, I know what I want.  But I figured out pretty quick that I can talk about it, dream about it, and dabble with it all I want, but just thinking about it all the time isn’t going to get me any closer to doing anything about it. I’d be lying if I said I’ve picked up a pen to write anything creative since I’ve last been home, and I’d be two seconds away from burnt legs if I said it didn’t bother me.

I don’t need inspiration; that stuff is everywhere. I don’t need drive; I’ve got lots of that, too. I’ve just been pushing to move forward in the wrong areas. Maybe it’s time to stop striving for classroom praise and scholarship winnings; maybe it’s time to do what makes me happy. And so I’ve promised myself that I shall. Hell, I’ve even moved a step further than that, and started doing it. The next challenge is keeping it up, but that’s a story for another time. I’ll tell you when I get there.

If you’re reading this, and you’ve found yourself in the same boat that I’ve just docked and climbed out of, whatever your dream is, don’t let it disappear into the vault of lost somedays. Work for it, grab onto it, and get going. Make someday today; it’s possible, and with a little elbow grease, it’s probable. You’ve just got to move.

So get going.

“You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.” — Stephen King.

Massive Projects are Energy Sucking Little Monsters

My goodness, it’s been a long time since I’ve even thought about pulling up my blog. I know from some of my last posts, it’s pretty evident that I’ve been working on some super awesome endeavours over the past couple weeks. These projects have allowed me to showcase my writing in ways I didn’t think I could; I’ve grown in quite a few different areas and I must say I’m rather pleased with all of it.

Of course, the novel completely fell by the wayside, which is to be expected when most of your time is spent working on things you’re getting paid for and at the same time getting ready for another year at university– this is very exciting for me; for my wallet and bank account, not so much. I should be picking up the story in earnest again very shortly.

And that is precisely where my problem arises. You see, the job I’d been doing finished three days ago. Before I began, I promised myself that I would return to word document city the second my position ended, and as you can probably tell, I haven’t so much as typed a word since (not counting this blog or “www.facebook.com”). Hell, I’ve had issues crawling out of bed; I’m tired and I’m sluggish, and that does awful things to the imagination. Now, I don’t know if that’s because I’ve spent a great deal of time and energy making sure my work was done to the best of my ability, or if I’m just super lazy and don’t want to admit it to myself.

I like to think it’s the former, because even as I type this at seven o’clock my eyes keep drooping on me, but we probably all know that the latter is a more accurate description of my writing life at this particular moment.

And so I’ve decided to use the internet as an accountability partner of sorts. I don’t know if anyone’s reading this and if anyone is, I don’t know how many of you “anybodys” there are. But the fact that I’m announcing this to even one stranger is going to give me the boost I need to get that book up and running again. Especially if that stranger is interested in what I’m doing.

Expect frequent updates, Internet Audience, and if you’ve got advice, for the love of Pete, send it my way. I’m dying over here. I love my work; I always have, but like waking up in the morning, it isn’t the matter of being awake that causes the issue: it’s actually making the effort to get out from underneath the covers that keeps a majority of kids my age incapacitated till nearly noon most days.

I just need the motivation to start. Once I’m there, it’ll take Superman to pull me away from my work.

Or my mother if I’ve left wet clothes in the washer overnight again.

That’d get me up pretty quick.

There’s Only One Thing That Wrecks The High of a Great Writing Day…

Today was a great day to be a writer. In a span of just an hour and a half I flew through over two thousand words.

My novel now sits at one hundred and sixty six pages, Microsoft Word style, and I’m coming up to the halfway done mark. This is such a cool feeling; even though I’m only hashing my way through the first draft, I can see my characters coming to life and the little plot strings tying themselves together in a pretty little bow. Now that is the definition of satisfaction.

But the emotional trauma I’m causing myself… I don’t know if I like that so much. Stirring up trouble in my little fictional world is hurting me just as much as it’s hurting the people in it, and I’m the only one who knows how it’s going to turn out, for Pete’s sake. I made a whole lot of progress on a whole lot of turmoil… and yet I hate angsty situations. I think they’re silly, and in a world filled with novels like Twilight, I try to keep it to a minimum. Plot can be driven forward without hormone-laced teen angst. But when THE RIGHT KIND of angst (last time I’ll use that word, I promise) is necessary (no hormones required), and you’re forced to fly your way through it like a freight train chugging downhill , you come out on the other end looking like you just escaped from Azkaban. (Sorry, Sirius.) I’m a little wounded.

I think I’ll start a support clinic for writers affected negatively by their stories.

I’d make a killing.