Crafty Seattleites
Last night, upon our return home from wherever we’d been (writing until a local coffee house closed), we spied a short stack of postcards over by the row of mailboxes. “Urban Craft Uprising,” they read, and as they’d caught our collective, proverbial eye, we picked one up. It just so happens that Susanne and I have been on the lookout for alternative presents to give to the little ones in our life, rather than the uninspiring Gap or Toys R Us gift certificate. This was just what we had in mind, so we decided to head over to the Space Needle neighborhood for some craft show attendance. Read More…
It never did, really, except that NaNoWriMo is a great front for a writing program for young people, so I enjoy making a donation to them, and no, I’m not their pitch boy. But as far as writing goes, it’s a lot of fun to struggle through a first draft when hundreds of thousands of people are doing the same and talking about it online and in meet ups across the country. That’s wonderful. And it’s a fallacy, because in any given month, hundreds of thousands of people are slogging through a first draft. And most of them don’t finish. And most of the ones who do wrote something awful, or close to awful. And the vast majority of finished projects won’t see the light of anyone’s ebook reading device. 
Those of you keeping up with the first draft of my WIP, a YA novel about time traveling with trans themes, I’m posting another excerpt today. All excerpts have been posted in order, so to go back and read any earlier episodes, just click on the Parallax tag on the left side of the screen. Enjoy!
I was 21 years old and everyone had forgotten my birthday. I’d come out one month earlier and promptly broken my ankle in three places—which makes a hell of a terrible sound, for those unfortunate enough to hear it—and was at the tail end of a friendship that soon wouldn’t survive my coming out process. Full of angst and sadness, and not especially mobile, I slowly crutched a half a block from my upstairs apartment onto Westcott Street in Syracuse, New York, where I was about to start graduate school in English literature. Woe was me. I figured if I focused on a simple goal of sitting down and having a two-egg lunch at the corner greasy spoon, I could just get through another moment in what I was sure would be my worst birthday ever. 
So much about writing is having confidence without losing a cap on one’s ego. If I can’t even call myself a “writer,” then spending time at the keys is even more ludicrous, because it’s too easy to believe these hours are all a waste. At least, that’s how the equation works in my head. Somehow, I’ve muddled through since I moved out West, and all of my education that looked wonky or out of place in the government contract/technology world now fits snugly against these latest endeavors. English literature, critical theory, and psychology are the ham to these eggs, or the Not Dogs, for those who are vegan inclined, to this tofu scramble. 
Nearly there, with a scant 48 hours left until the end of the NaNoWriMo. If you’re lagging behind or thinking that there is no way on this good green earth that you can finish and make the 50,000 word count, don’t despair. I’ve said all along that this exercise isn’t about a number, it’s about a practice. Writers write. Dolphins dolphin or erm, swim. Forward, or even lateral progress, is what November has been about, so if we’ve stuck to our keyboards, pens, indelible markers, or chisels, then more power to us. Let’s look at some other benefits of continuing to plug away at our intrepid novels:
Yes, I’m still here. Tapping at my keyboard, in between basting a 12.5 turkey. I made my mother’s recipe for stuffing, produced sweet potato biscuits last night, and by this evening will be digesting vast quantities of tryptophan with the best of them in the United States. And I am thankful for all that I have, truly. So among the items on my be-grateful-for list is having the time to write, which although appearing in scant amounts this last week, is generally available to me whenever I need it. I’ve made a habit of writing every single day, and it needs to be said that some days, this is easier than others. November 25, 2010, is not one of those easier spots on the calendar. I may only get through a few hundred or even a thousand words, but I’m only 3,000 away from 50,000. The careful readers out there will remark that I set a personal goal of 60,000 for this NaNoWriMo project this year, so yes, tomorrow afternoon, after the apartment is cleaned up and the guests departed, I need to make some serious headway. 
One must admire a city like Seattle for its principles. It still allows those awful plastic grocery bags as legal carrying devices, not yet having taken up the mantle of Earth-savingness like its nearish cousin, San Francisco. And it does continue to serve soft drinks and fizzy pop from automatic vending machines, a no-no in ‘Frisco as well these days. But the powers that be have put their collective feet down when it comes to salting the roads when it snows, given the proximity to the Puget Sound and accompanying Entire Pacific Ocean.
Trans/plant/portation 