Trans/plant/portation

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. Read More…

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:

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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. Read More…

Here’s another bit of the YA novel I’m working on—pieces from chapters 8 and 9.

Pulling ourselves out of the sewers we found ourselves on a quiet side street. It looked vaguely familiar, and I recalled that this was a section of the original town square that I’d seen when Lucas was younger. I held him up while he steadied himself on his crutches. He pointed to a building at the end of this block, away from the main street. “We’re almost there.”

“We’re almost where,” I asked. I was no longer clean from my bath. “Somewhere where I won’t notice you smell like rotting garbage?”

“I would almost say you’re not appreciative of my efforts.” Read More…

So many voices on the Interwebs say that writers write, that writers must scratch out a stream of words every day, that not doing so on one day sounds terrifying to us. It turns us back into velveteen rabbits; it takes away our sense of authenticity as writers, and for some of us, that felt like shaky ground to begin with. But I suppose there’s a reason the NaNoWriMo gods (read: Chris Baty) decided to set the project in November, which not only has a scant 30 days instead of January or March’s 31, but which is also stricken with the biggest American holiday of them all: Thanksgiving. Read More…

I am a couple of chapters beyond the excerpt that I posted yesterday, trucking along, as it were. I also have a small glass of port next to me, and I typically don’t drink anything alcoholic while I’m writing—not that I have anything against it per se. My relaxed attitude comes to me courtesy of my story’s momentum.

We are most definitely building toward the big show down, and this is a good thing. Read More…

Chapter Eight

“What,” I asked, “Why do people think I’m dead?”

Outside a rumbling sound cut into my shock, and Lucas scrambled to stand up. “Come on, quickly.” He crutched toward the hallway, back where I’d bathed at the end of the night. I bounded up after him.

“Where are we going? Who is that?”

“Jacqueline,” said Lucas, turning around to face me. The engines at the front of the house cut out; we heard car doors clanging shut. “I’ll tell you later.” Read More…

We hit the magical day of 16 yesterday, the day that many psychologists say new habits are forged. Congratulations, intrepid writers with recently created finger callouses! I’ll go ahead and admit it now: missing a single day doesn’t hurt your chances of forming habits. But hey, we’re over the basic threshold, so don’t hold my secrecy against me.

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Well, hidey ho, we’re at the halfway mark of the NaNoWriMo challenge. I am going to suggest something that I promise is not wacky, although some people may think it’s clear out of left field.

Stop writing this afternoon, and pick up a book. Read More…

This is about where the guy who’s been eating potatoes and only potatoes starts to sound a little freaky in his blog:

Potatoes originated in the mountains of Peru. These varieties are wild and beautiful and come in an assortment of colors. One color you can often find here in the US are purple potatoes. My question is, if you ground them up in a blender and put them in your hair, will your hair turn purple? Tune in tomorrow for the answer!

Hopefully nobody’s dyeing their hair over NaNoWriMo. Yet. Read More…