Ovens, Weeds and an Unaccustomed Lack of Free Time

If our household had a principal export, it would be sticks. So many sticks fall into the yard that we have to rake before we mow the lawn. Our little push mower can't get through dandelions; a twig stops it in its tracks. Our secondary export would be weeds. Lots and lots of weeds. What we need here is a small herd of goats and a goatherd to keep them from eating the flowers and vegetables.

I really like my new job. I'm learning the quirks of my 30-something oven. Two of the three temperature knobs are unreadable. Some of the stone tiles are cracked. The bottom deck doesn't work, the middle deck usually runs cold and the top deck usually runs hot. But not always. Sometimes they reverse it. Dragonheart (that's the name I gave it) requires frequent monitoring and adjusting of its temperature. This will be easier once the new knobs arrive. Maybe the attention will make Dragonheart more cooperative ;) .

My writing energy has been going into my Nanowrimo novel. I finished round one of editing on the hard copy and got the changes into the computer. And made more changes as I was doing that. Tomorrow I start the process over again. I have a pact with a friend that whatever shape our novels are in, they will go to Create Space by the deadline of June 30th. We'll have a paperback copy of our works-in-progress (WIP in writer's lingo). And then we'll keep rewriting until we're actually done. I'm wishing I'd kept up with drawing; the cover design would be much easier if I could actually draw what I see in my mind.

Before I got this job, I got up in the morning, did my morning pages and then got on the computer. Now, I roll out of bed, get ready for work, and leave by 4am. When I get home, instead of doing my pages, I tend to fall asleep for a while. When I wake up, there's always something to do. Spending time on the computer just isn't that important right now. So don't worry if I'm not posting here or on Facebook. I'm just busy with other things.

Of maps and muses

I really should get up and turn on the light, but the cat is curled up behind the screen, peacefully sleeping on my legs. It's almost 5pm, there's still a bit of light left in the sky.

I have run into a wall of procrastination with editing my novel. Without the looming spectre of a ridiculous deadline it's hard to get any momentum going. Editing is a slow, deliberate process, unlike writing, which frequently happened in frenzied bursts in which characters drove the plot according to their own needs and desires.

They aren't as communicative right now, although brief moments of inspiration have appeared here and there, leaving a paper trail through morning pages, pocket notebook, virtual and real posty-notes, day planner and a scrap of baking parchment.

I'm breaking this down into smaller chunks this weekend. Step one, assemble the cast of characters: names, appearance, family, traits, and so on. Hopefully this will clear up glitches; the other day I noticed two characters had the same name.

Step two-map out the timeline of the story. It's rather muddled at this point. No wonder one character's age keeps fluctuating; he's as lost as I am.

Starting with plot and character outlines would have been sensible. That would have required starting with a plot, something I didn't have when I decided to do NaNoWriMo. I started with only a couple of characters who'd been trapped in my head for years, and a muddled thought process sparked by a friend's remark when I had a close encounter with an elk at the Estes Park Visitors Center. I signed up only a few days before the event began, and while I knew about outlines and plotting with posty-notes and string, I chose not to do that. If I had, I would have gotten so obsessed with organizing and reorganizing and color coding that I wouldn't have written a word.

I dove into the novel in true free writing style: just keep going and see where it takes you. The characters appeared, doing their own thing, driving the story, and sometimes going off in rather alarming directions. The plot started taking shape at about 30,000 words in. I finally saw where it was headed and was able to make an outline.

There's still so much I don't know about this world I created. Like..what it's called. Or how swords and sorcery coexist with high tech gadgets and high speed hovercrafts. Hopefully that will all clear up somewhere in the process.

I intend to have a readable version in time for the Createspace deadline for a free printed book. That's June. So, logically, working backward, break the task down into small manageable goals and proceed in an orderly direction. Somehow, I doubt that's how it's going to go. The process will likely be messy and chaotic, passionate bursts of creativity alternating with the slow plodding of mapping the trail and filling in plot holes.

I have two tasks for this weekend, but somehow I am struck with the need to do other things, any things, rather than recommit to this work. I think I am having to give up that fantasy about what being a writer is, the fantasy that one sits down and magnificent words roll out, all ready to be published into a prizewinning novel. No. That's not what being a writer is. Being a writer means showing up at the page and doing the work, for the sake of the work.

I read the following this morning here; it's worth posting somewhere I'll see it everyday.
"I was here. Where were you? signed, your Muse".