Has It Really Been So Long?

I've been in school since May of last year. Haven't written a post on this blog since I started. I've been busy with classes. With work. I fell in what my hormones decided was love. (They were wrong.) Other things happened, to me and to people I love. Somewhere in all that, I stopped writing. I stopped creating. When I made it to writing group, I did homework. I stopped exercising.

All that energy has to come out somewhere. My dreams have been dark and twisted and nightmarish, yet even while they're happening, some part of me says "Wow. This is some good stuff here." Sometimes, I think the only reason I'm not certifiable is that I am taking Art Appreciation this semester, which at least forces me to look and think about art, even if I'm not making any myself. Until this week, when I did the non-representational-demonstrate-principles-of-design-and-elements-of-art collage project for class.

Now, I love making collages. Haven't done it in years, but that's not the point. The point is, despite having to follow rules (oh! the horror!) I created something I like, and I had a good time doing it. I have lots of leftover bits of paper. And glue. And no one to please but myself. So why am I writing instead of making a collage?

I don't know. What I do know is that I need to do a better job of scheduling creativity and exercise into my routine. This all work and no play....it's not working. So tomorrow, I'll actually write during writing group. Maybe talk a walk in the park afterward. Find some way to let my right brain get its ya-yas out on a regular basis. The Anatomy Coloring Book doesn't count.

Cupcakes, Unemployment & Huge Tracts of Land

If I'd followed the example of my great-aunt Kitty, I'd be a well-to-do widow having a fling with the young man next door right about now. The opportunity to marry at all, let alone well, hasn't presented itself. At this point, it seems unlikely that it ever will. I don't seem to be made for that.

There are moments, especially now that I'm unemployed, that marriage sounds like a reasonable idea. I notice that I have the old-fashioned idea of marriage, the idea of marriage as an economic arrangement. The 'yes, she's plain and old, but she has huge tracts of land. ' and 'yes, he's surly, but he has 10,000 a year and owns half of Derbyshire' idea of marriage.This doesn't bode well for my prospects, as I am a dowerless spinster with no connections to recommend me.


I had a working interview this week. Another rendition of 'you're great, it's just not the right fit for you'. I'm beginning to wonder if there is a 'right fit'. Yes, I know it's only been three weeks that I've been looking, and I know that I am at least getting interviews. It's just that sometimes the powerlessness and lack of control really gets overwhelmingly depressing. I had no control over losing my job. I have no control over what jobs are available. I have no control over who calls me for an interview. I have no control over who offers me a job. I hate this. I have no say over a major part of my life and I absolutely hate it. (What's that? Control freak? Moi!? Don't be silly!)

I signed up for Wilton Cake Decorating 3 - fondant, gumpaste, stringwork, tiered cakes. More skills can only help, and class and homework will give me a bit of structure and an illusion of control.

I've been amusing myself by translating cocktails, truffles and classic pastries into cupcakes. It's still in the mental stage, but creative problem solving makes me feel better.

My novel.....bleh. I haven't had the will or the desire to look at it for the last few weeks. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours with it. It's complete and utter crap. It seems very unlikely that I'll have it even remotely readable in time for the June deadline. Do I want this dreck bound into a free paperback book? I don't think so . I might put the hard copy in a bonfire; it sure as hell isn't going into recycling. It might as well be useful. And fire is pretty.

Well-meaning people keep telling me to start my own business. I wish they'd stop. I'm not made for that either.

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".