Many, many years ago, when the Earth and I were younger, I remember my mother answering one of my moans of boredom with an emphatic, "I wish I could be bored, but I don't have any time."
Naturally, I knew what she was talking about, but to this day, I still suffer from boredom. Maybe I never learned my lesson--the one she must have been trying to teach me with her subtle sarcasm. There's work aplenty to be done, but that place in my brain that surveys said work and determines which tasks to complete, and in which order, seems endlessly stuck in the laundry/dishes/dinner loop--the essentials.
Yes, the foyer has shoes and paper and backpacks sprawling across the floor. I see the steadily growing piles of things on the kitchen counter. Weeds and grass have overtaken the flower beds, and I probably don't need to mention the garage. I mean, come on, that's what garages are for, right? And even if I wanted to park a car in there... well, never mind.
The point is, I haven't gone blind. I know there's work to be done. And I could lie about it and say that I'm too busy playing with my kids, or writing magnificent books for all the world to love, but I try not to deserve getting struck by lightning more than once a week. And since it's Tuesday, and I can't remember what other tall tales I might have shared earlier, or whether I might need to exaggerate the truth later on, I'm not going to press my luck. I see the mess. I ignore the mess.
I don't always mean to, though. Take the yard for instance: nobody wants to walk through knee-high grass to weed flower beds they can't see anyway. And it isn't my fault the lawn mower died again. I'm not a mechanic! Mercy me, think of my nails--if one breaks, I'd have to cut them all and start over. Know how many horse-pill-sized multi-vitamins it takes to get my nails to that perfect length? Trust me, it's a lot.
As for the messy foyer: I could spend a half-hour cleaning it up, straightening the shoes and papers and back packs, vacuum up the dust-dogs (I swear, they're huge) and even polish the wood floor to make it look less like the forbidding entrance into the underworld, but the minute school lets out and the troops come home, it's disaster all over again. Remember that guy who had to push the same boulder up the same mountain every day for all of eternity? It's like that. Same thing goes for the connected living room, which spills into the kitchen and dining room, and back into the foyer, like a big, round dog-run. Or kid run. Honestly, whoever designed this house was clearly an idiot. Cleaning this place is like baling out a ship with a single bucket, during a rainstorm, and with a hole in the bucket.
For the sake of this blog-post, my brain is that bucket. Goodly thoughts of cleaning are often leaked out through that hole (which we can label: Attention Span) and my mind then reverts to a certain stack of library books, conveniently placed within reach of my comfy chair and a nice reading lamp. It's a great rut, and a lot cheaper than say, shopping. So long as I don't forget that the real world is waiting for me beyond the printed pages, all is well.
So, yeah. The Mess. I've gotten very good at blocking it out. Walking through my house might sometimes resemble navigating a mine field, stepping over this and that, dodging the skates, scooting around the trumpet, but maybe keeping all that mess around is actually healthy. Maybe it can cure boredom--which we all know leads to all sorts of irrational behavior. Like, say, wanting another child. Messy houses could be the next form of birth control. Well, maybe. But only if the house is so messy that Mom and Dad can't find one another in it.
Yeah, okay. Forget it. I'm not making excuses, exactly. Yes, I know where my vacuum is. I even dust it off now and again to, you know, clean... But I try not to get carried away. I wouldn't want to be the neurotic kind of person that spent so much time cleaning that the world revolved around shining floors and (gasp!) organized closets. This might be considered a personality flaw to some, but only to those who don't understand that I fully intend on cleaning up The Mess. All of it. You know, some day. In between trips to the school and library, before the next great "Have To Read" book comes out or after the really disappointing sequel to the last "Had To Read".
And of course, only if I'm not busy writing.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Trials I Can't Do Without
Everyone has trials, those rough patches in life that make us groan or cry or wish we had an unending supply of chocolate. For writers, many of those trials are, in a sadistic way, self-inflicted.
Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.
And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.
If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.
Which means no.
But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.
Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!
The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?
Wrong.
But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.
Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.
But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.
Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.
Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.
Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?
Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.
No matter what.
Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.
And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.
If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.
Which means no.
But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.
Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!
The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?
Wrong.
But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.
Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.
But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.
Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.
Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.
Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?
Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.
No matter what.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Alec Trebane and the Toilet of Doom
Episode one-
It all started with evil Annabelle taking the last of the bacon, which was supposed to be mine. The argument was short, and Mom sided with Annabelle, so I snagged the last two pieces of toast and stuffed them in my mouth before the evil one could grab any. I would have stuck out my tongue, for good measure, but it was sort of encased in bread at the moment.
Back in my room, I reached for my backpack only to find that the contents had been scattered across the floor and Deep Dungeon VI (which I had stashed in my secret pouch) was missing.
"MOM!" Bread crumbs sprayed from my mouth, but I didn't care. Mom would make me vacuum after school, but it didn't matter. Little Jimmy, my brother and nemesis, had stolen my new game. His crib lay empty and there was no telling where the little demon had got to.
"MOM!"
"Stop yelling at me, Alec." Mom came up the stairs with a basket of laundry on her hip, completely unfazed by the tragedy at hand.
"Jimmy stole my game!"
At that moment, the little turd emerged from the bathroom, false smile in place so that Mom wouldn't know what he really was.
"I go potty," he said.
"Where's my game you little--"
"Alec," Mom warned.
I knew what she would say. Be nice to your brother. But she didn't understand what I had to deal with. "He took my game and wrecked my backpack. Why can't I have my own room, with a lock on the door?"
Mom ignored me and picked up the demon. And kissed him! Sure, that will teach him to be better behaved. His eyes darted toward me, gleaming with triumph.
"Did you take Alec's game, Jimmy?"
"No," Turd Boy answered. "It fell."
"Fell where?" I insisted.
"In the potty."
Horror gripped me as I rushed into the bathroom and looked down into the toilet. Sure enough, the black and silver square of my new game stared back up at me through the tainted water. Words failed me; I just stood there, gaping, fuming. Mom came up beside me and, about two seconds after I hoped she might reach down there and save my game said, "If you had cleaned this indoor-outhouse like I told you yesterday, it wouldn't look so bad."
Then she turned around and left me there.
"Wait," I cried, blinking back any evidence of tears. "How am I supposed to get it back?"
"You have fifteen minutes before the bus comes to figure it out."
... Will Alec brave the Pee-Pot? Can Deep Dungeon VI be saved? Tune in next time when our hero gets flushed.
It all started with evil Annabelle taking the last of the bacon, which was supposed to be mine. The argument was short, and Mom sided with Annabelle, so I snagged the last two pieces of toast and stuffed them in my mouth before the evil one could grab any. I would have stuck out my tongue, for good measure, but it was sort of encased in bread at the moment.
Back in my room, I reached for my backpack only to find that the contents had been scattered across the floor and Deep Dungeon VI (which I had stashed in my secret pouch) was missing.
"MOM!" Bread crumbs sprayed from my mouth, but I didn't care. Mom would make me vacuum after school, but it didn't matter. Little Jimmy, my brother and nemesis, had stolen my new game. His crib lay empty and there was no telling where the little demon had got to.
"MOM!"
"Stop yelling at me, Alec." Mom came up the stairs with a basket of laundry on her hip, completely unfazed by the tragedy at hand.
"Jimmy stole my game!"
At that moment, the little turd emerged from the bathroom, false smile in place so that Mom wouldn't know what he really was.
"I go potty," he said.
"Where's my game you little--"
"Alec," Mom warned.
I knew what she would say. Be nice to your brother. But she didn't understand what I had to deal with. "He took my game and wrecked my backpack. Why can't I have my own room, with a lock on the door?"
Mom ignored me and picked up the demon. And kissed him! Sure, that will teach him to be better behaved. His eyes darted toward me, gleaming with triumph.
"Did you take Alec's game, Jimmy?"
"No," Turd Boy answered. "It fell."
"Fell where?" I insisted.
"In the potty."
Horror gripped me as I rushed into the bathroom and looked down into the toilet. Sure enough, the black and silver square of my new game stared back up at me through the tainted water. Words failed me; I just stood there, gaping, fuming. Mom came up beside me and, about two seconds after I hoped she might reach down there and save my game said, "If you had cleaned this indoor-outhouse like I told you yesterday, it wouldn't look so bad."
Then she turned around and left me there.
"Wait," I cried, blinking back any evidence of tears. "How am I supposed to get it back?"
"You have fifteen minutes before the bus comes to figure it out."
... Will Alec brave the Pee-Pot? Can Deep Dungeon VI be saved? Tune in next time when our hero gets flushed.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hello World
It was never my intention to leave off blogging forever, but demons sometimes get the better of folks when they least expect them. And then those folks must do nothing but sit on the couch and read unmentionable books for six months straight.
I'm still here and, more importantly, I'm still writing. There's a certain joy to be had in one's favored hobby, and I'm lucky enough to have enough of them --hobbies that is--that I should never get bored. (a very good theory, that) :) So far, this has been a year of goal setting and goal reaching for me. As soon as I'd crawled out of my personal PIT OF DESPAIR (cue creepy music), I determined to write another novel. In about three months. Which, if any of you are accustomed to writing will know is not such a difficult task. Sometimes.
And I reached it. Yay for me!
Naturally, I have other, less glamorous goals, but I won't bore you with the list. And obstacles, there were (are) many, but you don't want to hear about the gut-wrenching agony of those, or about leaking roofs and broken mowers, gremlin children and what-not. Suffice it to say that all those things exist and we'll leave it at that. In the mean time, I'm still bouncing on my cloud of anxiousness, waiting for the publishing rainbow to shine on me.
Wish me luck!
So, not only did I tuck another finished story under my belt, I also managed to get said story under the noses of a couple of agents. Whether that pans out any gold remains to be seen, but I can say that I've been checking my e-mail obsessively. Of course!
I'm still here and, more importantly, I'm still writing. There's a certain joy to be had in one's favored hobby, and I'm lucky enough to have enough of them --hobbies that is--that I should never get bored. (a very good theory, that) :) So far, this has been a year of goal setting and goal reaching for me. As soon as I'd crawled out of my personal PIT OF DESPAIR (cue creepy music), I determined to write another novel. In about three months. Which, if any of you are accustomed to writing will know is not such a difficult task. Sometimes.
And I reached it. Yay for me!
Naturally, I have other, less glamorous goals, but I won't bore you with the list. And obstacles, there were (are) many, but you don't want to hear about the gut-wrenching agony of those, or about leaking roofs and broken mowers, gremlin children and what-not. Suffice it to say that all those things exist and we'll leave it at that. In the mean time, I'm still bouncing on my cloud of anxiousness, waiting for the publishing rainbow to shine on me.
Wish me luck!
So, not only did I tuck another finished story under my belt, I also managed to get said story under the noses of a couple of agents. Whether that pans out any gold remains to be seen, but I can say that I've been checking my e-mail obsessively. Of course!
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