I am going to take all the irritation... nay, frustration... nay, anger... nay, rage at some of the customers today, coupled with working long past my scheduled hours and condense it into one moderated word of expulsion.
Ready?
BOOOOOOOOO!
I feel better :)
This is my place to vent and extrapolate on personal matters. I may also talk about my life as an indie writer. For strictly release information, please click "here".
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Puppy Jar
I am seriously considering buying a nice, clear container to set in a place of prominence for when guests come over. When they see it, and the myriad of amazing bits it contains they will ask with awe and wonder,
"Why, whatever is that jar for?"
"That old thing?" I will answer with calculated nonchalance. "Oh really, it's nothing."
"No, no," they will press me, like children. "Tell us why does it contain such bizarre items?"
"It is merely a puppy jar," I shall respond, fixing a cold eye on them, much like a preying hawk.
"Tell us, tell us," they will insist. "What is a puppy jar?"
"It is every thing my delightful bargain bin puppy has put in his mouth, and that I have had to pull out." I will point to the pine needles, liberally littering the bottom. "Christmas," I shall say, waving a hand dismissively. I will offer up the knowledge of every bit of plastic, toilet paper, bottle cap, napkin (and so forth) that my puppy has managed to unearth from the bowels of my supposedly clean home.
"That," I will answer, finally, with an air of triumphant scorn, "is a puppy jar!"
"Why, whatever is that jar for?"
"That old thing?" I will answer with calculated nonchalance. "Oh really, it's nothing."
"No, no," they will press me, like children. "Tell us why does it contain such bizarre items?"
"It is merely a puppy jar," I shall respond, fixing a cold eye on them, much like a preying hawk.
"Tell us, tell us," they will insist. "What is a puppy jar?"
"It is every thing my delightful bargain bin puppy has put in his mouth, and that I have had to pull out." I will point to the pine needles, liberally littering the bottom. "Christmas," I shall say, waving a hand dismissively. I will offer up the knowledge of every bit of plastic, toilet paper, bottle cap, napkin (and so forth) that my puppy has managed to unearth from the bowels of my supposedly clean home.
"That," I will answer, finally, with an air of triumphant scorn, "is a puppy jar!"
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Exciting at the End
Ever read a book and realize SO MUCH happens at the end? I feel like the lion's share of the action is really coming in the last half. This worries me a little, for if it's not gripping enough in the second half, it may be put aside. I've put a number of books aside for this reason (it's just not picking up and I can't slog through it anymore!). I don't feel my story is doing this, not entirely, but then, I'm biased.
One of my good friends gave me an excellent criticism about the story. I have almost finished the first draft, and it is something I will keep foremost in my thoughts when I start my serious revisions.
My fiance also gave me a very good criticism today... it made me laugh a little. "All your characters sound so... smart!" "I'm smart," I answered. "Yeah, well, all your characters can't be, too." This will also be good to know during revision time :)
It's nice to have amazing friends (and fiances)! And by that, I mean friends (and fiances) who tell you honestly there is a problem, not just pat you on the back and say good job.
One of my good friends gave me an excellent criticism about the story. I have almost finished the first draft, and it is something I will keep foremost in my thoughts when I start my serious revisions.
My fiance also gave me a very good criticism today... it made me laugh a little. "All your characters sound so... smart!" "I'm smart," I answered. "Yeah, well, all your characters can't be, too." This will also be good to know during revision time :)
It's nice to have amazing friends (and fiances)! And by that, I mean friends (and fiances) who tell you honestly there is a problem, not just pat you on the back and say good job.
Curing the What Ifs...? (or: How I Learned My Insomnia Could End), Part 2
Last time I talked a little bit about how I see my day-to-day routine. Little things make me go, "What if...". I realized after I wrote it that I may... perhaps... seem a little paranoid. I want to assure you, I'm not paranoid, I'm just curious about alternate possibilities.
Here's a fun example. Yesterday I opened at work. We prepare our onions, cut by hand, every morning. They are fresh and yummy (and a big pain in the butt to do). I was peeling the paper skin off when a cloud of white dust poofed out of the onion in my hand, startling me.
Here was my thought process:
What was that? What if that was anthrax? No, that's silly, there's no anthrax in these onions. Wait, are these foreign onions? Are onions in season in the States right now? What if it's a foreign onion? What if it carries the seeds of some strange, buried prion or something? Holy crap, what if that turns me into a zombie? Do I feel like a zombie? I wonder how many people I'd infect before being taken down.
From there, it was an experiment in how I think a zombie outbreak would look, with the epicenter being my sleepy little Ohio town.
I think you get the point by now... basically, I feel like I'm always considering what could happen, and in thinking about it, I entertain myself. Greatly.
Until middle school, I was always able to fall asleep on a dime. I could close my eyes and I was gone. If it was bedtime, I was asleep. I didn't argue or ask questions, I simply laid down and that's all she wrote! As for what I wrote - whenever the mood struck me, on any topic and for any length of time until I was bored/done with it.
In middle school, I made the worst decision of my young life. I joined Power of the Pen. It was a competitive writing group (we actually went to competitions!). You'd be given about two hours to write, and everyone would be given the same topic. Some competitions, you'd do this two or even three times (yes, six hours of writing by hand). We also met weekly to talk about writing, how to improve, et cetera.
My writing was deemed not entirely acceptable in this setting. I am just not good at being given a topic and told to write on it - especially on a time limit. I made the team... barely. I was second alternate. Basically if someone got sick, I still wouldn't write. If two people got sick (inconceivable!) I might have a chance to get into the competition. However, I was assured, this had never happened in all the history of PotP. (Be ready to hear that more, 'in all the history of PotP')
So, of course, it happened with our last writing competition. I had gone all year glumly cheering my team on from the sidelines. I didn't want to cheer, I wanted to write! It was why I had joined in the first place. I smiled as best as I could, but my heart was heavy. When I was told that for the first time ever, the second alternate would be permitted to join the competition, I literally bounded about, an unbridled source of joy and energy. I thought my heart would explode, because it was far too small to contain my happiness.
I wrote with all my fervor that day. I remember my topic, "Write a story based around the idea 'Just wait 'til your father gets home!'" I wrote a story about a kid finding a little alien and causing a lot of mayhem with it. The boy took credit for the alien's misdeeds. The mom got angry and made the exclamation. It was unpolished, unfinished, maybe a little ugly, but I wrote with everything I had.
At the grading ceremony, our team was all set up to win the whole competition. Story after story was rewarded with stellar marks. Then, my story, graded last. How apropos. I received the worst marks in history, for our club. We lost the competition. We didn't go home with any awards. I was devasted; my team was furious. My friends would not longer speak to me. I cried like any heartbroken child would.
The next week at school, my English teacher (Vice President of PotP) approached me about my scores. "Your writing is terrible," she informed me. "You received the worst marks, ever, in the history of our club. I don't even want to look at you right now. You will never be a writer. Never. You should give it up. Do something you're actually good at, like math. Spare yourself the embarrassment, and don't write anymore." Then she walked away, red tresses flowing behind her in the cryptic winds of the hallway.
My heart was in my shoes. It was beneath my shoes. It was dripping in rivulets down through the dirt to burn up in the core of the earth, never to be recovered. I cried, right there and quietly through the rest of the day. I swore off writing. I packed up all the stories and ideas I was working on, clenched my jaw and gave up.
Less than a week later, the insomnia started.
Here's a fun example. Yesterday I opened at work. We prepare our onions, cut by hand, every morning. They are fresh and yummy (and a big pain in the butt to do). I was peeling the paper skin off when a cloud of white dust poofed out of the onion in my hand, startling me.
Here was my thought process:
What was that? What if that was anthrax? No, that's silly, there's no anthrax in these onions. Wait, are these foreign onions? Are onions in season in the States right now? What if it's a foreign onion? What if it carries the seeds of some strange, buried prion or something? Holy crap, what if that turns me into a zombie? Do I feel like a zombie? I wonder how many people I'd infect before being taken down.
From there, it was an experiment in how I think a zombie outbreak would look, with the epicenter being my sleepy little Ohio town.
I think you get the point by now... basically, I feel like I'm always considering what could happen, and in thinking about it, I entertain myself. Greatly.
Until middle school, I was always able to fall asleep on a dime. I could close my eyes and I was gone. If it was bedtime, I was asleep. I didn't argue or ask questions, I simply laid down and that's all she wrote! As for what I wrote - whenever the mood struck me, on any topic and for any length of time until I was bored/done with it.
In middle school, I made the worst decision of my young life. I joined Power of the Pen. It was a competitive writing group (we actually went to competitions!). You'd be given about two hours to write, and everyone would be given the same topic. Some competitions, you'd do this two or even three times (yes, six hours of writing by hand). We also met weekly to talk about writing, how to improve, et cetera.
My writing was deemed not entirely acceptable in this setting. I am just not good at being given a topic and told to write on it - especially on a time limit. I made the team... barely. I was second alternate. Basically if someone got sick, I still wouldn't write. If two people got sick (inconceivable!) I might have a chance to get into the competition. However, I was assured, this had never happened in all the history of PotP. (Be ready to hear that more, 'in all the history of PotP')
So, of course, it happened with our last writing competition. I had gone all year glumly cheering my team on from the sidelines. I didn't want to cheer, I wanted to write! It was why I had joined in the first place. I smiled as best as I could, but my heart was heavy. When I was told that for the first time ever, the second alternate would be permitted to join the competition, I literally bounded about, an unbridled source of joy and energy. I thought my heart would explode, because it was far too small to contain my happiness.
I wrote with all my fervor that day. I remember my topic, "Write a story based around the idea 'Just wait 'til your father gets home!'" I wrote a story about a kid finding a little alien and causing a lot of mayhem with it. The boy took credit for the alien's misdeeds. The mom got angry and made the exclamation. It was unpolished, unfinished, maybe a little ugly, but I wrote with everything I had.
At the grading ceremony, our team was all set up to win the whole competition. Story after story was rewarded with stellar marks. Then, my story, graded last. How apropos. I received the worst marks in history, for our club. We lost the competition. We didn't go home with any awards. I was devasted; my team was furious. My friends would not longer speak to me. I cried like any heartbroken child would.
The next week at school, my English teacher (Vice President of PotP) approached me about my scores. "Your writing is terrible," she informed me. "You received the worst marks, ever, in the history of our club. I don't even want to look at you right now. You will never be a writer. Never. You should give it up. Do something you're actually good at, like math. Spare yourself the embarrassment, and don't write anymore." Then she walked away, red tresses flowing behind her in the cryptic winds of the hallway.
My heart was in my shoes. It was beneath my shoes. It was dripping in rivulets down through the dirt to burn up in the core of the earth, never to be recovered. I cried, right there and quietly through the rest of the day. I swore off writing. I packed up all the stories and ideas I was working on, clenched my jaw and gave up.
Less than a week later, the insomnia started.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Shorty Before Bed
I would like to take a moment out of my day to point over to my sidebar there and ask you to notice #3, 5, 7 and 9 of My Pledge.
There is no new content today, as I spent my allotment of "writing time" poring over the suggestions of my editors-in-writing.
This is a very, very, very mission critical thing for any writer to do. If you do not have at least 3 people read over your manuscript then read very carefully.
FIND THREE PEOPLE TO READ OVER YOUR MANUSCRIPT.
Someone in that group is bound to catch at least one detail you missed. If they do, it's one less screw-up the world knows you made.
Here's to making a story all it's meant to be. Cheers, editors!
There is no new content today, as I spent my allotment of "writing time" poring over the suggestions of my editors-in-writing.
This is a very, very, very mission critical thing for any writer to do. If you do not have at least 3 people read over your manuscript then read very carefully.
FIND THREE PEOPLE TO READ OVER YOUR MANUSCRIPT.
Someone in that group is bound to catch at least one detail you missed. If they do, it's one less screw-up the world knows you made.
Here's to making a story all it's meant to be. Cheers, editors!
Curing the What Ifs...? (or: How I Learned My Insomnia Could End), Part 1
I know I had kind of a negative post yesterday, so I'm sorry about that. I think every writer goes through it at some point. I also believe bad writers don't, and that's why I haven't enjoyed a number of books I've read in the past.
I don't work a high-end job (even with my fancy college education). I deliver pizza. Most of the people I work with freely admit that they use books only for the purpose of even-ing out that short leg on the dining room table. But, as a matter of social politeness, I ask them about their kids/pets/cars/spouses/that thing they mentioned last time we talked... and they ask me about my book.
In general, I am thinking about three things: 1. Food. (I love to eat. And read. And eat while reading.) 2. My family (love you guys!). 3. My book. But, I can think about these three things, because I have discovered my own personal cure for the What Ifs.
I mentioned my co-workers, because when they ask me about how "that book thing you're working on is going" and I say something along the lines of "I broke 30k words yesterday"... it kind of kills the conversation. I often get uncomfortable or shocked reactions to the progress in my writing. I've had them say, "I don't think I could put one hundred words together" and I think to myself, "You couldn't write a paragraph?"
That paragraph was 75 words, by the way.
They also ask me questions like, "How can you think up these things?" This puzzled me. For a long time, I thought it was something anyone could pull out. It's not hard for me to turn a mundane situation into the extraordinary. I call this the What Ifs. You take a situation and then you say, "But what if..."
Here is an example:
A man is going to work and is waiting on a subway platform.
Okay, so now let's think of some What If statements.
A man is going to work and is waiting on a subway platform.
What if he notices that his train, which runs on a very exact schedule, is two minutes early?
What if he steps on that train anyway, believing it to be his?
What if, once through the door, he finds himself not on the train, but in a forest?
What if he turns around and can still see the platform behind him?
What if the door closes and he's left in the jungle?
What if he's stepped into an alternate dimension (or: through an alien portal?)
What if his technology (cellphone, laptop, ect) don't work?
What if they DO?
What if they become magical!
What if, magical, they allow him to summon demons????
This is my thought process. It took me about two minutes to do that, because I can only type 90wpm.
That's how my brain works. I constantly have these kinds of thoughts racing through my head.
What if, when I go to pay for my groceries, there's a snake in my bag?
What if, that elderly gentleman coming down the street were to stop and shake my hand? What if he told me he knew my grandfather in "The Orange"? What if "The Orange" meant the CIA?
What if that payphone rang? What if the voice on the other end told me it was God calling?
What if that boy ran out in the street after that ball he's kicking? What if an angel saved him? What if I saw it?
All the time, these things go through my head. If I don't have some sort of outlet they gradually get louder and louder until I am awake in the early hours of the morning, begging for sleep. I had to find a cure. I'll stop here for now, and append a {Part 1} on the end. I'll talk about my cure in {Part 2}! To be continued :)
Part 2
I don't work a high-end job (even with my fancy college education). I deliver pizza. Most of the people I work with freely admit that they use books only for the purpose of even-ing out that short leg on the dining room table. But, as a matter of social politeness, I ask them about their kids/pets/cars/spouses/that thing they mentioned last time we talked... and they ask me about my book.
In general, I am thinking about three things: 1. Food. (I love to eat. And read. And eat while reading.) 2. My family (love you guys!). 3. My book. But, I can think about these three things, because I have discovered my own personal cure for the What Ifs.
I mentioned my co-workers, because when they ask me about how "that book thing you're working on is going" and I say something along the lines of "I broke 30k words yesterday"... it kind of kills the conversation. I often get uncomfortable or shocked reactions to the progress in my writing. I've had them say, "I don't think I could put one hundred words together" and I think to myself, "You couldn't write a paragraph?"
That paragraph was 75 words, by the way.
They also ask me questions like, "How can you think up these things?" This puzzled me. For a long time, I thought it was something anyone could pull out. It's not hard for me to turn a mundane situation into the extraordinary. I call this the What Ifs. You take a situation and then you say, "But what if..."
Here is an example:
A man is going to work and is waiting on a subway platform.
Okay, so now let's think of some What If statements.
A man is going to work and is waiting on a subway platform.
What if he notices that his train, which runs on a very exact schedule, is two minutes early?
What if he steps on that train anyway, believing it to be his?
What if, once through the door, he finds himself not on the train, but in a forest?
What if he turns around and can still see the platform behind him?
What if the door closes and he's left in the jungle?
What if he's stepped into an alternate dimension (or: through an alien portal?)
What if his technology (cellphone, laptop, ect) don't work?
What if they DO?
What if they become magical!
What if, magical, they allow him to summon demons????
This is my thought process. It took me about two minutes to do that, because I can only type 90wpm.
That's how my brain works. I constantly have these kinds of thoughts racing through my head.
What if, when I go to pay for my groceries, there's a snake in my bag?
What if, that elderly gentleman coming down the street were to stop and shake my hand? What if he told me he knew my grandfather in "The Orange"? What if "The Orange" meant the CIA?
What if that payphone rang? What if the voice on the other end told me it was God calling?
What if that boy ran out in the street after that ball he's kicking? What if an angel saved him? What if I saw it?
All the time, these things go through my head. If I don't have some sort of outlet they gradually get louder and louder until I am awake in the early hours of the morning, begging for sleep. I had to find a cure. I'll stop here for now, and append a {Part 1} on the end. I'll talk about my cure in {Part 2}! To be continued :)
Part 2
Dragging Frustration
Pardon this rant.
I've written three chapters in the past two days.
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think that's horrible, but I don't feel so happy about. When I broke 20k, I thought over and over, I only have 30k left! That's easy!
But now I'm really in the mire of the story. These chapters are more and more important as the book progresses. A few days ago, it really, really switched to the action. These pieces need to be just right. Now, looking at my almost 34k work, I think, how will I finish the next 16k?!?
It's so close. I'm so close! But, my writer's panic is flaring up (a real condition, I'd wager!). What if it's not good enough? What if it's not as good as before? What if NONE of it's good! (Cue exit of hair follicles).
I know I am probably psyching myself out. I know my As-written-editors are clawing at me to get the next chapters.
Just gotta breathe. Just gotta finish.
Fun Fact: This will be my first finished for-pleasure work since 2005. I have well over a dozen beginnings of other stories, but I've really stuck with this one. Almost, almost to the end. Just gotta breathe!
I've written three chapters in the past two days.
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think that's horrible, but I don't feel so happy about. When I broke 20k, I thought over and over, I only have 30k left! That's easy!
But now I'm really in the mire of the story. These chapters are more and more important as the book progresses. A few days ago, it really, really switched to the action. These pieces need to be just right. Now, looking at my almost 34k work, I think, how will I finish the next 16k?!?
It's so close. I'm so close! But, my writer's panic is flaring up (a real condition, I'd wager!). What if it's not good enough? What if it's not as good as before? What if NONE of it's good! (Cue exit of hair follicles).
I know I am probably psyching myself out. I know my As-written-editors are clawing at me to get the next chapters.
Just gotta breathe. Just gotta finish.
Fun Fact: This will be my first finished for-pleasure work since 2005. I have well over a dozen beginnings of other stories, but I've really stuck with this one. Almost, almost to the end. Just gotta breathe!
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