Just a quick note to help keep me on track with posting.
I'm still having trouble using my writing time to write. I think I'm intimidated. But I'm getting better at remembering to write, and feeling like I want to. I think I'm digging back out of that weird funk I fell into around Christmas (jeez, it took me long enough).
I wanted to work on my original story, but the next couple chapters take place in a prison, and my personal knowledge of such things is limited to what they show on TV. So, I decided to do some research, not only on prisons in general but specifically on the psych wards and on some local prisons that I might use as the setting. I'm going to try to use real places when I can, but altered slightly to reflect the AU we're in.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that we don't really have psych wards. What we have is regular prison and isolation. That's a bit of an oversimplification, but it appears that our prison system is vastly underserving the needs of its mentally ill. For starters, we don't really have mental asylums anymore, with the result that upwards of 60% of our prisoners have mental illnesses (probably most of them are understandably depressed, though). Psychiatrists don't make their rounds, prisoners are prescribed old, cheap generics or nothing at all, and the wardens use isolation ("a night in the box) to punish prisoners for exhibiting psychologically unbalanced behavior, such as suicide attempts.
Yeah, that's right. They put suicidal prisoners into sensory-deprivation isolation.
I think that's Hell on earth, in the real and actual meaning of the word - a place away from God. I also think that's cruel and unusual. Even in regular rooms, the prisoners are often denied the right to have property, such as magazines. What the eff to they do all day?!
The prison where my character lives isn't as bad, since the East Coast prisons seem to be regulated a bit more. The really bad ones are the privately operated industrial prisons in the Midwest. I doubt anyone in the government gives a flying fuck what they do to people out there. Out of sight, out of mind.
However, one of the prisons I might use is New York's Rikers Island, which apparently has a ward where a reporter went to talk to the prisoners and found about half of the cells were covered in Plexiglass, such that she could only hear them if they shouted. The wardens explained that the Plexiglass was "for the shit-throwers." We have hundreds of shit-throwers? Really? That was the only way the prisoners could express themselves?
I had begun my research because I wanted to make sure I didn't accidentally over-dramatize the prisons. Now I realize I was under-dramatizing them. Nothing I could have thought of would be as bad as the reality. I find this grimly humbling.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Lazarus
Well, I should probably have blogged about this already. Some journal-keeper I am.
I had an idea for an original story. I had been going to write a zombie apocalypse story, but frankly, I realized that has been done, and, more importantly, done BETTER than I can do it. I still want to write it, but it would probably be for my family, not for publication. Then, while hiding in the bathroom doing nothing recently, I had an idea.
I could not tell you how I arrived at this idea if you paid me, but apparently I was thinking about something that started bothering me just this year at Easter. When Jesus rises from the dead, he still has his wounds - the holes in his hand, we know about from poor, maligned Doubting Thomas, but presumably also the hole in his side. You know, the one that PIERCED HIS HEART? The FATAL wound?
How the heck is Jesus alive if he still bears a mortal wound?!
The answer is simple: He isn't. He's a zombie.
I used to get kind of mad at people who made jokes about Zombie Jesus Day, thinking "No! He's not a zombie, he's resurrected! He's alive!" But he won't be for long, if he's still got a hole in his heart. Explain THAT, New Testament!
Thence arose the idea that Jesus was raised from the dead not by God, who despises the undead, but by an evil necromancer interfering in God's New Testament. That's our central conflict, and our hero has to solve it by going back in time to battle the necromancer and free Jesus in order to save the souls of all humanity. Ta-da!
There's more to it than that, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to blog the entire plot of a story I want to sell for actual money. It might not have been the best idea to go for something so controversial as Zombie Jesus for my first story, but I'll tell you one thing, it's never been done. It's an original idea and it will definitely stand out and stick in editors' memories.
As long as I can get someone interested enough to be willing to help me edit it to the point that they are comfortable publishing it, I'm golden - and I don't mind editing it until it's pablum. I still have my original version and I can self-publish that if I want to, or just share it with my friends and family. I trust the editors to tell me what the general readership wants. I also don't want fundies showing up on my doorstep and shooting me dead.
I wrote the first draft of the first chapter, and my plan is to release it for free to everyone in order to help gather interest (lots of authors do that so I think it's an accepted procedure). Here it is, since I think later on someone (me) might be amused by reading it:
---------------------------------------------
"Lazarus, we've been over this," Rob, the court-appointed psychiatrist, was beginning to lose his veneer of patience. "If you don't take your Clozapine, you won't get better."
"I do take my Clozapine." Laz shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, the chains of his handcuffs clinking over its plastic armrests. The chair was too small for his massive fame, and his left buttcheek was falling asleep. Would it kill them to put a cushion on these things? Just a folded-up towel would be an improvement.
"Lazarus, I'm hurt," the psychiatrist said with a reproving look. "I thought we were past this. I know you're not telling me the truth."
"I am. I do take my pills. I take them, and throw them in the toilet." Laz grinned, and the greenish flourescent lights of the prison's therapy room glinted off his broken front teeth.
Rob leaned forward, his brow creasing with fatherly concern. "Lazarus. Laz. Please, work with me here. If I can't tell the wardens you're taking your medication, they'll start administering it via syringe."
Laz's normally ruddy skin paled visibly, but his voice was steady, his tone light. "Oh, I don't know. It might be a fun blast from the past. Getting shot up with shit that scrambles my brain." He tugged at his handcuffs again, unconsciously trying to hide the wealth of track marks on his meaty arms.
"It won't scramble your brain, Laz. It'll help you straighten it out again." Rob leaned back in his chair and smiled encouragingly at him. "I can see this topic is distressing you. Let's take a deep breath. In... Out... There you go. Let's talk about something else before our time is up. Have you had any episodes since last week?"
Laz grinned again. "Met any new demons, you mean? Nah. Not since week before last. The red Choronzonite down the hall is still there, though."
Rob winced. "Lazarus. Manuela is just a disturbed man. Please don't tell the other inmates he is a demon. We don't need any of them getting excited and trying to kill the poor man. Remember what we talked about?"
Laz sighed and recited in monotone, "Demons are a metaphorical representation of the baser sides of human nature. They are not real. They are a myth. When I see a demon, I am to tell my wardens immediately and I am to drink my special calming tea."
"Well done. You have an excellent memory. How about-" Rob broke off with a hiss of pain as the therapy room's door swung open and pinched the end of his barbed tail.
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Wallace, didn't mean to catch your coat in the door," apologized the warden standing in the door.
"Is that what it looks like to you?" Laz laughed. "The end of his coat? Ha! Good, one, Rob."
"Laz, please." Rob curled the tail into his lap and checked it for damage, its small scales rasping against the thicker ones that coated his thighs. He flicked out the end of his long, forked tongue a few times, nervously tasting the air. The door must have pinched him pretty hard, Laz thought. Good. Smarmy bastard.
"Sorry, Rob," he said out loud. "I'm just kidding with you. I know you're not a demon."
"I'm so glad," Rob said dryly and let his tail fall back to the scuffed tile floor, turning to the warden. "Now, what was so important that you had to interrupt our session, sir?"
"Time's up, Mr. Wallace. They shortened the sessions to half an hour. Budget cuts." The warden moved towards Laz, taking out a thick ring of keys. "I need you to leave, sir, before I unlock the cuffs. This is a very dangerous man."
"Half an hour? I'm a doctor! I need time to work! How am I supposed to do any good with only half an hour," Rob snarled, lips curling to display the points of hollow fangs as he stalked out. Laz felt his eyebrows rise. Apparently Rob was venomous. He should keep that in mind, when it was time to kill him.
"You don't really think I'm dangerous, do you, Allen?" Laz gave the warden his most charming smile, which really wasn't saying much, since smiling just made the scars, broken teeth, and crooked nose all the more visible.
Allen glared at him. "You're a goddamned mass murderer, Lazarus. If I were a judge, I'd give you the chair, and it'd be too good for you."
Allen pulled Laz's hands behind his back and slapped another pair of handcuffs onto his thick wrists before unlocking the ones that chained him to the chair. Then he pulled Laz to his feet by his collar and prodded him hard between the shoulder blades with the end of his nightstick, shoving him towards the door.
"Ow, Allen," Laz complained. "Use your words. Language seperates us from the animals, you know."
Allen grabbed the chain of his handcuffs and jerked it down and back, twisting Laz's shoulders painfully and pulling his head down to Allen's level. "Get. In. Your. Fucking. Cell," he growled into Laz's ear.
"See, that wasn't so hard," Laz said, and smiled at him again because it seemed to annoy him. "Even for you."
"Fuck you."
"You're not my type, Allen, but if your mother is available-"
"You shut your goddamned mouth!" Allen gave another hard jerk on the handcuffs, the steel cutting into the skin of Laz's wrists and drawing blood.
Well, that was probably enough for now, Laz decided. If he bruised up his wrists too badly, the cuffs wouldn't fit at all anymore, and they would just leave him confined to the cell until the swelling went down. 'One Size Fits All' generally meant 'This Will Be Too Small For You, Lazarus,' and handcuffs were no exceptions. He twisted his wrist, managed to wrap two fingers around the handcuff chain, and pulled it out of Allen's grip without apparent effort before sauntering briskly down the hall, up two flights of stairs and along a windowless corridor. He stopped at the door to his cell and waited patiently for Allen to catch up and unlock it.
The unlovely cell was as it had been a half hour ago: green walls, whitish floor, two narrow bunks, steel sink and toilet, single broken chair. His roommate was stretched out on his bunk, reading a naughty paperback for the umpteenth time. As the door clanged shut behind Laz, he looked up and grinned. "Hey, Laz. You kill Rob today?"
"Nah," Laz said. He backed up to the door and stuck his hands through the slot for Allen to unlock the cuffs. "Not today."
"Next time, then."
"Yeah."
"When you break out, you gonna take me with you, right?"
"Sure thing, Paulo."
"No talking about escapes," came Allen's voice through the heavy door.
"Sorry, Allen," Laz called back. "We'll talk about your mom instead."
"Fuck you." They could hear the jingling of his keys as he stomped away.
"He keeps saying that," Laz said to Paulo, "but I don't think he really means it."
"Tease." Paulo went back to his book while Laz went to the sink and ran cold water over his wrists. He dried them off and threw himself down on his bunk, which creaked dangerously under his weight. Paulo looked up again, his swarthy face vaguely curious. "Lazy?"
"That's a misnomer. What?"
"Is Rob really a demon?"
"Oh yes. Most definitely."
Long pause. "You sure you ain't crazy?"
Laz chuckled and started to sing. "Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe you're crazy. Maybe we're crazyyyyy..."
"Aw, Lazy, I hate Gnarls Barkley, and you sing like a damned crow."
"True." Laz settled a little lower into his bunk. "Seriously, though. I'm probably at least a little bit crazy, but not about this. Not about demons."
"Because this is the psych ward, I mean, they put us here because we crazy."
"Yeah, they think I'm a paranoid schitzophrenic. I'm not, though. I'm just surrounded by demons who want to kill me."
Paulo turned a page in his book before he spoke again. "You really murder all those people?"
"No."
Paulo looked up again. "Really? You framed?"
"No, I killed them. They just weren't people."
"Oh, right. They demons."
"Right."
I had an idea for an original story. I had been going to write a zombie apocalypse story, but frankly, I realized that has been done, and, more importantly, done BETTER than I can do it. I still want to write it, but it would probably be for my family, not for publication. Then, while hiding in the bathroom doing nothing recently, I had an idea.
I could not tell you how I arrived at this idea if you paid me, but apparently I was thinking about something that started bothering me just this year at Easter. When Jesus rises from the dead, he still has his wounds - the holes in his hand, we know about from poor, maligned Doubting Thomas, but presumably also the hole in his side. You know, the one that PIERCED HIS HEART? The FATAL wound?
How the heck is Jesus alive if he still bears a mortal wound?!
The answer is simple: He isn't. He's a zombie.
I used to get kind of mad at people who made jokes about Zombie Jesus Day, thinking "No! He's not a zombie, he's resurrected! He's alive!" But he won't be for long, if he's still got a hole in his heart. Explain THAT, New Testament!
Thence arose the idea that Jesus was raised from the dead not by God, who despises the undead, but by an evil necromancer interfering in God's New Testament. That's our central conflict, and our hero has to solve it by going back in time to battle the necromancer and free Jesus in order to save the souls of all humanity. Ta-da!
There's more to it than that, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to blog the entire plot of a story I want to sell for actual money. It might not have been the best idea to go for something so controversial as Zombie Jesus for my first story, but I'll tell you one thing, it's never been done. It's an original idea and it will definitely stand out and stick in editors' memories.
As long as I can get someone interested enough to be willing to help me edit it to the point that they are comfortable publishing it, I'm golden - and I don't mind editing it until it's pablum. I still have my original version and I can self-publish that if I want to, or just share it with my friends and family. I trust the editors to tell me what the general readership wants. I also don't want fundies showing up on my doorstep and shooting me dead.
I wrote the first draft of the first chapter, and my plan is to release it for free to everyone in order to help gather interest (lots of authors do that so I think it's an accepted procedure). Here it is, since I think later on someone (me) might be amused by reading it:
---------------------------------------------
Lazarus (working title), Chapter 1, Draft 1
"Lazarus, we've been over this," Rob, the court-appointed psychiatrist, was beginning to lose his veneer of patience. "If you don't take your Clozapine, you won't get better."
"I do take my Clozapine." Laz shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, the chains of his handcuffs clinking over its plastic armrests. The chair was too small for his massive fame, and his left buttcheek was falling asleep. Would it kill them to put a cushion on these things? Just a folded-up towel would be an improvement.
"Lazarus, I'm hurt," the psychiatrist said with a reproving look. "I thought we were past this. I know you're not telling me the truth."
"I am. I do take my pills. I take them, and throw them in the toilet." Laz grinned, and the greenish flourescent lights of the prison's therapy room glinted off his broken front teeth.
Rob leaned forward, his brow creasing with fatherly concern. "Lazarus. Laz. Please, work with me here. If I can't tell the wardens you're taking your medication, they'll start administering it via syringe."
Laz's normally ruddy skin paled visibly, but his voice was steady, his tone light. "Oh, I don't know. It might be a fun blast from the past. Getting shot up with shit that scrambles my brain." He tugged at his handcuffs again, unconsciously trying to hide the wealth of track marks on his meaty arms.
"It won't scramble your brain, Laz. It'll help you straighten it out again." Rob leaned back in his chair and smiled encouragingly at him. "I can see this topic is distressing you. Let's take a deep breath. In... Out... There you go. Let's talk about something else before our time is up. Have you had any episodes since last week?"
Laz grinned again. "Met any new demons, you mean? Nah. Not since week before last. The red Choronzonite down the hall is still there, though."
Rob winced. "Lazarus. Manuela is just a disturbed man. Please don't tell the other inmates he is a demon. We don't need any of them getting excited and trying to kill the poor man. Remember what we talked about?"
Laz sighed and recited in monotone, "Demons are a metaphorical representation of the baser sides of human nature. They are not real. They are a myth. When I see a demon, I am to tell my wardens immediately and I am to drink my special calming tea."
"Well done. You have an excellent memory. How about-" Rob broke off with a hiss of pain as the therapy room's door swung open and pinched the end of his barbed tail.
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Wallace, didn't mean to catch your coat in the door," apologized the warden standing in the door.
"Is that what it looks like to you?" Laz laughed. "The end of his coat? Ha! Good, one, Rob."
"Laz, please." Rob curled the tail into his lap and checked it for damage, its small scales rasping against the thicker ones that coated his thighs. He flicked out the end of his long, forked tongue a few times, nervously tasting the air. The door must have pinched him pretty hard, Laz thought. Good. Smarmy bastard.
"Sorry, Rob," he said out loud. "I'm just kidding with you. I know you're not a demon."
"I'm so glad," Rob said dryly and let his tail fall back to the scuffed tile floor, turning to the warden. "Now, what was so important that you had to interrupt our session, sir?"
"Time's up, Mr. Wallace. They shortened the sessions to half an hour. Budget cuts." The warden moved towards Laz, taking out a thick ring of keys. "I need you to leave, sir, before I unlock the cuffs. This is a very dangerous man."
"Half an hour? I'm a doctor! I need time to work! How am I supposed to do any good with only half an hour," Rob snarled, lips curling to display the points of hollow fangs as he stalked out. Laz felt his eyebrows rise. Apparently Rob was venomous. He should keep that in mind, when it was time to kill him.
"You don't really think I'm dangerous, do you, Allen?" Laz gave the warden his most charming smile, which really wasn't saying much, since smiling just made the scars, broken teeth, and crooked nose all the more visible.
Allen glared at him. "You're a goddamned mass murderer, Lazarus. If I were a judge, I'd give you the chair, and it'd be too good for you."
Allen pulled Laz's hands behind his back and slapped another pair of handcuffs onto his thick wrists before unlocking the ones that chained him to the chair. Then he pulled Laz to his feet by his collar and prodded him hard between the shoulder blades with the end of his nightstick, shoving him towards the door.
"Ow, Allen," Laz complained. "Use your words. Language seperates us from the animals, you know."
Allen grabbed the chain of his handcuffs and jerked it down and back, twisting Laz's shoulders painfully and pulling his head down to Allen's level. "Get. In. Your. Fucking. Cell," he growled into Laz's ear.
"See, that wasn't so hard," Laz said, and smiled at him again because it seemed to annoy him. "Even for you."
"Fuck you."
"You're not my type, Allen, but if your mother is available-"
"You shut your goddamned mouth!" Allen gave another hard jerk on the handcuffs, the steel cutting into the skin of Laz's wrists and drawing blood.
Well, that was probably enough for now, Laz decided. If he bruised up his wrists too badly, the cuffs wouldn't fit at all anymore, and they would just leave him confined to the cell until the swelling went down. 'One Size Fits All' generally meant 'This Will Be Too Small For You, Lazarus,' and handcuffs were no exceptions. He twisted his wrist, managed to wrap two fingers around the handcuff chain, and pulled it out of Allen's grip without apparent effort before sauntering briskly down the hall, up two flights of stairs and along a windowless corridor. He stopped at the door to his cell and waited patiently for Allen to catch up and unlock it.
The unlovely cell was as it had been a half hour ago: green walls, whitish floor, two narrow bunks, steel sink and toilet, single broken chair. His roommate was stretched out on his bunk, reading a naughty paperback for the umpteenth time. As the door clanged shut behind Laz, he looked up and grinned. "Hey, Laz. You kill Rob today?"
"Nah," Laz said. He backed up to the door and stuck his hands through the slot for Allen to unlock the cuffs. "Not today."
"Next time, then."
"Yeah."
"When you break out, you gonna take me with you, right?"
"Sure thing, Paulo."
"No talking about escapes," came Allen's voice through the heavy door.
"Sorry, Allen," Laz called back. "We'll talk about your mom instead."
"Fuck you." They could hear the jingling of his keys as he stomped away.
"He keeps saying that," Laz said to Paulo, "but I don't think he really means it."
"Tease." Paulo went back to his book while Laz went to the sink and ran cold water over his wrists. He dried them off and threw himself down on his bunk, which creaked dangerously under his weight. Paulo looked up again, his swarthy face vaguely curious. "Lazy?"
"That's a misnomer. What?"
"Is Rob really a demon?"
"Oh yes. Most definitely."
Long pause. "You sure you ain't crazy?"
Laz chuckled and started to sing. "Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe you're crazy. Maybe we're crazyyyyy..."
"Aw, Lazy, I hate Gnarls Barkley, and you sing like a damned crow."
"True." Laz settled a little lower into his bunk. "Seriously, though. I'm probably at least a little bit crazy, but not about this. Not about demons."
"Because this is the psych ward, I mean, they put us here because we crazy."
"Yeah, they think I'm a paranoid schitzophrenic. I'm not, though. I'm just surrounded by demons who want to kill me."
Paulo turned a page in his book before he spoke again. "You really murder all those people?"
"No."
Paulo looked up again. "Really? You framed?"
"No, I killed them. They just weren't people."
"Oh, right. They demons."
"Right."
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Update
Posted a chapter of the werewolf story late last night, which was probably a bad idea - should have waiting until today. Only one review, although a very nice one, with lots of detail and comments.
This morning I was excited to start writing, but also really jonesing for a stupid casual game called Alchemy because it has an awesome soundtrack. Yeah, yeah, I know. I found the game and the soundtrack and played for two freakin' hours. Then I wandered into Neopets in the hopes of being able to transfer a pet (long story) and got distracted by another casual strategy game THERE.
Well, the morning is shot. However, I am going to consider it an improvement anyway, because I was playing games instead of doing nothing. I'm going to try to hold onto that momentum and go do some chores, because I think I need to get up from the computer now. Wish me luck!
This morning I was excited to start writing, but also really jonesing for a stupid casual game called Alchemy because it has an awesome soundtrack. Yeah, yeah, I know. I found the game and the soundtrack and played for two freakin' hours. Then I wandered into Neopets in the hopes of being able to transfer a pet (long story) and got distracted by another casual strategy game THERE.
Well, the morning is shot. However, I am going to consider it an improvement anyway, because I was playing games instead of doing nothing. I'm going to try to hold onto that momentum and go do some chores, because I think I need to get up from the computer now. Wish me luck!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Short vs. Long Chunks of Writing Time
One of the things I struggle with every day is whether "now" is a "good time for writing."
This is a problem that plagues my entire life, actually. Generally, "now" is NOT a good time for anything at all except, possibly, what I already happen to be doing. Yet, the thought process always begins with "Is now a good time to trim the dogs' nails / pay my taxes / mop the floor / wash my hair / work on my story?" and the answer is invariably NO. The daily life-support tasks always take first precedent, and anything that is in any way unusual always loses out to the dishes, making dinner, or giving the dogs their walk.
Frequently, I am paralyzed by indecision. I have many things I need to do, and it is not a good time for any of them. I don't have time to do even two or three of the things on my list, much less ALL of them. This means I have to pick one, and all the others won't get done. Inherent in that decision-making process is a value judgment: the thing I choose to do is more valuable to me than the thing I do not do. More importantly, the thing I do SEEMS TO OTHERS to be more important to me than the ones I don't do.
This leaves me terrified of NOT doing a thing that my husband, my boss, my friends, or my government considers important, lest they think I don't value that task, or worse, don't value THEM. I'm also afraid of beginning a task and then discovering I can't finish it, with the result that my day becomes completely derailed - for example, beginning to do my taxes only to discover that I have to get a bunch of statements from the bank, only to discover the bank here is closed, so I have to drive to Boston, only it's rush hour, and my whole afternoon is shot, and not only did I not finish my list but I ALSO didn't make dinner or walk the dogs.
The result? Do NONE of the items. Tell everyone I was too busy to do anything other than make dinner and walk the dogs. Thing that nobody can argue with, that we can all agree must be done on a daily basis.
What do I do instead, you ask? NOTHING.
That's right, nothing. I sit in my chair and refresh my email, or hide in the bathroom.
I can't tell anyone that hiding in the bathroom was more important than the thing they wanted me to do, because it isn't. To anyone, least of all me. This forces me to evade or lie if pressed on what I was doing. And I can't lie by saying I was doing anything that could be verified - I have to say I was doing some unnamed but important chore. That causes me to feel ashamed about not doing anything, which starts a guilt spiral that can ONLY be broken by urgency. That is to say, I can only get out of it by running out of time entirely. Then there's no more decision to be made. I just have to start dinner.
When nobody is home, for example if Ariel is visiting his parents, I might not ever "run out" of time, because nobody is waiting for me to do anything. I might not break out of the shame spiral until two or three in the morning. As I get tired at the end of the day, it becomes more and more difficult to escape. Only when physical exhaustion overcomes me can I go lie down and turn off the light. In fact, if I didn't have a job that I needed to be alert for, I'm not sure when I would go to bed at all. I might never. I might fall asleep at my desk, for all I know - I've never tested it (and I never will, because that would be stupid).
Because writing is a thing that I want to do, ME and JUST me, I am not accountable to anyone but myself. It is easier to disappoint myself than to disappoint anyone else. After all, I can't give MYSELF a disappointed glare, nor can I refuse to talk to myself, or refuse to pay myself (not true, actually - I often don't bill clients out of a sense of not deserving their money because I didn't work hard enough, but that's another issue). You might be able to see where this is going, but I'll finish the thought anyway.
If I use my normal criteria, writing always loses the argument about whether it's a good time to write. There is always something more important. ALWAYS.
I have to acknowledge that, because I have to internalize that there is never going to be a good time to write, period. I will never be able to finish all my work so I can write guilt-free - after all, a woman's work is never done (boy, is that true). I will never have nobody waiting for me. I will never be perfectly ready and creative and rested. There will always be something waiting that I'm putting off in order to write.
I have to be okay with that. I have to be strong in my determination to publish a novel, and aware that that might require writing MORE THAN ONE, and definitely will require sending mail and e-mail and making trips to New York to visit publishers and God only knows what, and that there will never be a good time to do any of this, ever.
This started out as a discussion of whether it is better to write in a short chunk, or whether I should attempt to carve out long chunks. It's certainly more satisfying to sit down and bang out a whole chapter in one sitting, but it's also really hard to grab that time. Writing in shorter chunks is easier, but produces a choppier result. I was intending to write up pros and cons and then pick a strategy.
I have instead convinced myself that this is just another part of my "good time" thought process. Another attempt to convince myself not to write, because I don't have the right amount of time to write in. What nonsense! It takes me a fraction of a second to type a letter, only a little longer to type a word, less than a minute to write a sentence. How silly of me to think I don't have enough time to write!
I don't know if it will help to think that way, though. There IS time lost when sitting down to write, in finding my place and remembering what I was doing. Functionally, ten minutes is actually not enough time. I will get frustrated. But four hours is tiring, and the result of a marathon writing session is a burnt-out writer - I don't pick up the keyboard again for a couple days after that. I have heard from too many places that writers must write every day to be willing to make any decision that will cause me to write only once or twice a week.
I'm also a little worried that marathon writing sessions cause me performance anxiety. The longer I have set aside to write, the longer it takes me to start. And the more excited I am about a topic, the harder it is to write it. I don't want to be disappointed. I don't want to discover I'm not good enough, or not as good as I thought, not good enough to break out.
I think, I'm going to seize any chunk of time that is at least half an hour in length, but ideally one hour. I don't think I will let myself write longer than an hour, even if I'm on a roll. That might sound stupid, but I think if I make myself stop, I will be excited to start again, and that will cut down on the lost transitional time. Longer than 90 minutes and I begin to be physically uncomfortable and I don't want to associate writing with being tired and in pain, nor do I want to worsen the aches in my fingers.
That will probably create choppiness, but you know, I don't think choppiness is my biggest problem. Shay has only commented on it twice, ever. If I do write choppy work, it is both easy and fun to fix it. I like editing. I like fixing problems when it is clearly better. I think I've lost track of that.
This is a problem that plagues my entire life, actually. Generally, "now" is NOT a good time for anything at all except, possibly, what I already happen to be doing. Yet, the thought process always begins with "Is now a good time to trim the dogs' nails / pay my taxes / mop the floor / wash my hair / work on my story?" and the answer is invariably NO. The daily life-support tasks always take first precedent, and anything that is in any way unusual always loses out to the dishes, making dinner, or giving the dogs their walk.
Frequently, I am paralyzed by indecision. I have many things I need to do, and it is not a good time for any of them. I don't have time to do even two or three of the things on my list, much less ALL of them. This means I have to pick one, and all the others won't get done. Inherent in that decision-making process is a value judgment: the thing I choose to do is more valuable to me than the thing I do not do. More importantly, the thing I do SEEMS TO OTHERS to be more important to me than the ones I don't do.
This leaves me terrified of NOT doing a thing that my husband, my boss, my friends, or my government considers important, lest they think I don't value that task, or worse, don't value THEM. I'm also afraid of beginning a task and then discovering I can't finish it, with the result that my day becomes completely derailed - for example, beginning to do my taxes only to discover that I have to get a bunch of statements from the bank, only to discover the bank here is closed, so I have to drive to Boston, only it's rush hour, and my whole afternoon is shot, and not only did I not finish my list but I ALSO didn't make dinner or walk the dogs.
The result? Do NONE of the items. Tell everyone I was too busy to do anything other than make dinner and walk the dogs. Thing that nobody can argue with, that we can all agree must be done on a daily basis.
What do I do instead, you ask? NOTHING.
That's right, nothing. I sit in my chair and refresh my email, or hide in the bathroom.
I can't tell anyone that hiding in the bathroom was more important than the thing they wanted me to do, because it isn't. To anyone, least of all me. This forces me to evade or lie if pressed on what I was doing. And I can't lie by saying I was doing anything that could be verified - I have to say I was doing some unnamed but important chore. That causes me to feel ashamed about not doing anything, which starts a guilt spiral that can ONLY be broken by urgency. That is to say, I can only get out of it by running out of time entirely. Then there's no more decision to be made. I just have to start dinner.
When nobody is home, for example if Ariel is visiting his parents, I might not ever "run out" of time, because nobody is waiting for me to do anything. I might not break out of the shame spiral until two or three in the morning. As I get tired at the end of the day, it becomes more and more difficult to escape. Only when physical exhaustion overcomes me can I go lie down and turn off the light. In fact, if I didn't have a job that I needed to be alert for, I'm not sure when I would go to bed at all. I might never. I might fall asleep at my desk, for all I know - I've never tested it (and I never will, because that would be stupid).
Because writing is a thing that I want to do, ME and JUST me, I am not accountable to anyone but myself. It is easier to disappoint myself than to disappoint anyone else. After all, I can't give MYSELF a disappointed glare, nor can I refuse to talk to myself, or refuse to pay myself (not true, actually - I often don't bill clients out of a sense of not deserving their money because I didn't work hard enough, but that's another issue). You might be able to see where this is going, but I'll finish the thought anyway.
If I use my normal criteria, writing always loses the argument about whether it's a good time to write. There is always something more important. ALWAYS.
I have to acknowledge that, because I have to internalize that there is never going to be a good time to write, period. I will never be able to finish all my work so I can write guilt-free - after all, a woman's work is never done (boy, is that true). I will never have nobody waiting for me. I will never be perfectly ready and creative and rested. There will always be something waiting that I'm putting off in order to write.
I have to be okay with that. I have to be strong in my determination to publish a novel, and aware that that might require writing MORE THAN ONE, and definitely will require sending mail and e-mail and making trips to New York to visit publishers and God only knows what, and that there will never be a good time to do any of this, ever.
This started out as a discussion of whether it is better to write in a short chunk, or whether I should attempt to carve out long chunks. It's certainly more satisfying to sit down and bang out a whole chapter in one sitting, but it's also really hard to grab that time. Writing in shorter chunks is easier, but produces a choppier result. I was intending to write up pros and cons and then pick a strategy.
I have instead convinced myself that this is just another part of my "good time" thought process. Another attempt to convince myself not to write, because I don't have the right amount of time to write in. What nonsense! It takes me a fraction of a second to type a letter, only a little longer to type a word, less than a minute to write a sentence. How silly of me to think I don't have enough time to write!
I don't know if it will help to think that way, though. There IS time lost when sitting down to write, in finding my place and remembering what I was doing. Functionally, ten minutes is actually not enough time. I will get frustrated. But four hours is tiring, and the result of a marathon writing session is a burnt-out writer - I don't pick up the keyboard again for a couple days after that. I have heard from too many places that writers must write every day to be willing to make any decision that will cause me to write only once or twice a week.
I'm also a little worried that marathon writing sessions cause me performance anxiety. The longer I have set aside to write, the longer it takes me to start. And the more excited I am about a topic, the harder it is to write it. I don't want to be disappointed. I don't want to discover I'm not good enough, or not as good as I thought, not good enough to break out.
I think, I'm going to seize any chunk of time that is at least half an hour in length, but ideally one hour. I don't think I will let myself write longer than an hour, even if I'm on a roll. That might sound stupid, but I think if I make myself stop, I will be excited to start again, and that will cut down on the lost transitional time. Longer than 90 minutes and I begin to be physically uncomfortable and I don't want to associate writing with being tired and in pain, nor do I want to worsen the aches in my fingers.
That will probably create choppiness, but you know, I don't think choppiness is my biggest problem. Shay has only commented on it twice, ever. If I do write choppy work, it is both easy and fun to fix it. I like editing. I like fixing problems when it is clearly better. I think I've lost track of that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)