NaNoWriMo 2017

If it is not obvious, managing nearly eight different blogs and working three full time jobs has eaten away at my blogging abilities. But that wasn't the reason my NaNo got derailed at all this year. As of today, I did cross into 50,000 territory. I had initially started out aiming for 61,000 words. On Thursday last week, my anxiety crossed new boundaries. There was no reasonable way for me to make a personal best this year. 

I don't talk a lot about anxiety. I've had it for years. But on Thursday, after one of my regular jobs, I was informed I would not go in on Friday. The entire employee base was denied entry to work for safety and the seriousness of the situation. Police barricaded all entry points. For the first time in my life, my worse fears were at my feet. Where could I go? This still has not resolved and the police action is valid. I'm personally prepared to return to work, I know on Monday I will have specific information that I will not be able share on social media but marching orders are what they will be. But on Friday, while I was managing family and work from the car, I broke. The idea of looking at a personal best was impossible. I have never written a sentence of NaNo from my car on the side of a road, but this year I did. And while I did so, I couldn't look at my characters. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be anywhere but useless. And in my car, with my laptop open, I was officially useless. I decided 

I could not make 61,000. I would have to make 50,000 and just write a few extra days. And like that, my anxiety leveled off.

What did I learn?

• I have gotten better at describing a single situation. I still need to work on my chapter transitions. I really have good scenes built up when I think about the things I want to hit. 
• My main character is very much an introvert. They relish in their solitude, but do not resent the people that pull them out for snippets of time. My introverts value the world they have to navigate but in their solitude, they shine. But the world is unkind at times to introverts and it seems so much bigger than they are.
• If i keep working at my major plot holes, I eventually do find a great way to fix them. 
• Using real life events are a bad idea. This year because of some situations beyond my control, I went with a "solution" that then became front page news. I cannot publish this story. Fictional pain that then becomes real pain, even by coincidence is not a real plot point. See my entire paragraph of anxiety above.

NaNo goodies are now mine for the taking. I will write all thirty days, get my first thirty day badge. Then back to work.

Stalled out but not down

So I've been puttering around with no less than twelve pretty serious works in progress.
I had settled that my last year's NaNo would be cut down into a short story, but then I stalled out into making some serious decisions for my characters and I just did not feel like that was organic enough to address.
Then I have this huge math book project and I couldn't decide whether or not to put work samples in or not. But that was actually a 'little' problem compared to getting information in there correctly. That project is slowly coming together.
I have six geography projects in progress. The problem there is trying to gather enough research to be credible. Plus all the map illustrations are currently still in progress.
Then there's my newest Stick Figure book. Yes! I have another Stick Figure book in progress. Today's breakthrough there was actually really profound. I'm partnered into an art class this last part of the term and today we introduced proportional facial feature drawing. And all the information I learned nearly twenty-five years ago came back. Unlike my last Stick Figure book, which was based on Shakespeare, it's a lot harder when the same character is at the center of the story and his outward appearance changes because it's literally years of abuse his body takes in the story. So how do you know it's this guy and not another guy? It's the face. It will always be the face. I finally had a breakthrough about facial shapes looking at the options given. I reviewed classical proportions, appropriate due to the content of the book, and was reminded the stress of facial expressions had in classical sculptures. On the plus side, it's also encouraging me to draw larger, which is all right, I can have a few views of much more detailed faces.
There are assorted works of fiction and non-fiction all demanding different attentions from me and I still have yet to address them all. But I will. And I need to publish this summer because I don't know when I'll have a chance ever again.

Those mid-NaNoWriMo reminders

I am 34,000+ words into this year's NaNoWriMo. Again, I aim for 60,000 words. Other than being seriously sick last week, 60,000 looks like it may just be in the cards again. Except for a few things.
One of the pieces of advice I recently took to heart was looking at making sure the characters did not always get what they wanted. And I realized, part of my current NaNoWriMo is boring because I am literally letting my characters get what they want. On the plus side, however, I have been re-working scenes (read I re-wrote them) and getting to those roadblocks.
Other things of note: I did not realize unto recently how lonely all of my characters are without associates in their lives to help guide them through life's journey. I get my characters happy with being in the lives of someone else but no one else is in their life at all. No sage, no friend, no comic relief. This is why my stories stop-start so abruptly. I need to work on that.

And I need to get back to work. I am too old to be doing this on a Friday night.

When the Push Isn't the Story

There is no secret, I'm constantly churning out at least a short story or two. But lately, my work hasn't been as fruitful. And it's definitely slowed. Certainly my life situations do really limit my productivity. Between the fact that I'm trying to find a grad school that will take me and testing for other issues related to getting into the grad programs I wish to get into.

So this is the first year in a long time I have access to the required reading block in my academic schedule where it's required that all students come in and read at the beginning of class. And to my unexpected pleasure, the teacher with whom I am partnered with this year, has a wonderful book collection. I am in book heaven. I spent the first three weeks of the school year devouring a new book and then I realized there was a book I "should" read. I picked up that book, it is a biography.

The medium of biography is not a focus of the type of writing I do: general descriptive non-fiction and fiction. But as I read this story and look at the life of another person who just had an opportunity like no one else could have ever believed. I haven't even gotten to the primary focus of the biography yet.

But this reminds me of two things: writers need to read everything and then reading helps writers get clarity in directions of the ways their fiction or non-fiction need to be able to appeal to a variety of readers.

Yes I am still writing. I am still reading as well. I hope to become more open to reading more genres.

Editing

Editing is the bane of my existence. Fortunately, for me, I make either subtle mistakes that I can ponder over, delete, and re-word into a simpler manner, or I make huge errors and freak out that they are giant glaring mistakes.

Today, looking at the manuscript heading to the publisher, I removed three pages and then had to sort through some tricky issues with the index. I have to admit, I do the index in a most strenuous manner, but there's got to be a better way sometimes. But on the upside, this upcoming publication has nearly five pages just of sources.

Almost ready to send to final publish. On a second 24 hour hold. We will see.

So many things

Hi Again!

The irregular posts are returned!

I am actually looking at three short stories that I'm trying to build into a book. I have four books I'm in progress, the hardest with over 500 hand drawn illustrations. And I'm still a little confused why I choose to tackle these artistic challenges.

So I'm about 15 images into 500 illustrations. This may take longer than I anticipated.

I'll be back to blog soon. Lots of work needs to be done.

When you think you are out of ideas, you aren't

One of the things I do from time to time is force myself to write about human experiences. It's a great excercise when you aren't that occupied and it helps me focus on one or two take aways as a writer. So the theme I had been working on was love and telling someone you loved them for the first time. It's especially meaningful to me that I have told people, especially people whom I am not romantically interested in that I love them and what it means for them to hear it from me.

So in that vein, I was gawking over a little voice telling me "I've always loved you." And I couldn't let that voice go. I could hear how much this character wanted to voice that to the person who needed to hear that the most.

I give you a second draft of the work for your amusement.

—----—---------————

He was hunched over on the polished wooden bench, a tiny silhouette that moved only because his legs were still too short to reach the floor. Gone were the echoes of "it's not fair!"

I walked up and knelt in front of him, I heard my knees crack. "Time to go buddy." I said softly.

As I straighten up, dusting my dry hands on my blue jeans, he grabbed a strap of the bright orange backpack and slipped off the bench, forcing himself to march down the polished hallway and after me out the double glass doors into the sunlight. 

I took his hand, all the while realizing he may just be too old to have his hand held while we crossed the street, but he was still just eight and while I may have been short, he still didn't make it past my elbow.

The car was unlocked and he climbed in the backseat. I took the driver's seat and put on my seatbelt. I looked back at him to check to see if his belt was on. He gasped and pushed his belt to click. The scratch down his face was a little startling, but he had been expertly patched up by the school nurse.

The car roared and then the blinker tisked as we pulled into traffic, heading out of town. Prisoners in the car together, the radio too low to hear over the air conditioner blowing hoping that the air in the car would soon be livable.

I heard the slow drum of my favorite song. Except there was a little person in the back seat. I changed stations. The last time I belted out my favorite tune with him in the back seat, I was given a scathing critical review and it distorted my love of that song forever. I couldn't lose anymore songs to sing on the road. He slumped in the backseat, buckled his eyes locked on the yellows and greens outside blurring agains the black asphalt.

The exit was coming to change directions from north south to east west, I got in the correct lane. 

"Why did you come get me?" A truck passed us on the right as we chugged up the bridge over the rushing spring full river below.

"I went to get you because your parents asked me to."

"Oh."

I saw a burger place I thought he might eat at. I pulled off and drove to the drive through. "What do you get when you come here?" I asked as we waited our turn for the drive through.

"Burger. No cheese. Ketchup."

"Ketchup? I thought it was mustard!" 

He made a face. "No more mustard."

I ordered the burger for him, a few extra burgers for home, a few shakes, hoping to convince him to maybe lick some ice cream, and a couple of fries because I actually like the salt. The first window comes up and I pay. 

"Would your son like a sticker sheet?" The cashier asked. 

"Would you like a sticker sheet?" I ask him, cringing, hoping he wouldn't correct the poor high school kid that I wasn't his mother.

"No. Kids who get into fights don't deserve sticker sheets." And he began to wail. I take a heavy sigh and the kid at the window nearly shoved the stickers in my hand with my change. I hand back a tissue while I waited for the food.

The food is warm and I turn down the blasting air, hoping to preserve the heat in the fries. My hand sneaks into the bag and I take a golden crisp slightly dripping with hot oil and salt and offer it behind me as I navigate the last turn and head back on the street to his neighborhood.

"Take it Bryce." I urge. My fingers feel a little warm as the oils oozed over my fingers.

He stares at my hand as if it were the poison bottle. His eyes puffy and red.

"Little Dude, seriously, the only reason why people pick up food for other people is called the "fry tax" you get to eat a hot French fry on the way home."

Bryce took the fry and he put it on his quivering lip.

"That kid doesn't love me." He finally said.

My hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "No buddy, he doesn't. And he doesn't have to. No one really has to love anyone."

"Do you love me?"

"Always have." I said. My knuckles were white and the car was a hair into ten miles over the speed limit. I stopped at the light before turning onto the freeway. The car protested the speed demands and then clicked over into the next gear.

"When did you know you loved me?" 

I wanted to slam my head on the steering wheel. My grip was beginning to hurt. I dropped my hands low on the wheel as I hit the correct speed and settled back for the twenty minute drive, checking a mirror before I merged left around a semi truck. "Um... Honestly not the first time I met you. It was a more recent love."

"Oh."

I looked up in the rear view mirror, even though I knew he wouldn't make eye contact with me. It was one of several things we shared. "You know, buddy, I really didn't know you until you started going to school. I've always known about you. I thought about you when we didn't live as close. Your mom has those cards I sent you."

"She does?"

"Of course she does... Somewhere...." I hoped.

Another left after the school, and then the crazy round about and I'm in front of his house. We stop and I wrangled the food and my backpack on one shoulder and he climbs out of the car and up the steps of his house in a neighborhood with photocopied manicured lawns. He presses the door bell, waiting for his parents to open the door.

"Hey Bryce, I want you to know I loved you. I loved you before I knew what loving you meant. But understanding that I loved you, that didn't happen, like I said, until recently. And I know you might not get it, but that's how I can tell you how I care."

"Do you think the kid at school feels the same way you do?"

"Probably not. But he is a kid at school. You're eight. Stuff like that generally doesn't matter to the other kids."

"Will you always love me?"

"Yeah I will."

"Will they ever learn to love me?"

"Let's aim for like. When they get to know you some will love you."

"Do mom and dad like you?"

"I hope so. I just got them dinner..."

The door opened and Bryce scampered into the house. I brought in the food and took my share and headed out.

As I stepped off the last stair, I was constructed by a pair of little arms. "I love you Auntie. I loved you before I knew how to love."

"Yeah," I said a little embarrassed. "I guess that makes me one lucky person."

"Sure does"

"Go on go have dinner with your parents."