Cooling down

Hello cold snap.

It’s 36 degrees out and I’m wearing my Chicago Bubs sweater (see below):

which commemorates my favorite Internet-famous cat, Lil Bub.

I want to stay in all day basking by my fake woodstove and writing. But it’s a school day, and I have to teach.

Oh well.

Rebel Rebel

I’ve decided to be a rebel for NaNoWriMo.

What that means is that the participant does anything but write a novel in those 30 days*. I have two books I’m editing, the problem child Gaia’s Hands (which may be a novella by the time I’m done with it) and Whose Hearts are Mountains when I get it back from my dev editor.

It feels odd not writing a new novel, but it’s not the best use of my time. I need to get this backlog dealt with and ready for possibilities. When these are done, I will have five completed novels (or four and a novella): Whose Hearts are Mountains, Apocalypse, Voyageurs, Prodigies, Gaia’s Hands. (There’s one more novel, Reclaiming the Balance, but I despair over that particular one, and there’s Gods’ Seeds, the one I’m not finishing for NaNo.

It’s time for me to edit. It’s time for me to write shorter items and try to get those published (I have one short story and one flash item published so far, Flourish and Becky Home-Ecky.) It’s time for me to try something else for NaNo.

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* The way one counts progress when editing in NaNo is 1 hour = 1000 words. Which is about right, except when I get really stuck.

Writing from the Dark Side, Part 2

Yesterday, I interrogated the scenario my dark side put forth (which involved moonlight and walking in on someone disrobing) and found out it was not about me at all, but was inside the psyche of Jeanne Beaumont, the heroine of Gaia’s Hands. Jeanne felt disturbed by the dream because — oh, hell, let me just show you the passage:

A silver beam from the moonrise sliced through the darkness of her room. In shadows bled of color, Josh stood, the light falling across his face. He tugged his t-shirt off, the beam illuminating a slender chest and burying itself in his dark hair.

“Why are you here?” Jeanne asked, feeling her voice shake.

He met her gaze, his youthful face serious. “For you.”

Jeanne muttered. “I don’t need you,” and turned toward the door to flee.

“You misunderstand.” A smile flitted across his face; the light showing a dimple incongruous to the moment. “It’s my need.”

“No,” Jeanne shook her head, grasping for the door frame to steady herself. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m old enough to be your mother. If I’d started late. This is impossible.”

“If it’s happening, it’s not impossible.” Josh held a hand out —

Jeanne bolted upright from her bed, squinting at her clock’s luminous numbers in the dark. 3:00 AM, the perfect time to have a haunting dream. Josh? She took a panicked breath. And her?

If it’s happening, it’s not impossible, she recalled from the dream.

If it’s happening …

What the hell was happening to her that she began to dream about Josh, that quirky young man she had become friends with?

She knew. He had become more than that quirky young man to her.

He had become compelling to her, and she tried to deny it. “I don’t need you,” she had told him.

But perhaps she did, and he would reject her instead.

********

My subconscious informed me that, in editing Gaia’s hands, I had lost an important aspect of it, the tension (in part sexual, in part fear of rejection) between Jeanne and Josh.

Let’s see Josh’s point of view:

Josh wanted. It seemed a perpetual state for him, so much so that he wondered whether he wanted to be Jeanne’s friend or to bed her. Or both. Or everything. He leaned close to his notepad and wrote automatically, ignoring the lock of hair that habitually fell out of place.

I want to be reckless; he wrote. I want to kiss her with everybody watching in the middle of the cafe. I want to take her clothes off in a room where there are thoughts of only us. I want to know her twenty-five years down the road, even though she’ll be seventy-five to my 47 years.

I should care about the age difference, but it doesn’t bother me. It probably bothers her. I would be her child’s age, if she’d chosen to have children. She’s never married. Maybe she didn’t want to get married.

In my most intimate fantasies, she waits for me. In reality, she holds me at arm’s length, and I don’t know if it’s for now or forever.

I want a guarantee where there are no guarantees.

The vision came to him, the garden in its fullness, and Jeanne standing within, naked. All bountiful curves and sags like an ancient goddess. Does one dare to approach a goddess? He walked toward Jeanne in the garden, slowly and deliberately, each footstep pounding in his ears. He reached out –

The vision drifted out of his grasp.

*****

Why does this come from my dark side? It’s a reflection of how I struggle with my age and face the invisibility that women “of a certain age” (I hate that phrase!) experience. The book is, in part, a biological fantasy about outliers — Jeanne, despite her age, represents a fertility goddess with her preternaturally prolific gardens, and Josh, despite his youth, makes a convincing god of the hunt with the inevitability of his pursuit. That’s in addition to the fantasy elements of Josh’s visions and Jeanne’s preternaturally prolific gardens.

I have to edit this book, bring back to it the tension between the two protagonists, add it to the other tensions and menaces. This is my job, to make these fantasies real and complex.

Writing from the Dark Side

I stood face to face with my dark side last night. I felt a sense of panic, as I always do when facing that mirror, clutching my hair and chanting “this is not me”.

My dark side deals in visions of obsessive seduction, sticky strands of need and betrayal in silent midnight rooms bled of color. It revels in its story: my inevitable fall, my contemplation of suicide.

All of us have a dark side which stands counter to who we believe we are. If we deny it, if we romanticize it, we may fall to it because it demands that we pay attention to it. What we need to do is to accept our dark side because it’s part of us.

I accept my dark side, the sulky drama queen in the mirror, but I do not let it run my life. I have built a satisfying life in the golden light of autumn, with a humorous husband and five cats.

Me, coffee, and cat. This is a good life.

Sometimes I write from my dark side — half-elven children who want to kill their elven fathers, succubi with a pang of conscience, a young man who can kill by touch. I write these with my light side, though, framing these characters in dilemma, in conflict.

Darkness must contrast with light to be appreciated. If the writing contains nothing but darkness, it ceases to be dark and is merely mechanical, a factory of death and gore. The light must be there to be taken away, so that we grieve for the individual trapped in their circumstances.

I look at my dark reflection, the person I most fear, because she has the capacity to ruin my life. I nod, knowing that if I try to annihilate her, I become her. She leans over my shoulder as I write, helping me to add her darkness to my bright words.

Getting Practical about Dreams

Dreams don’t work the way I want them to.

For the last couple nights, I’ve been dreaming that I got picked up by a major publisher, and I felt light and strong and perhaps even validated.

Unfortunately, I know why the dreams occurred, and it wasn’t because of precognition. I’d been working all weekend in moulage, and that’s a very visible thing to be working on, and I got a lot of compliments on it. That translated in my dreams to getting recognition in my other life.

Dreams pick up little fragments of real life and sort them out in a peculiar way. I’ve read that we don’t dream of anything we haven’t encountered in real life. From my experiences, I don’t believe that unless I’ve been in a large underground city whose corridors walled in white glossy formica, accessible by a basement door in an old hunting lodge with a kitchen with avocado appliances.

I interpret my dreams, usually by a Gestalt method, telling the story from the viewpoint of each significant object (human or non) in the dream. What happened in the interpretation of the dream of the hunting lodge became the first draft of my first novel, the one I struggle to re-edit, Gaia’s Hands.

The dream of getting published is easier to interpret: I want to get published. I figure it will be as satisfying as moulaging. I can’t wait to get started.

Another year of Missouri Hope in the Books

Another successful three days of moulage at Missouri Hope.

I haven’t written because I was really busy! I had a crew of three volunteers and my husband, and we managed to moulage about 150 people to go out into the field to play victims of a major tornado.

Here’s a couple examples:

I didn’t get a lot of pictures because I was too busy moulaging.

As you can imagine, we were pretty busy with all of those people to moulage, but I can credit my team with making it a pretty painless experience. Usually we’re several people behind by the time it’s time to place them into the scenario, but we consistently finished on time.

It’s great closing on another successful year! And I’m SO tired!

Missouri Hope has come.

Missouri Hope has come upon us, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

For those of you new to the blog, Missouri Hope is an annual disaster simulation held at a park near here. Participants range from emergency and disaster management students to area police and emergency personnel. Missouri Hope is huge for a disaster management exercise.

There will be, over Friday through Sunday, approximately 240 volunteers, who will serve as our “victims” for the exercise. And I, with a small team of moulagers, will turn these people into victims using makeup.

That’s a lot of people.

Today’s the day I do last-minute shopping (for face wipes and eyeliner pens), do a little inventory, and try to prepare myself for the frantic rush of doing all this makeup.

Wish me luck.

What am I going to do for NaNo?

Someone visited me from Nepal yesterday. Hello!

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NaNoWrimo starts a month from now (November first). In Nano, one must write a 50,000 page novel, or realistically, the first part of a novel, as novels generally run twice that length. The organization prefers it’s a new novel instead of adding to a novel you have because it’s easier to write from scratch.

I was all ready to submit Gods’ Seeds as the novel I was going to write, but then I opened it up to find out that I’d already written 21k of it. This was the novel I started for NaNo and quit when Trump got elected President. It wouldn’t be a cheat to work on Gods’ Seeds as long as I didn’t count those 21k words, but it would be harder to get back into.

I could start a new novel. Not sure what that would be yet.

Or I could be a rebel, which would be writing anything but a novel. This way I might be able to edit/develop Gaia’s Hands, which I’m editing and at the same time wondering what I can add back. Or I could write more short stories that fit in the Archetype universe, or …

I don’t know what to do. I’m committed to write, because I’m hosting a NaNo write-in space at the Game Cafe. If you have any ideas, let me know!

Sleepy.

I’m so tired this morning.

I’ve had to retype the above sentence twice because I couldn’t find the home keys. My hands are twitchy on the keyboard and my head keeps nodding.

I slept well last night, and kept sleeping till my alarm woke me up. Usually I’m up before the alarm.

I’m up, though, if not totally awake, and I’m going to rescue myself with a good cup or three of coffee. Today’s coffee, from Mokaska Coffee, promises not only caffeine but epiphanies.

Hope that wakes me up. I’ll let you know if I have any epiphanies.