Writing about Writing about Writing

Sometimes I write about writing. I don’t do this nearly as often as I should, because I don’t have meta-thoughts about writing that often.

I could write about exposition, for example. What wisdom do I have about exposition? Only the big one: Show, don’t tell. And the not so big one: Conversations can be a form of exposition if you’re not writing things like “Did you hear about Betty? She ran off with the milkman last week.”

I could write about writing characters. Where do my characters come from? They come from an amalgam of people and stories I have known. Then I “interrogate” the character to see if they feel consistent in who they are. I have conversations with the characters, I put them in situations. I talk to my husband about characters — for example, “Would they talk back to the police?” Gideon would; he tends to be human and somewhat anti-authoritarian. Most of my Archetypes and Nephilim would never talk back lest they be discovered. They’re not quite immortal, after all, and they would alarm the authorities. Luke would talk around the cops, though. He’s a lawyer, after all.

I could write about publishing. There are many steps to publishing yourself; some of them go surprisingly smoothly, like most of the process on Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP for those in the know). Others become a great source of frustration, like putting my book cover up on KDP.

I could write about hitting it big as a writer. No, I can’t, because I have not hit it big. Nor is it likely that I will, but that’s okay. I have a story to write, and it nags me at night. My characters (Sage Bertinelli and Forrest Gray at the moment) demand to be written.

I need to write more about writing, because there are so many topics … thank you, Hannah, for obliquely suggesting this!

Writing with Chloe the Cat

Today, Chloe is helping me write the blog. Chloe is my second-youngest cat at age 4, and she is peculiar:

We adopted her as a kitten from the Humane Society — she was the one who spent her visit climbing all over me, so we knew what to expect.

The kitty we nicknamed “Itty-bitty-bitty-bitty-BABY-BABY girl” has grown into a chubby adult. She sits with me when I’m in my writing spot (a loveseat in the living room) or sits nearby, looking out the window. Often she asks for attention so it takes longer to get things done.

I’m trying to figure out what to write today (if anything). She is not helping any, choosing instead to sit on the back of the couch and read over my shoulder. Just now she ran toward the stairs for no real reason at all.

I guess I’ll just write on my own, then.

My Favorite Childhood Book

Do you remember your favorite book from childhood?

I will preface this entry with the caveat: My childhood was a long time ago. A long, long time ago. I will be talking about a book that probably nobody has heard about.

My favorite book from childhood was The Ghost of Opalina by Peggy Bacon. It was about a ghost cat who told stories about the previous residents of an old house. It was, in a word, absorbing. And to a child who read cereal labels, Readers’ Digest, and anything else I could get my eyes on, it was the revelation of a new world.

Textbooks for English class in my childhood were generally excerpts of stories, and it was my great frustration that they didn’t go anywhere. I remember (I think fifth grade) reading an excerpt of The Hobbit where Bilbo chats with Gollum in the murky cave. It has a beginning, middle and end, but it still felt unfinished. Bilbo has the ring. It’s a cool magic ring. what did he do with it?

The Ghost of Opalina is the first book I read that I can remember being a real book, with a beginning, middle, and end. Admittedly, it was somewhat episodic, with stories within the story, but it wrapped up to a satisfying end. And with a ghost!

From that point on, I was addicted to fantasy. My next formative reading experience was The Dark is Rising sequence by Susan Cooper, which was many years later. Before that, I read many books, and also cereal packages, Readers’ Digest condensed books, and anything I could get my hands on.

I read The Ghost of Opalina again recently, and I could see exactly why it enchanted me. It had aged well, and I could see why kids and librarians loved it. I once named a cat Opalina, and she could not have been more unlike the capricious, elegant wisp of a ghost cat. I was ten when I named her; my memory of the book has lasted many years beyond my kitty’s lifespan. Here’s to ghost cats and the power of memory.

The One Luxury I Can’t Live Without

Daily writing prompt

What’s the one luxury you can’t live without?

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Coffee.

That’s it.

Coffee.

Pantsing

Pantsing refers to a style of writing whereas one makes the story up as they go along. It’s part of the trinity of methods, the other two of which are planning and plantsing. Planning the story is just what it sounds like — from using an outline of each chapter to setting up scenes and documented world-building. Plantsing is somewhere between the chaos of making it up spontaneously and organizing everything.

Normally I am a plantser — I have “note cards” (a feature on Scrivener, the program I recommend for writing novels) for each chapter denoting what should happen in the chapter, and I see where those directions and the characters take me. But this time around, I have diverged from the note cards enough that I am most definitely pantsing.

For example, I was writing about how my characters in their collective (think commune, sort of) were going to cope with the potential for communications and shipping breakdown in the oncoming breakdown of American society, and I thought about replacement parts and fuel for the farm. While I was in the middle of writing that, I thought, “Oh my god, what are they going to do about the staple goods they don’t grow themselves?” The collective eats a certain amount of bread, for example, but they don’t raise the wheat themselves because only the wrong type of wheat grows in the Midwest. In addition, they’re vegetarian and bought rather than grew their legumes. They use their farm land for more suitable items for the collective, like fresh fruits and vegetables, as they could always buy the staples through the local food co-op. So they suddenly figured out they could have a food crisis. In striving to be self-sufficient, they blinded themselves to the fact that they were not self-sufficient, any more than other humans. They discovered this at the same point where I thought about it, of course.

I may edit this later, putting the food crisis before the capital goods crisis chronologically. But I may not, because if it occurred to me in that order, maybe it would have occurred to them in that order. Maybe the capital goods crisis they envisioned was the one the collective saw most clearly^* and therefore first. Part of the process of pantsing is the harder job of editing down the line.

Photo by u0410u043du043du0430 u0420u044bu0436u043au043eu0432u0430 on Pexels.com

It’s been a wild ride writing this novel so far. I feel like I’m climbing a rock wall without a belayer. If I felt a lot better about my rock climbing skills, I would not feel like I needed belaying.^** Ah, well. See you at the edit.

^* This is known in cognitive psychology as the availability heuristic, whereas we believe the most readily imagined scenario is the most likely or important one. This heuristic is why young people buy life insurance and not disability insurance despite being 7 times more likely to die than to become disabled.

^**I just about used the word ‘balayage’ here, which is a hair-dyeing technique. Oops.

I Don’t Do ‘Nothing’ Well.

Daily writing prompt

How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?

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I’m not the sort of person who rests well. I don’t sit and read much or watch television or videos often. I write in my spare time. I’m already working on my new classes for the fall semester (and I have two months before the fall semester starts).

Sometimes, however, I run out of steam. It usually happens when I have worries and work, and I don’t have enough energy for both. How do I know it’s happening?

I have nightmares: I’m not showing up to my classes because everything is detaining me and I’m half-naked and I can’t find the classroom and my mother wants something from me and … And then there’s the one I had last night: I was in a driveway and a garbage truck plowed into me and bounced my car onto my parents’ roof and somehow it was all my fault because I stopped. (My dreams are breathless, run-on sentences.)
I worry more, sometimes even about things that happened forty years ago.
I have trouble sleeping because of the first two points.
I get weepy, especially over one more thing to do.

Taking a break from the overload is imperative for my health because too much stress could put me into hypomania/depression. It’s hard to stop myself from forward motion until my body just puts the brakes on without consulting me. I’ve just had enough.

There has to be a better way to do this!

What jobs have I had? Fun!

What jobs have you had?

My first paying gig was as an elf for the Marseilles, IL school district my junior year of high school. I don’t put that on my resume.

My first real job was the summer before my freshman year of college, where I was a fast-food worker. My co-workers once locked me in the walk-in freezer.

Jobs during my undergraduate years: kitchen help at Papa Del’s Pizza; storeroom supervisor for Bevier Hall Cafeteria, all at University of Illinois.

Jobs during my graduate years: Teaching/Research/Administrative Assistant, Family and Consumer Economics Department, University of Illinois (various years); 2nd cook, Y Eatery (Thai/Italian eatery); typist for a Psychology computer lab.

This is what we ate at family-style lunch on Fridays at Y Eatery.

Professional career post-grad: Assistant Professor, Consumer Economics, SUNY Oneonta; Assistant/Associate Professor, Human Services, Northwest Missouri State University.

And I suppose I can count “writer”, even though I’ve made very little money on that so far.

Back Home

About my trip, all I have to say is “Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong, but I presented my poster and got home”. It involved paying for another ticket to keep my husband and I on the same flight home, a delay causing us to miss our connecting flight, and me passing out the morning of my presentation. And I caught up on my sleep all day yesterday, which my psychiatrist would caution against, but the late nights traveling took a toll on me.

Now to get back into writing. I had a weird dream which almost turned into a book, but I thought it would be too cheesy because the fantasy angle was a bit thin and there was a vampire. And a court full of potential victims under a geas to stay and not kill the vampire. And the chosen girl revenging her father masquerading as a adenoidal, unintelligent servant girl. And at least three romance tropes: fake relationship, enemies to friends, and time travel. I don’t know if I could write her without her becoming a Mary Sue, at least in part because she’s the only one without the geas. And there were Edsels. And jousting. Did I mention the vampire? Not all dreams should become stories. (Spoiler: She does not fall in love with the vampire. The vampire is the bad guy, not just misunderstood.)

I’m back from the break feeling somewhat discombobulated, which is how air travel leaves me. I traveled through an airport once that had a “recombobulation room”, and I now wish all airports had them. San Francisco had a “quiet room” which I wished I had time to spend in. Now I need to be recombobulated before I write again. The goal is to do Starbucks and writing tomorrow. And to luxuriate in doing nothing today.

The Friendly (Not) Skies

I hate air travel.

I haven’t been on an airplane for three or four years, but it’s inescapable when part of one’s job is to present research at professional conferences, something I have shirked for a couple years through loopholes. But now it’s time, with a trip to a conference in San Francisco.

The thing I hate the most is logistics. I can’t just plan a trip for two (my husband comes with me) and get reimbursed for travel. Instead, I have to use the university credit card to book my flight while simultaneously booking my husband’s flight, not on the university credit card, so we can get the same flight. I did this on my iPad while in the school office (The School of Health Sciences and Wellness, which the Psych department is part of, and I’m part of the Psych Department.)

I am not proud to say I made a mistake and put myself on a flight a day later, which had to be fixed this morning and cost us $288 extra because, like all faculty, I have to find the cheapest flights, which are economy class. I had to buy a new ticket for the return flight and could not cancel the old one. Imagine my aggravation. It’s all my fault; logistics is a weak point with me.

Then there’s packing, which isn’t too bad as long as I remember to pack everything in the car.

Then there’s waiting. That’s my least favorite part. I have to run a couple of errands before I go (including picking up a precious prescription).

Then the airport. Air travel in the US has become much more complex since I started traveling, and I’m grateful for heightened security, but it is a pain.

And finally, there’s motion sickness. (Yes, I have meds). And wondering if the door’s going to fall off your Boeing jet.

I now understand why people drink when they travel.

Diversity Enriches Life

Daily writing prompt

What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

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In my writing, in my teaching, and in my everyday life, I espouse the message that diversity in people enriches life.

People have always considered me “different”. Some of this may be because of my lifetime of bipolar disorder, but much of it isn’t. I am not autistic, so it isn’t that. Maybe I’m just “weird”, being creative, not interested in fashion, awkward, a little loud, and as much at home in my round body as my clumsiness will let me be. I dance in the grocery store when nobody is listening, I find humor in absurdity, and I have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of edible weeds. Oh, and I write, and writers are weird enough on their own.

I believe the world needs diversity. People need to have different philosophies, different bodies, different colors, different customs, different viewpoints, different orientations, different likes, different loves. If they don’t hurt others, their differences are vital for our human ecosystem. Evolution counts on difference; so does personal growth. We grow by coming into contact with people’s differences, if we’re willing to grow at all.

It’s hard to be different, because people fear differences. I think they most fear being found “wrong” or “inadequate” themselves — “If this other person is okay, does this detract from me?” That’s not how difference works. You be you, and I’ll be me, and the world will be richer.