The part I’m most proud of today

I wrote 3600 words today to make up for the 2500 words (yes, I’m aiming for 3000 words, 4000 words on weekends) yesterday, and probably to make up for the fact that I didn’t win NaNo last year. 29,000 words so far.

Here’s my favorite segment of the day — an indigent with mental illness tells a story. Remember this is a rough draft. Really rough:

*********

Pagan paused again for a long time, cocking his head. Then, his voice became that of a child’s, and he spoke:

“I am supposed to be one of them, but instead I got put into the hospital. It was after I woke up, after I started existing. I woke up in a room, and a woman started screaming. I ran outside, and all these big machines tried to kill me, and everything was loud. I started screaming, like the woman. They took me to this white place, the hospital, and tied me down. Then she told me she was like me, and we were their abandoned children. That’s what she told me, the one who talks in my head.

“‘Who are they?’ I asked her in her head.

“‘The ones who wander. Sometimes they make us by accident, sometimes on purpose. We are them and we are humans, so they abandoned us.’

“The people who tied me down asked me questions I couldn’t understand: What my name was, where I lived, who my next of kin was. All I could answer with was ‘I’m them and I’m human,’ because those were all the words that I had.

“They untied me, but they kept me in that bright room, and occasionally something would make their name known to me. Someone in white would come into my room and ask me if I wanted the lamp turned on, and I knew ‘lamp’ and ‘on’, and then ‘light’ and ‘food’ and ‘bathroom’

“But I understood the voice from the moment I heard it, because it didn’t talk in words, but in meanings, and it was words I didn’t understand.

“’Who are they?’ I asked again. ‘Who are the ones who wander?’

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“She would not answer me.”

******
This will become important later.

Advising about Advice

My editor redeemed himself.

Not by giving in, not by praising my work, but by naming specific things I needed to work on. In my case, it’s adding other details happening that don’t have to have to do with the story. Given how I write (from what I’ve seen yesterday), that focus and immersion on the experiences of the protagonist is like riding a train through a tunnel, and I have tunnel vision.

Successful authors don’t want editors to rubber-stamp their work, they want to be pushed to grow. But we’re all blind to our idiosyncracies that get in the way. That’s why we have editors.

Because authors are intimate with their books, they don’t understand global comments like “it’s a bit choppy”, “drags a bit”, and “needs more cowbell”. There needs to be a more specific, actionable comment like, “You need to include detail that does not involve the plot.” or “you’ve used the word ‘vitriol’ five times in the first chapter — can you find a synonym?”

The other thing about global comments is that sometimes they’re spirit-killing. Unless you’re Dean Koontz, apparently, in this pep talk for NaNo that all editors should read (and I use “should” very sparingly):

https://nanowrimo.org/pep-talks/dean-koontz

Note to my editor: Just as I like to be praised when I finally “get it”, I’ll praise my editor, who I’m sure is reading this blog. Editor, you’re getting it. I don’t remember calling you names, and if I did, I’m sorry.

Note to authors: This is the reason you don’t write the nasty note to your editor when your ire is up. Rant about your feelings and not about your editor. Keep those sadistic fantasies to yourself. Then take a deep breath, and if your editor doesn’t redeem himself, fire him.

*******
Back to NaNo. I wrote about 2500 words yesterday, but I’ll eventually catch up. I’m actually ahead of schedule — at the last checkin, I would be done by November 17th. I won’t be putting in the detail requested above in this story, because it’s not time yet. Now is the time to lay in the skeleton.

Serious setback

I’m struggling today — struggling in a “I don’t know if I want to keep doing this” way. I don’t know what I need from you, dear readers. Bear with me.

I did not reach my goal today. I only made it half-way there. I will struggle to get there tomorrow, if I get there at all.

Today, a friend of a friend who was supposed to edit the first three chapters of my book said something in the guise of advice that has made me feel, more than anything, like giving up:

“A reader is a simple organism. We expect A, will be happy with B, will grudgingly accept C, and all the other letters are crap. Stereotypes and tropes exist for a reason. No matter what someone says about wanting pure original stories, they will get pissed off if the wizard doesn’t carry a staff.”

I know I can get a bit sensitive about criticism. But usually, I can step aside and say, “Yeah, that needs work,” and I can get to work. I’ll be the first to admit that my words are too big and I need help in pacing the plot. I read advice to writers and implement it the best I can.

But the above comment basically tells me that my viewpoint is not valued, my voice is just wrong, and I have to write at the level of The Flintstones to get published.

I could live with “write at the level of The Flintstones to get published” if that were all that was said. I would keep writing my stuff and not publish it. End of problem.

But the rest of it tears into my very soul. I do not want to be known for writing Islamic terrorists, white saviors, and Fu Manchu. I also don’t expect to write stereotypes in terms of “the repressed but sexy librarian”, “the rugged action hero”, and “the desperate sexless nerd.” I expect my characters to be three-dimensional. I in fact try to write outside these stereotypes.

As for tropes, it’s impossible to write without them — Every story I’ve ever written touches on self-discovery, which is a trope called The Hero’s Journey. (Some argue that everything written is the Hero’s Journey, but I’m skeptical.) I’ve written in “boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back after 150 years” trope. Obviously I subvert tropes.

I firmly believe that words are so important that writers have to choose them carefully. Words have the magic to change perceptions or to freeze them into cages. I believe that roles are held by well-formed characters and stereotypes hold characters hostage.

The worst part, though, is that I can’t even conceive of what this man was talking about. He might have been talking in a different language about a world I didn’t live in.

When I write a book, I don’t say, “Hey, let’s put the clever and debonair robber and the stupid cop and the clueless but hot woman in and first the robber breaks into the bank in a tension-filled scene, and then he sneaks the money out right under the nose of the cop, who chases him, and he carjacks this fast car and the clueless woman falls in love with him.” I don’t shop at “Tropes r Us” to find a plot.

When I write a story, it’s like I have these characters, and yes, I deliberately pick them so that they don’t fall into stereotypes, because people who aren’t white, beautiful, and upper class deserve to have adventures and fall in love (this is why I can’t write romance novels). I write a plot, and the chapters take me traveling through the plot.

I travel with the characters in my mind when I’m writing, seeing the same things and experiencing the same events they do. It’s an intense immersion process (and the only time I can actually visualize). This is how I write. It’s like I’m creating the world I want to live in in the remains of the world I live in, right before my eyes.

In fact, I have trouble editing my books because I don’t get the same intensity I got when I wrote them. Honestly, I don’t know if what I’m doing is readable. That’s the problem — I honestly don’t, because when I get to the editing stage I see that it all makes sense, everything follows logically — but I can’t tell if the pacing is right and I really can’t tell if anyone besides me would find it interesting.

Notes: I have trouble finding beta-readers. Am saving up for an editor who has more experience, but I’m so afraid that I’m going to keep getting critiques of what I am and not what I need to improve.

Thank you for listening.

A shout-out to my childhood town:

Outside of Chicago, the scenery of what the mapmakers in Grand Marais called The Jungle seemed no different than the rural areas of North Ontario or Minnesota. The land was flatter, and in the March weather, the overgrowth of grasses just started to show green through last year’s dried stalks, and the trees in the distance didn’t glow with green buds yet. The farmland that would have spread for miles in a farm economy sat fallow and grey, drought and the collapse of factory farming ending the land’s purpose to the economy. The highway, with its occasional potholes and washboards, was no different than those I had seen North.

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I turned off the road at a ragged road sign that announced a town with a preposterously French name, hoping to hear some stories there. At the bottom of a graceful hill, I heard the sound of a shotgun close by, a warning shot. I spun the truck around and headed back up the hill. Nobody had shot at me in Chicago proper, but here in the rural Midwest, someone shot at me.

*******
Writing that was almost more fun than killing off my ex-husband in Gaia’s Hands.

Thank you, friends, for reading. Now to go write a few thousand words.

I’m still going — 3000 words today

I made it through my 3000 word goal, although I am seriously not feeling well today. (I also made it to work). The fun today was writing in a bit of urban shamanism:

The collective had offered me a place on the floor of the Commons building, which I took with gratitude. I suspected my days sleeping in a bed would be over, and I suspected that I would sleep in the cab of my truck after I left this place.

I laid out my bedroll, using my backpack as my pillow as always. The moment I laid down and closed my eyes, a voice behind me, low and gravelly, said, “Tina and I need to talk to you outside.” I turned around and saw some of the few white people from dinner, a man of about average height with long, wavy greying hair and goatee; and a diminutive blonde woman, all dimples.

“Okay,” I queried. “What’s the reason for the secret meeting?”

“You looked really freaked out back there. During dinner.” He raised his eyebrows, and I noted that he looked much like the Asian Boys in Duluth, only with stunning hair they wouldn’t have sported.

“Well, David talked to me about hearing voices in my head. I got uncomfortable.” The shorter woman shot me a sympathetic look.

“David’s not crazy,” the man shook his head. “Streetwise, like me, but not crazy. You might want to listen to him.”

I knew I should be taking these notes down in my head, or in my notebook. The collective had a tendency toward superstition – the tree that protected, the wise crazy person — but that wasn’t the story I looked for.

“So who are you?” I asked “And why are you here?”

“I’m Allan Chang, and I should tell you I’m a shaman so some of this makes sense. This is my partner, Celestine Eisner.” Celestine, who looked about twenty, waved in acknowledgment.

“A shaman. How does that fit into the collective?” Most self-identified shamans in the post-Industrial era did not come from a culture that believed in shamans, and the likelihood was that they used mysticism to compensate for being powerless.

“They think it’s strange, because they’re not used to Asians hearing spirits.” He grinned, a wolfish grin that for a moment made me believe in totems.

“So, what’s our business tonight?” I hoped it was a story of the Alvar, because I hadn’t gotten my quota for the day.

“We need to consult the subway oracle.” Oracles in subways? That was a new one to me; previous to this, I had thought the conjunction of fortune-telling and technology had been limited to tarot readings and Miss Cleo.

“And you need a ride?” I asked, realizing that my sleep time would be shortened.

“No. By we, I mean you need to consult the subway oracle.” Allan emphasized. “I can feel the agitation David is causing you.”

********
Incidentally, Allan and Celestine show up in a couple of earlier books. Celestine, it turns out, has something in common with the protagonist of this story.

A short excerpt — I’m on a roll on a difficult part

I have a couple hours to write before work today, and I want to get moving, because my mind is playing with a difficult part/concept: What if your first memory is of being full-grown, but totally bewildered by your surroundings:

The faded man sitting next to me introduced himself as David Burris, Valor’s son and Justice’s brother. It seemed odd to me that he looked as if he could be Valor’s father, not vice versa. Then he asked a question, a nonsequitur that nonetheless resonated more than a stranger’s question should have:

“What’s your first childhood memory?” he asked, his gaze searing into me.

My mind spun in panic — I had no childhood memories. I couldn’t get to them. The first thing I remembered in my life was a dream of standing up in my parents’ living room, in the old house where they used to live before they disappeared from society. Durant — my father — wasn’t there, but that wasn’t surprising; I had always known he came into my life later. Three people sat in the room: my mother; plump and curly-haired; a man, tall with long black hair and implacable eyes; and another woman, short and slender, smiling like a grandmother. My mother and the man were bundled up in bathrobes and blankets like they’d just come in from the cold. I couldn’t understand. I stumbled away.

“Come here,” the dark-haired woman said, with a curious gesture of her — I looked down at what I quickly learned was my hand. “Let me look at you.”

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I stepped backward. “Here” came with the woman’s gesture toward herself. “You” — I guess that meant me.

*******
So this is obviously written in first person, and the person is a Nephilim but doesn’t know it. Nephilim are born full-grown and biologically learn very, very quickly such that in a week, she understands everything in that room and shows proficiency. But, at the moment she describes in the memory, she knows literally nothing. So I have to write the scene dividing her observations into two parts: things she can describe and understand at the time of reflection, and things recalled at that exact moment. Tough, huh?

Thanks for reading, friends.

Rituals and word counts.

Thank you for keeping up, friends! I made the 20,000 mark today after swearing to write 3,000 words today despite not feeling well. I had time to write during my lunch hour, so I decided to stay on the goal. Specific, measurable, action-oriented, realistic, time-bound.

Honestly, I’m not a horribly organized person who drives toward goals except at NaNo time. I meander most of the year, play with words, set soft goals. NaNo time is different — it’s as NaNo is a ritual I satisfy yearly to belong to my tribe of creatives. It’s like my version of an all-night drumming circle at Midsummer or my First Snow ritual that I no longer hold because nobody’s calendars are clear on that random November night when we get our first inch of snow.

I have to go to class now — don’t tell anyone.

Do you want to read an excerpt tonight? Please let me know!

An Excerpt: A Story about Stories

Day 6 of NaNoWriMo, and I want to get at least 2000 words in before I have to go to work, because it’s a long day and I need to get started soon. I’m at 17,000 words, up 7.000 words, so if I don’t get all the words in today, I’m okay.

An excerpt (remember this is rough draft time). In effect, what I’m writing is a story about a story:

As I drove down the highway, I thought about Hakeem’s and Bosco’s words — I couldn’t help but laugh at those two young men wanting to — what? Offer themselves up as husbands? Be my protectors? I seldom picked up on those kinds of currents. As role models, my parents gave me the gift of watching their near-perfect relationship, perfect except for my father’s belief that my mother kept a secret he couldn’t crack. However, I didn’t seem to fall for the occasional men who took me out for coffee and complimented me. I literally didn’t understand the process of “I take you out for dinner, you have sex with me.”

From there, I thought about Sonya’s words. “If you’re looking for the Alvar, you’ll have to look in the worst places.” Wasn’t that always the case with fairy tales? The Hobbits had to throw the One Ring into Mount Doom, a raging volcano. Little Red Riding Hood had to go through a dark forest and visit the wolf to pass through menarche, symbolized by the red hood. Would my quest follow the parameters of the Hero’s Quest?

I was not a hero. I was an academic without a job and without any useful skills except the ability to crack Schmidt locks — and other locks, albeit with the help of a lock pick. I was an anthropologist searching for the inevitable, unpublishable study, a study of the origins of a mythical people. If the Alvar actually existed, what would I do if I found them? If they didn’t exist and I found the human origin of the tale as if it was an urban legend, where would I publish my findings?

Did I chase the legend simply because my mother once told it to me in a bedtime story?

I pulled myself back to reality and saw a roadblock up ahead, just before Eau Claire. I slammed on my brakes, nearly skidding as I approached the barricade with three men, all armed with semiautomatic machine guns. When one of them walked up to me, his hand on the strap of the gun slung over his shoulder, I rolled down my window, hands shaking. “What seems to be the trouble?” I asked, trying to school my voice into calmness.

“Your papers,” the man, with the hard voice and face of the military, held out his hand.

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Of course I had identity papers. My parents had warned me that, if I had to bug out of town, that I needed at least a copy of my birth certificate and my drivers’ license. I had not been asked for them before this moment, and I wondered if I had hit a border to a newly formed country.

*******
May you find wonder in your day.

PS: The Words Are Important

I had just enough words left in my mind for a poem:

Just words,
all I have to offer
in the darkling storm.

You, my stranger,
read the words as rain
from a storm you cannot touch.

To you, the story
is that you found the words
when no one else noticed,

the words only important
when they crawled into you,
and became fluttering birds.

Big Audacious Goal part 2

I told myself I wouldn’t post today until after I got my other 4000 words written for the weekend. It’s 10:40 AM Chicago time, and I’ve completed my word assignment. Yippee! Yahoo! Oh Boy! Time to rest!

As I mentioned yesterday, writing 4000 words was onerous. It felt like crawling down the street with three dead moose tied to my waist and the goal of reaching Pumpkin Center ten miles down the road. Without knee pads. And the moose has been dead for a while.

I don’t know why yesterday was so difficult — except that I had put up a psychological barrier of writing 1000 words a day more than I’d been writing. Today, I woke up knowing that I had written 4000 words the day before, so I didn’t feel the burden.

I am not writing any more today. As it is, I dream nothing but this book for the moment.

Thanks for following me.