Some Days It’s Hard

It’s Sunday morning here in Maryville, on a dark morning following a torrential thunderstorm, with more rain on the way. I’m listening to classical music and drinking entirely too much coffee, followed by a good dose of King’s Oolong Tea 913, which I received from a friend of mine who’s currently back in China. No need to go out; just a long amount of time to do something.

Or nothing. Right now, I want to do nothing.

I took a break from writing yesterday, mostly because I didn’t feel well, but in part because my projects are as follows:

Gaia’s Hands, which is frustrating me because I can’t get a handle for improving it (this vastly rewritten and rewritten story)
A short story about one of the characters in Prodigies, which starts with a whole family dying in a bombing and gets more depressing from there.

Not much to grab onto, is there?

My worry if I take another break is that I will quit writing, because, frankly, it’s easier not to write. Part of the reason I write this blog is to force myself to be productive, to take the hard path, the path I really want to see myself walk down.

So we’ll see what I want to write today.

Thanks for listening!

Still I write

This is one of those days I have to force myself to write.

It’s Friday, I don’t have anything I have to leave the house for today, it’s going to be 94 degrees (F; 34.5 degrees C) out, I’m wrestling with Gaia’s Hands, have no ideas for a new short story …

And I’m feeling a little down. I’m wondering if there’s such a thing as micromood swings, or if it’s just the heat getting to me. I’m not depressed or anything; just not feeling like I’m on the verge of something wonderful happening.

But still I write. And that’s the important thing, to write even when it feels like the last thing I want to do. Just a small amount will do — just a blog post, just an hour. Just a submission. Just a moment of creation.

Neither my feelings of defeat nor my feelings of impending success actually presage the future; they are simply extrapolations of feelings that may be influenced by my strange chemistry. My actions, however, are what’s important. Without stepping forward, I have no chance of success.

The County Fair

This morning, it’s 81 degrees (Fahrenheit; 27.2 Celsius) at 5 AM and it’s going to be 100 degrees F (37.8 C) with heat indexes of 105-110 F (40-43 Celsius). I don’t know if this is global warming, because it seems to always be this hot for the county fair.

County fairs are for kids. Their agricultural/homemaking roots still linger in many of the events — livestock and 4-H project judging, photography and quilt competitions. A carnival blocks off the main street, with a midway and luridly decorated rides. Fair food consists of funnel cakes, fried oreos, and bratwurst.

Children come for the rides; high schoolers wander in packs to see and be seen in their purple hair and tank tops. Adults shepherd the children or come for the country music and their children participating in the Young Miss/Mr. Maryville competition. Girls in matching spangled outfits perform choreographed jazz dance on the stage.

I walk around the fair feeling like an outsider, even as I know some of the people I see. I didn’t grow up on a farm. I don’t identify with country music. I don’t have children. I wonder, not for the first time, where my place is.

Interrogating Josh Young again

Josh slipped into the seat across from me, looking fey with his slight frame and mischievious smile. “You were looking for me?”

“Josh, how do you feel about Jeanne?” I ask, knowing that I would catch Josh off-guard.

“Oh, boy,” Josh said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want you telling me she’s old enough to be my mother, or she’s out of my league, or that I have the rest of my life to find someone. I’ve heard all those already, and I haven’t even told my mom about Jeanne yet.” Josh pushed straight black hair out of his almond-shaped brown eyes.

“Ok,” I smiled. “No advice. I just want to know for the sake of this story.”

“Jeanne’s the one. That’s it. No matter what people argue, I know she’s the one I want to marry.”

“This isn’t just ‘I want to go out with Jeanne, then,” I noted. You’re serious about her. How can you be so certain?”

“At my age?” Josh raises his eyebrows.

I slump in my seat, abashed, because that was exactly what I was thinking.

“What does it mean when you’re certain of something? Does it mean you can read the future? Or that you’re deluding yourself? We never know until it shakes out. My age or my lack of experience doesn’t make that any different than for anyone else.” I definitely had the disadvantage in this debate.

“What if you’re not the one for Jeanne?”

“It’s entirely possible I’m not. But if I don’t end up with Jeanne and I find someone else, I will always remember that she’s not Jeanne.” He squinted and looked in the distance; I wondered if he tried to see that reality.

“Are you attracted to Jeanne?” I venture timidly.

“I am. And you’re surprised, because everything you’ve been told suggests that would never happen. We’re both writers, and we both have active imaginations. Do you really believe in a world where younger men are never attracted to older women? Wouldn’t that world be poorer for it not happening?”

“Yes, it would,” I admitted.

Platelets

So I’m hopefully giving platelets today.

The process behind giving platelets involves doing nothing for two hours while having a needle in one’s arm. You sit in the most comfortable lounge couch with warm blankets and pads and a tv screen in front of you.

I’ve gotten pretty good at surfing the internet one-handed on my phone, and the only tv I ever watch is during these sessions.

Sometimes I meditate, because it’s pretty quiet in there. Sometimes I watch with wonder as the machine works its magic and seperates the platelets from blood and plasma and gives me back those fluids.

It’s not two hours wasted. It’s a two-hour break from my mind, which always wants to be busy. And I may be saving someone’s life.

Interrogating Jeanne again

I went back and had another conversation with Jeanne because I’m having trouble getting over the age difference:

“Jeanne, how do you feel about Josh?” I sipped my cup of coffee.

“You mean how should I feel about him, or how do I feel about him?” Jeanne looked at me, woman to woman, simpatico. Both of us wore summer clothes, and only those who knew us would recognize us as highly educated women.

“I need to know how you feel about him if I’m going to write this correctly.”

“He’s an impossibility. I’ve studied sociobiology, and everything I learned tells me that there’s no possibility our relationship should exist. I’m not of childbearing age, so he shouldn’t be attracted to me. He’s not a provider type – “

“Do you know that?” I asked.

“Guilty as charged. Let’s just say he’s a writer, and you should know by now that he’s never going to be rich.” Jeanne chuckled and set her cup down. “If the whole purpose of the human race is to provide another generation of humans …”

“But you don’t believe that,” I challenged Jeanne.

“First,” she emphasized, “I think sociobiology is garbage. The same sociobiologists who assume that the sole purpose of life is procreation assume all human enterprise – travel, art, architecture – exists so that the male of the species can attract the attention of a bed partner.”

“And you’re not waiting for some guy to write a sonnet for you.”

“Oh, God,” Jeanne lamented. “I’d love it if Josh wrote a sonnet for me. How far gone am I?”

“You tell me,” I grinned.

“As I said, Josh is impossible. He made the first move; did I tell you that? I’m sitting there with my computer, and suddenly, I look up and there’s Josh sitting across from me. With this grin and the hair falling in his eyes. I shouldn’t think this, but –”

“But?”

“I’ve never gone for the traditional. If I wanted a scientist, I’ve been surrounded by them for years. None of them have ever agreed with me – what a statement; they didn’t interest me, especially when they did the ‘Howdy little lady’ thing and told me why I should let the men take care of things. I think it made me more open-minded.”

“And?” I ask. I’m rather enjoying this.

“Josh isn’t typical. He’s not that warrior-hunter type sociobiology tends to promote. He’s bookish, so it’s wonderful to have conversations with him. He’s devoted to his aikido and his writing. He’s – well, he’s not a big guy. That may be an understatement; I don’t think he weighs 130 pounds. Okay, he’s absolutely beautiful, and it drives me crazy because I’m not exactly beautiful.”

“What does he think?” I probe.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows it’s getting serious enough in my mind that I wish we were dating, with all that implies. He hugs me and I’m curious. I have no idea where he stands and I don’t want to scare him off.”

“So you’re going to wait for him to say something first.”

“I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be like a cougar or something, and – God, I think he’s a virgin.” Jeanne rubbed her forehead.

“Well, if he’s as bookish as you say he is, then I suspect you’re right. Is it that scary?”

“It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“It’s a lot of fun,” I shrug. We both break out laughing clandestinely, as if caught in something naughty.

Please weigh in

On the road again, this time to Omaha, NE to visit four interns. So I’m taking a break from the pig-wrestling that is Gaia’s Hands.

Part of the problem is, I think, that I’m not feeling the characters. They’re great characters, two oddballs who have managed to find each other despite an age difference and different worldviews. She’s a 50-year-old botanist who lives in the scientific world, and he’s a twenty-one year old writer who believes in spirits.

There’s a big taboo-breaker here; we as a society at least accept older men/younger woman relationships. We might be a teensy bit squeamish about the older man and the sweet young thing, but it’s a trope which is dismissed as understandable given the purported fragility of a male ego and the rich man’s ability to “purchase” youth and beauty. Reverse the genders and it’s unthinkable, the target of nervous laughter and prurient “hot for teacher” fantasies and protestations of how this is against nature because women look for strong males who can protect them … bullshit.

As my husband reminds me, I like to bust tropes all to hell. I also have a fascination with younger men, even though they do not have a fascination with me (that damned biology, I guess). But I’m struggling with the questions about Jeanne and Josh’s relationship:

Can Josh be mature for his age even though he hasn’t gotten into the workplace yet (and will likely go into grad school after he graduates)?
Will Jeanne have patience for Josh’s trajectory? (She doesn’t need him as a provider, but would want him to have self-determination)
Could Josh be attracted to the older, curvy, saggy Jeanne?
Could Jeanne be attracted to the younger, rather small-boned Josh?
Are Josh’s parents going to crap themselves if Josh brings home an older woman (they will) and will Josh care (probably not)?

In other words, can I make this believable? Please weigh in.

Hodge-podge of slop

I got my 30 hours in for Camp NaNo, but there’s still so much more to write/clean up for Gaia’s Hands. Every day, I think about what could be missing from the document:

Is there enough description?
Is Jeanne and Josh’s budding relationship going too slowly? Too quickly?
Are there enough female characters?
Should I have taken Annie Majors out when I took the Eric/Annie relationship out for being too complicating?
Is the danger ratcheting up enough?
Do I care about this book anymore?

Honestly, about the last point, I’m not feeling it at all. I feel like this is a hodge-podge of slop and I can’t figure out how to make it into a book.

Good wishes are welcome.

Avoidance

I’m getting avoidant toward Gaia’s Hands.

Honestly, every time I add something, I feel like I didn’t do enough, and I wrestle between going on and adding more plot and going back and adding more detail.

I think I need to do the former, because I need a whole book to react to. But it doesn’t feel rewarding, just a long slog with no cookies at the end of the day.

I’d drop it entirely, but I’m in the middle of Camp NaNo, and I have six hours left to write till goal. I’ve only lost a NaNo once, and that was when Trump got elected.

So I’m going to have to go on and write, with hopefully an aha reaction with my characters today.

Mud-wrestling a pig

I took a break from Gaia’s Hands yesterday to prepare query materials for Apocalypse. Not so much because I’m ready to query Apocalypse as much as I’m at my wits end trying to fix Gaia’s Hands.

I probably wouldn’t bother at all, just relegate Gaia’s Hands to the “lessons learned” pile were it not for the fact that it’s a prequel to Apocalypse, and I think I can get Apocalypse out there.

Gaia’s Hands is a smaller story, dealing with corporate greed and sticking to one’s convictions — and a Goddess, of course. But editing it feels like mud-wrestling a pig, and the pig is winning.