Writing Superstitions part 2

I’ve written 1200 words so far on Gods’ Seeds* as I tackle the time-honored question, “What is the best way to begin this book?” Beginnings are important, so rather than just letting the writing flow (as I do with the rest of the book), I work harder to make the beginning shine right off.

I think it’s a superstition with me that I need a strong beginning but can just let words flow for the rest of the book and edit later. I do have my superstitions around writing, though. Nothing so obvious as a lucky shirt or favorite chair.

I plan to write in this blog every day, even if I write a fluff piece about coffee or cats** , because I believe that if I give this up, I will give writing up. So I write this blog in the morning, usually 5:30 AM Central US time, almost every day, even through depressive episodes, because I believe that if I give it up, I will give up being a writer.

Do I have other writing superstitions? As I use a computer for composition, no favorite pen, no favorite shirt, no favorite place in the house (today I’m writing in bed, propped up, with my Surface propped up on a lap desk because it’s Sunday morning and I can afford to be lazy today). Nope, just the one where I stick the beginning of the novel.

Maybe I need more superstitions — where I can’t write without coffee, or I pet my cat 14 times before I write or I have to wear my thinking cap*** or … naaah, I’ll stick to the superstition I have. It doesn’t limit me much.

* I will change the name of this. See yesterday’s blog as to why I haven’t yet.
** Or coffee and cats.
*** I typed this “thinking cat”.

Writing Titles or, Why I Called my Dissertation ‘Fred’!

Wrote the first 700 words of Gods’ Seeds yesterday. I’m thinking of a new name for it, given that I’m cutting the plot line that necessitates that title.

Writing titles is my second least favorite thing about writing, with getting rejections in first place. Why? Because titles are challenging. You have to capture the essence of the novel in four words or fewer while capturing the reader’s eye and imagination.

In addition, titles go through fashions and fads. An earlier convention in titling required a short comment to edify the reader on the contents concealed by the catchy title. The most familiar example of this is the 1851 classic Moby Dick or, The Whale. Did you know about the rest of this title before I mentioned it? Did you notice the oddly placed comma? Let me try this: Voyageurs or, The Time Traveling Assassin. No, sounds like Jules Verne. I rather like Jules Verne, and a comparison to him would be flattering, but…

Meanwhile, in the late Seventies/early Eighties, Marion Zimmer Bradley named two novels Stormqueen! and Hawkmistress! Yes, the exclamation points are part of the titles. It makes me wonder if I should have named that one novel Apocalypse! No, maybe not.

In the late Eighties, at least in academic circles, the joke was that one’s article would be more likely to be published if it had a colon. Let me see: Reclaiming the Balance: A Study of Race Relations in a Pacifistic Ecocollective. Um, no.

So I’m left on my own when coming up with a title, unless a publisher looks at my writing seriously and asks, “Have you considered putting a colon in?” Then I’ll have to give in.

An Epiphany on a Long Drive

Yesterday, I drove past fields of white against a cold blue sky, scattered with wind turbines like ice giants. My playlist, a random mix dominated by the local bands I have known and loved over the years, lulled me into a sense of introspection.

When I was younger, I declared that local music was the salvation of the universe — said in a dry, understated tone for comic effect, of course. Nonetheless, I believed it. The bands I loved ranged from introspective roots rock to bagpipe jazz to Celtic rock fusion, and I loved their energy, their bravado, their desire to create a sound that wasn’t like every other band out there. At the same time I wanted them to become big enough so that other people could enjoy them, I feared what the corporate music machine would do to them.

I hit an epiphany somewhere north of Creston, IA, in the icy white afternoon through which I drove:

Why did I see self-publishing as different from what my friends in local bands went through?

Why did I see big contracts as something that would kill my friends’ spirit and creativity, but I didn’t see the parallels in my own life?

I don’t know how ready I am for self-publishing, but I am beginning to see it in a different way.

Decision Point

I’m at a decision point:

Do I edit Reclaiming the Balance, or do I start writing?

I think I’ve stated this before, but I haven’t written anything new since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains back in November/December.

It’s time to write. It’s time to get reacquainted with the story line and with my main characters, Leah and Baird. I’m taking some retreat time this weekend to see what I can get going as a start.

I’m a writer again!

Spring in my Heart

Almost March, and the snow still lies in dirtied drifts on the ground, piled person-high at the edges of parking lots. The wind chills are more often than not in the single digits. Usually, by now, the snow pack has gone and the days fool one into thinking Spring has come early. My peas are supposed to be planted on St. Patrick’s Day, and I don’t know if the snow will be gone by then, much less the soil warm enough.

In short, I am sick of winter.

I want something new. Like many Americans, I think I want a new pretty thing. I replaced my iPhone 6 Plus after three or four years with a refurbished iPhone 8 Plus, and I’m already accustomed to its shiny new look. That’s the problem with new things — we step on the hedonic treadmill, buy shiny new things, and feel happy until that happiness, hedonic happiness, quickly fades.

I want a new thing for my soul. I want to plant peas on St. Patrick’s Day and watch them grow. I want to see my books progress toward being printed. I want to find a new challenge that absorbs me.

If I can’t have Spring outside, I would like Spring in my heart.

Editing into the Future

On my second editing pass through Whose Hearts are Mountains, I realize the story reads better than I thought.

My first edit is for word use, and I mostly eliminate as many of the passive verbs — have, had, has, was, were — with some fixing of awkward sentences as I see them. This gives me at best a choppy feel for the story.

My second edit is a reading edit, where I read to hear the sentences in my head and make sense of them. The book sounds good in my head.

Whose Hearts are Mountains isn’t even the next book I’m sending to developmental edit. I’ll send Apocalypse, which is the merciless edited version of three novels, first. But I have good feelings about Whose Hearts are Mountains that I didn’t expect I would have.

I still have to start writing a new novel soon. The only novel I have left to edit is Reclaiming the Balance, and that one has some necessary stylistic divergence (use of gender neutral pronouns for an intersex character) that I’m afraid will get in the way of its success.

I’m still wondering what I will write next. I have a few leads but do not feel passionate about any of them, mostly because they’re sequels to things already written but not yet accepted. Perhaps I’m looking for a new idea.

The gaping maw of self-doubt

While editing, I realized Whose Hearts are Mountains really isn’t a bad book. In fact, it’s pretty good. I could look at it tomorrow and believe the opposite.

I may be the worst critic of my own books. As well, I may be too enamored of them. On bad mood days, I focus on the errors and despair. On good days, I think my work lyrical and moving. On most days, I wonder how I can get myself published and wonder if anyone will read me.

Apparently, self-doubt is a constant companion of good writers, no matter where they are in their career, even if they have published books, even if they’ve made the bestseller list. So if I get published, I’ll still have the doubt.

I’ve sensed this all along. Insecurity is a gaping maw in the pit of one’s stomach, which requires more and more proof to feed it, and it’s never satisfied.

My self-doubt doesn’t need more food. It needs to be accepted as a part of me that will always be hungry.

Sunday morning at Mozingo and my lack of inspiration

Sunday morning at Mozingo Lake. I’m sitting on the couch swathed in blankets in front of the fire, recovering from my decision to turn the heater down for the night. The main room temperature was 57 degrees this morning; the bedroom, without its own heat, probably hit the low fifties. So I’m now pampered on the couch while Richard makes hot chocolate.

I’ve decided to do one more editing pass of Whose Hearts are Mountains, suspecting that I concentrated too much on the “was is where have had has” and not enough on other aspects that need smoothing out. And I have one more novel that needs editing after that.

I’m postponing writing another novel, and I know it.

Like I said, I have an idea for a new novel that I’ve been sitting on for a while. The name of the novel is (tentatively) God’s Seeds; I’ve talked about it in these pages. It might help me to do what I usually do when I write — pay attention to the relationships between characters. The themes come first, the plot I create in the outline, but in my books, the relationships between characters create the dialog and the unfolding of the story. The main relationship in this novel is between Baird Wilkens, a half-human Nephilim and Leah Inhofer, a young adult with a startling gift. The story is in the Archetype universe, taking place a year or so after the Apocalypse. (Note to readers — the Apocalypse doesn’t turn out like you think. Look up the origin of the word)

It’s just hard to write right now because of my failure to get something accepted. I’ve already fulfilled my goal of writing a novel several times over, so another novel isn’t a tantalizing new goal. I haven’t gotten published or even found an agent yet, and so that goal seems daunting enough that I’m becoming avoidant.

What do I need right now? A clear path — an idea of what to do next. Give up? (I don’t feel like I’d have closure if I did this.) Self-publish? (I’m still scared of landing into obscurity, and it wouldn’t feel like closure.) Keep plugging away? (Insanity is doing the same thing over and over with the same results). Pray? (I’ve been doing this. No answer, my friends. No answer.)

At this moment, I guess it doesn’t matter, because I’m parked in front of a warm fire in a pine-paneled cabin, Outside lies a snowy landscape and iced-over lake. All is fine.

I am not inspired

So, I’m done editing Whose Hearts are Mountains, and I’m still at Mozingo on my writing retreat. But I don’t feel like writing. What am I to do?

Here’s my problem — I don’t have any inspiration for a new book. I haven’t since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains (writing, not editing). This is part of the reason I’ve been editing the back catalog for eventual developmental edits.

I have an outline for another novel, but my brain feels like a brick right now. I wrote a sentence, a first sentence, and it dropped like lead, inert and boring. I don’t feel that energy of attraction to anything I’ve writing.

I think a good amount of this is how hard I’ve been trying to get an agent and how utterly fruitless my efforts have been. I’m discouraged, and it’s hard getting motivated to write when there’s a backlog of unread novels.

Wish me inspiration. Wish me luck. Wish me good spirits. Wish me love.

Writing retreat at Mozingo

I sit in my pajamas in front of a fireplace typing this. Think of this as a mini-retreat at a cabin with the winter outside and warmth within. In fact, it’s warm enough that I’m getting sleepy …

No, that will not do. I came here to write, or at least finish editing Whose Hearts are Mountains. I only have three chapters left; I can handle that. But first, a nap …

A half-hour later, I’m awake. The fire is now roaring, and I’m ready to start writing again.

But first, I have to watch the video my friend in Poland (who probably doesn’t read my blog) just dropped …

I need to stop procrastinating. This IS my writing retreat.

On to editing …