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!
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 …
That I should love you with my sullied heart.
When you realize that crushes, the crushes that started at an entirely too-young age, that persisted through your marriage to a very patient husband, are all ways of trying to break through the dichotomy that permeated your childhood:
I am innocent/I have been used sexually.
Now, as an adult in my fifties, that pattern of seeking someone’s attention as a mystical cure for a secret affliction continues. I learn more and more every time, and I hope to reach an escape velocity from it soon.
The world assumes that those who have been sexually abused as children have somehow invited it upon themselves, that they have somehow lacked the innocence that would have stopped an abuser otherwise. The child accepts this judgment and judges themselves as someone worthy of hurt, and if the child is female, the purity culture surrounding them proclaims them soiled.
I blocked my memories throughout my childhood, only remembering them in adulthood. So I felt sullied but didn’t know why, and when I hit adolescence, I needed that proof that I was still loveable. And all those other things I felt I was lacking — beauty, personality — got rolled up with the damage from my abuse.
Wish me luck — I’m going on a writing (ok, editing) retreat at Mozingo Lake this weekend. It probably won’t snow much here this weekend. That’s where I need the luck.
Mozingo Lake is the park some seven miles from us, owned by the city, with RV and cabin camping and a big fishing lake. We’ve secured one of the cabins for the weekend because I needed to get away to some place with a fireplace, a view out the window, and a minimum of distractions (and wi-fi, so we’re not completely roughing it.) The cabins possess a rustic living room area opening to a less rustic-looking kitchen with modern appliances, with a bedroom and sleeping loft. Oh yes, and indoor plumbing.
We’re supposed to get no more than 1-2 inches of snow Saturday night, and I expect that to hold. We’re going to bail if the forecast changes by Saturday afternoon. The key here is “if the forecast changes”, because sometimes we get more snow than was forecast. With a bit more snow, the roads at Mozingo will be an impassible winter wonderland until they plow. Here’s hoping we get the whole weekend there, and here’s hoping we don’t get snowed in — then again, if we bring extra food, getting snowed in could be fun …
I want to get rid of all the grass in the front yard. Richard, my husband, does not agree with me.
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| My husband, Richard |
I don’t see the upside of grass lawns. Unless you are a ruminant (a cud-chewing animal), you can’t eat grass. It smells pleasant, but its scent is fleeting. Today’s lawn craze requires a monoculture of this pretty useless plant without the inclusion of co-planting in the form of white clovers that would supply nitrogen for the lawn. An attractive grass lawn demands babying — fertilizer, weed killer, mowing, reseeding.
I read somewhere that the desire for a green grass lawn is a throwback to early humans feeling more comfortable if there were no trees in their domain for predators to hide behind. I don’t buy this because landscaping incorporates plenty of bushes and trees for predators to hide behind. I myself think that the fanaticism for perfect green lawns, now with their perfect cross-hatching mowing patterns, has to do with what preeminent Victorian economist Thorstein Veblen called conspicuous consumption.
Conspicuous consumption refers to spending money in a way that shows that one has money. Perfect lawns are a perfect example of this — they require a lot of monetary outlay and a lot of time investment. It helps to be able to hire a groundskeeper to get that verdant sheen without any dandelions marring the perfection.
I could live without a typical grass lawn with all its high-maintenance needs. When the dandelions pop in our yard, I don’t think of digging them up unless I want to roast their roots for Beau Monde style coffee (aka chicory coffee, as dandelions are a close relative). I fantasize about a lawn full of clover with its little white blossoms or edible lawn daisies, or a slope of camomile and pavers surrounded with scented thymes. Or maybe just expanding my edible landscaping until there’s no lawn.
For which I’d have to hire a landscaper and participate in my own form of conspicuous consumption.
