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Day 5 NaNo — and a big surprise

Something strange happened on the way to my NaNo count yesterday. I started becoming interested in writing on Whose Hearts are Mountains again. I don’t know how it happened, but I looked at it yesterday after getting my word count yesterday, and I started writing.

NaNo is surprisingly lenient about this — they say you have to write 50,000 words, and they count writing exercises (word sprints) toward this. I suspect I’m legal writing on two books during this time, and if not, I’ll just have to shrug and say “I’d rather ride this wave of success”.

I’m discovering that Whose Hearts are Mountains is going to be shorter than I’d thought at probably 75,000 words. That’s 4500 words more. It’s probably long enough, and it will get a little longer when I come back and add in some descriptive stuff and other editing. But I’m writing more than 20 words a day on it. Yay NaNo!

I’m still writing on Becoming Kringle, and I will probably work more on it as we approach the
In other developments, Richard is editing my problem child (now our problem child), Gaia’s Hands.
The Gaia stories overlap with Apocalypse and Reclaiming the Balance, but deal more with humans. So we’re co-authoring, and wondering if we should have both our names (I vote yes) or the combined pseudonym Lauren Richards (his vote yes).

So I’m re-energized for writing, and anticipate that December is going to be an editing, rather than a writing month.

More NaNo –Day 4

I’ve been doing something different this year for NaNo — I’m not trying to push myself too hard, because I’m afraid I will burn out. I’m writing 1667 words a day, which is the minimum it takes to win NaNo in 30 days. (Ok, I might write more today because it’s only noon but…)

My favorite searches so far on Google: tall slim male body measurements, cool summer seasonal color palette, cool summer seasonal color palette reds, silver grey, cool winter color palette, bright winter, fops, Father Christmas.

I continue pretty much flying by the seat of my pants, and frankly, it’s fun!

Day 2 Summary NaNo

Yesterday, I got to write some villains. Two twenty-somethings in Paris with an eye to the main chance, as they say in England. There are no jewels to heist (if indeed Alex is a jewel thief like he told Clarice) and pickpocketing isn’t lucrative. So why not blackmail?

Clarice knows of a philanthropy that seems, to her, like it’s got something to hide. And she and Alex need to come yup with a project quick, before Alex explodes. So why not Yes Virginia, an organization supposedly there to support Christmas charities?

Day 1 Summary NaNoWriMo: Time for Pantsing

I wrote my first 2000 words yesterday, flying my way through the first chapter. The good news is that the writing was easy. The bad news is that, if i go through my outline at this rate, I will be done in 16,000 words, which is 34,000 words short of a win.

It might be time to start pantsing.

To explain (and review for my longer-time readers), there are three modes of writing:

  • Planning, which means writing with a meticulous outline; 
  • Pantsing, which means flying by the seat of your pants;
  • Plantsing, which is somewhere in-between.
I think I’ve said in these pages before that I’m a plantser, which for me means having an outline with enough leeway to fill in the blanks. But it’s not working this time — perhaps I didn’t put in enough of an outline, or I wasn’t as sure about the action. So I will be pantsing a bit.
What encourages me is that the more I write, the more the layers of the characters reveal themselves to me. These characters need to be complex, because the story will demand that my characters grow and develop — and become the spirit of Christmas.

First 100 words of Becoming Kringle

Sunshine Walton wondered what kind of mess she’d gotten herself into.

She sat in a dimly lit, sparsely furnished office. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the flash of red neon against the dark outside through broken shutters. And Santa Claus sat across from her, behind a battered desk.

“My name is Jack Moore,” the avuncular man said, shaking her hand with a twinkle in his eye. “But folks call me Santa Jack.”

“Really,” Sunshine murmured, kicking herself mentally at the veiled sarcasm of her words. Not appropriate for a job interview.

Santa Jack, her prospective employer, merely raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

Tomorrow is NaNo

Tomorrow, I commit myself to writing 2000 words a day for the next month, I’ll be honest; I’m not as motivated for this as I’d like.

I have a lot of documents to edit (now that my developmental editor lets me know what’s not working). I have a novel that needs 25,000 more words.

On the other hand, there’s feeling a part of something bigger than me. NaNo is huge. NaNo is worldwide. NaNo comes with its own motivation.

Oh, this is such a hard decision! I’ll keep you posted.

Clarice Returns

As I attempt to settle down for coffee at the campus coffee shop, a spacious, dimly lit Starbucks with sensible tables to work at, a woman quickly walks up to me and asks, “Can I talk with you?” I notice belatedly she has a toddler with her, a towhead with a wise face.

“Hi,” the woman says serenely, “I’m Clarice. You wanted me to come by?”
I took a look at Clarice again. She seemed so very calm with her hands folded on the table, her pale complexion and strawberry-blonde hair, that I had trouble envisioning her as my villain. “What do you have against Brent?” I asked her abruptly.
“I have nothing against Brent — I kinda feel sorry about him. He’s the type of guy who gets used by women. He was certainly helpful to me when I lived in Denver. Treated me and the kid to lots of meals. He took it way too hard when I left.” Clarice smiled the mysterious smile of the Mona Lisa. “I really don’t know why he took it so hard. Poor boy had it bad for me.”
“Jack, then? What do you have against Jack?”
“Santa Jack, you mean? Just that. My uncle has been Denver’s epitome of Santa Claus for a couple generations. He actually gets stopped on the streets by little kids who want to know if he’s Santa, even in his street clothes in the middle of March. He wasn’t my Santa Claus. He didn’t save me from my horrible mother and her stream of ‘daddies’.”
“I’m sorry to hear about that,” I murmured. “So you’re trying to get back at Jack?” 
“I don’t know if I’m trying to get back at Uncle Jack or at Santa. If there was really a Santa Claus, wouldn’t he have rescued me from my mother?”
I felt numb. I didn’t know what to tell her. 

Becoming Kringle soundtrack

Because the upcoming book, Becoming Kringle, is about Santas and Christmas, most of my mix tape (or as I call it, soundtrack) music is going to be Christmas music. To go with the other theme, which is noir-ish, I chose a lot of Brat Pack and other crooners for my music. The mix is as follows:

Blues for Guy — Andre Hossain
Christmas Memories — Frank Sinatra
Mistletoe and Holly — Frank Sinatra
The Merriest — Various
Sympatico — Howard Shore
Santa Baby — Eartha Kitt
Winter Wonderland — Frank Sinatra
Bucket of Blood — Pino Donaggio
I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm — Dean Martin
Silencio – Angelo Badalamenti

I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus – Perry Como
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas — Frank Sinatra
I hope I don’t get tired of Christmas songs by Christmas…
And no, I don’t know why that song is called “Bucket of Blood”. 

Meet Brent Oberhauser

I walk into one of my favorite coffeehouses, all blonde wood and warm brown walls, with an iron and wood staircase which ascends above to a quiet place above the counter. Under the stairwell are more tables, and at one of the tables sits a tall, bony young man with a shaved head and nerd glasses. I sit down; piercing blue eyes regard me from behind the glasses.

“I was expecting you,” he said, cocking his head. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m the author. Are you on break?”

“Yeah, for a few minutes. Want a coffee?” He called out to the counter, “Bettina, Dr. Leach here needs a coffee. My treat.”

A moment later, I’m settled across the table from the man. His long fingers cradle a cup of coffee.

“Your name is Brent Oberhauser, right?”

“Got it in one.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is what I do when I’m not writing my dissertation. Or teaching American History.”

“So,” I asked, “You’re going to be a professor, right?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. My parents are both professors — political science and chemistry — and I think they’d have died of shame if I didn’t go for a PhD.” He leaned forward again, setting all four feet of the chair on the floor. I heard his foot tap, and I wondered if he ever truly rested. “Me, I’m history. Not that that’s helping me with my latest dilemma.”

“What dilemma?” I inquired.

“I have to be Santa for the Yule Ball this year. I mean, last several years we had Kris Kringle — I mean Kriegel. Short guy, ginger, runs a toy shop. He put the outfit on and he became Father Christmas. I’m gonna put it on and it’s going to barely hit my knees and I’m going to look like a stork in a skirt or something. I’ll scare the kids away …” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Why did Kris have to move away?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, knowing that as the author, it was all my fault that Kris Kriegel and his new wife Marcia had moved to Missouri.

“I’ll quit whining,” Brent shrugged. “It doesn’t look good on me.” He unfolded himself from the chair and threw his apron back on. “Stay a while. I have to get back to work.”

And so I stayed.