Life without coffee

This morning, my husband said to me, “I didn’t roast any coffee yet and we’re out of emergency beans. Would you like tea this morning?”

I felt my vision narrow into a grey-hazed tunnel and my body curl into itself. “Help?” I moaned weakly. “Coffee?”

Tea would just not cut it. Don’t get me wrong — I love tea, from the deep earthy murk of pu-er to the light fragrance of a Chinese green. I drink Darjeeling the way others drink wine — literally, because I’m no longer allowed to drink alcohol. It’s just that tea doesn’t have the body, the mouth feel, the fortifying nature of coffee. Tea is an afternoon indulgence; coffee is a trusty helper.

I am not a coffee addict. Truly I am not. I can quit anytime I want … except, apparently, this morning. Because I begged my husband to go out and get some coffee, and here I sit, now drinking the elixir of life. Richard is the hero of this piece by bringing me coffee.

Juggling cats

I’m juggling cats.
Hefty cats.
With claws out.

This is what my schedule seems like lately. In addition to editing books, I’m taking an online course, putting together what is roughly a manual for doing moulage, putting together an online course for fall, and visiting interns on site. If this is a summer vacation, I’m not vacationing much.

Oh, yes, and I got my psychological first aid certification, so there’s that.

And I’m managing to do this all while recovering from a depressive episode. Yay me!

Today, the excerpt is from the manual for moulage. It’s somewhat drier than my fiction, so apologies in advance —

In the case of disembowelments, this author has used inflated condoms and pork sausage casings as the simulated bowel material, which show some promise but at the same time have limitations. Condoms must be inflated and tied together, a feat impossible to do if the condoms are lubricated. The casings must be soaked in lukewarm water to remove the excess salt and likewise inflated and tied, a task not for the squeamish. Actual pork intestines yield the highest fidelity in constructing a disembowelment, but its characteristics (slipperiness, smell) might be a deterrent to its use in moulage.

Happy breakfast!

Back to Camp

I’m back at CampNaNoWriMo, Camp NaNo for short. It’s the second summer session for the virtual campers to work on books. I’ve signed up for 30 hours of revising (yet again) Mythos after my beta-reader went through it.

I’m feeling the heat of the summer deep in my bones, weighing me down with indolence and a total feeling of “meh” about writing. I don’t feel hopeless about being published, I don’t feel distraught about not being published, I just don’t feel like much of anything, especially as regards writing. I don’t like feeling this way — ok, I like not being drenched by despondency, but I rather miss that belief that something could happen any day now that could result in a writing career.

Perhaps this “meh” feeling is what I end up with. If that’s so, then maybe it’s time to give up writing. I know, I keep threatening (or promising) to give up writing, and I don’t. But if it ceases to spark something in me, I may have to find something that does.

This might be depression — I’ve been struggling with that for a while, no matter how happy and bouncy I look. I have an eye on it.

A poem from the book I’m editing

I’m taking a quick pass through one of the books I’ve neglected before Camp Nano — July session happens. This might be my most transgressive poem — something about the mud ..

I don’t know whether I want to hold you
Till I feel your heart in my chest,
And we entwine like the Trees,
Or mate with you
In the mud, in the rain, in plain sight.
Either way, we become something new.

Heatwave

The high temperature today will be 100 degrees, with a 105 heat index. This means I’m likely not going anywhere today — no coffee shop stop, no morning walk, no visiting with people. I’m sentenced to involuntary indolence for the day

Here’s an (old) poem for your viewing pleasure:

Heat Wave in Rural Missouri

The sun burns sagging porches,

bleaching petunias and salvia.

The afternoon gasps its last.

From my window, nothing stirs –

I alone live, breathe.

Swooning,

I spy you strolling through a deluge of rain,

bearing me pansies and muguet,

your bowler and grey linen suit still crisp,

the last mirage before I fade –

Knowing I exaggerate, and my demise

is not imminent in this air-cooled room

does not detract from my reverie.

Poem

Tell me a story
in a vaulted cathedral at midnight,
give me your story
as the flood roils down the creek,
tell me more
in a pasture turned minefield,
I’ll hold your secret
in the silence of the eye of the storm.

What I look for in Beta Readers

I need more beta-readers.

Before you all rush out to volunteer, here’s what I look for in a beta-reader:

First and foremost, the beta-reader should be willing to read a whole book, unless they find it so unbearable that they cannot finish. Then they should have the courage to tell me that and give specifics.
The beta-reader should be honest and specific. “I hate this book” may be honest but not specific. “It’s a nice book” is neither honest or specific. “I like this book” is honest (I hope) but not specific. “I loved finding out that X …” (no spoilers here) is honest and specific.
The beta-reader doesn’t have to be a copy editor or proofreader. If they want to point out the extra period on page 53, that is fine, but that’s not what I expect.
The beta-reader should focus on:

Readability — Are the words too big? Are the sentences incomprehensible? Does the book bog down in places? Does the reader get lost? Does the narrative “flow”?
Characters — does the reader identify with the characters? Believe in the characters?
Plot — does the reader follow the plot? Is it confusing? Is it internally logical?

Finally, the beta-reader should not be afraid to hurt my little fee-fees. As long as you don’t say “This is the worst book I’ve ever read” (which is not specific and hopefully not honest), I can handle it.

The benefits of being a beta-reader:

You will be named in the acknowledgements.
You will get a free autographed copy if I ever publish.
You will have read the book before anyone else has.
Although you will not get paid, you will have the satisfaction of helping make something happen.

Now, do you want to be a beta reader? Find me at lleachie (at) gmail.com

Perseverance

I’m re-editing Mythos (how many times has this been now?) on the advice of my current beta-reader (beta-reader #2 has gotten very busy and hasn’t gotten back to it). Most of what we’ve found are little mistakes I should have caught myself, contradictions (oops!) and awkward and vague sentences. I’m halfway through the book correcting these.

I’ve also rewritten a couple scenes to be more suspenseful, but as always, the big question comes:

Will agents like it as much as I like it?
Yes, I’m about to go through the rejection cycle again.

I know we’ve been through this before. I get excited, I send queries, and I get rejections. Why do I keep trying?

I guess I have perseverance. It might be one of my best qualities — not giving up. It may be one of my worst, as shown by the time I let a Siamese cat scratch me 28 times until I finally petted it.

So I’m probably going to resubmit Mythos soon, as well as the freshly renovated Voyageurs. Both have been rejected. I don’t know if I’ll have luck this time, either.

Richard has instructed me not to submit any queries until I’m over this dysthymic (low-level depressive) episode. I’m working on it.

Full of revision

Sorry I haven’t been writing much lately. My doc and I are working on getting me out of a minor depression, but that hasn’t kept me from being productive. I’ve been working a lot on revisions, with a goal of making the work stronger without running away screaming from ever writing again.

I have a variety of feelings when I edit:

How did I miss that?
Oh no, not again
How can I make this stronger?
I love this passage
What is keeping this from being published? (I never seem to answer that question)
Why did I think the world needed to see this novel?
Should I continue editing? Trying to get published?
What reasons might someone want to read this?

I suspect that, if I were in a more positive place, positive thoughts would take over. If I’m hypomanic, then I start thinking I’m a genius. (Hypomania is great for self-esteem until it’s not.)

I love you and miss you all, whoever you are.

My worst fear

“What are you most scared of?”

“This scene: I am at a party in a green, shady place. There are lawn chairs around in a big circle, and people are drinking tall cool drinks or, in my case, wonderful coffee. Many people have come, some bearing small bags.

“I come to realize that I’m the honored guest at the party. I’ve only been the honored guest twice in my life — my sixth birthday and my high school graduation, and few people stopped to either event. I think there are twenty people here, and I’m nearly crying. People here — for me?

“I mingle — after all, this is my party — and make sure people have enough to eat and drink. There’s a beautiful berry trifle and a cake and cookies and pitchers of ice tea and lemonade, and I didn’t make any of it. It was here, simply here, for us. I move through a sheen of tears. I talk in my own peculiar way, not asking about the spouse and kids, but asking what they’re doing, what they’re creating, whether it be scrapbooking or music or a pretty home or quiet for themselves.

“Then someone makes me sit down in my chair, which they have moved to the middle of the circle. And each, one by one, comes up to me and gives me a hug and whispers to me that I am loved, that I am important. They hand me stars and hearts and flowers from the bags. They have scattered all over my chest, galaxies of shiny affection.”

“I want to run away I feel so uncomfortable. I don’t deserve this. Instead, I burst into tears and tell them, all of them, that I love them. And I hug all of them, fearing that this will go away as soon as I blink my eyes, that this will all be taken away from me.

“That’s why it’s my worst fear.”