Counting the words

I am trying to extend a 1200 word story into a 7000 word story for a writing contest. I’ve written 300 words so far; so I only have to do this 22 more times. 

I tend to like short, concise writing, even in novels. I wonder if it’s because I’m relatively impatient, or whether I have a short attention span, or whether I really really can get everything I want done in fewer words. I’ve been told the latter by my dev editor, who doesn’t want me to lengthen things. On the other hand, I have a short story that an editor would like to see as a novel. He’s absolutely right, and it would make a great prequel to Prodigies, but I would have to immerse myself in Poland for a couple weeks to get the feel for it. 


So, back to the story. The story is Kami, and it’s about death and afterlife. It also features Jeanne and Josh Beaumont-Young, one of my favorite couples. Jeanne at this point is 80 and has just lost her 55-year-old husband of 27 years. I like the couple because they defyour common notions of love and attraction, and because they have a chemistry despite their bookishness.

I need to take a deep breath and set myself a writing goal, and just write, then edit. Luckily I have a vacation to do it.

Pandora’s FedEx Package

I have a mystery box coming to me.

I found this out via a text from FedEx. One package to arrive on this Thursday before 5 PM.  I love packages!

The problem is that I have no pending merchandise orders from anywhere. My husband doesn’t have any pending orders from anywhere. And, as far as I know, the cats don’t have any pending orders from anywhere.

In examining the FedEx text, I can discern the following: The package originated in Berlin, CT. The shipping path began in Northborough, MA. The package’s dimensions are 20x12x4, and it weighs 4.2 lbs. It has been in package jail in Odessa, MO for two days.

What can I deduce? I’m failing. My fantasy life has many guesses: 

  • A present from family? (From Berlin, CT? I have no family there.) 
  • A marked-up copy of my novel with a book offer? (I’m pretty much sure that’s not how it’s done.) 
  • A package bomb? (By FedEx? Highly unlikely). 
  • A sweepstakes prize? (“Here’s a grocery sack with our logo!”)
  • An inheritance from a long-lost relative? (“Here’s a grocery sack with a logo!)
I will know soon. It will likely be something I ordered six months ago that I can’t remember. But I can dream, can’t I?


The semester is winding down …

It’s finals week, and after I do some wayward grading, all I have left is the finals, which are multiple choice and computer graded.  And then I will be done with the semester and get some quality time with my brain.


I wonder if I will feel possessed to write a new novel? I said I would back down from noveling because I have five I can release to the querying process. I could query — I think it’s been enough time. I could write short stories or poetry. I can’t just sit around and do nothing. 

So my break will be at least partially a writing break. It will also be a research break, a class-tweaking break (most of this is, however, done). A sit and pet kitties break. A big coffee break. A sit at the massive fireplace at Starved Rock with a mug of Irish coffee break. 

I’m looking forward to it.

Something to learn

Sometime around the 2nd of February, I will have put in 1000 entries into this blog. A couple-three years or so worth of entries. This boggles my mind, because I didn’t think I could stick to something for that long.

To be honest, I’ve never been good at sticking to things. I plant a garden and the weeds take over. I start a hobby and I abandon with a room full of supplies. A good amount of this is from the bipolar, when one gets a boost of enthusiasm and energy in mania and then heads down a spiral of depression. Some of this has to do with my ability to over-focus at times, and the subsequent burnout. Some of it has to do with my somewhat lacking planning skills. In other words, I’m a mess who can concentrate on two things well: My job and my writing. 

Maybe I have something to learn from this — what keeps me on track on these two areas?  Influence on the outside. 

How can I use this? Provide myself with external contact points, such as this blog does. There aren’t many of you, but I don’t want to let you down, so I keep writing. I keep trying to publish. I keep asking for feedback.


So, if you’re stuck anywhere in life, what motivates you? What is your workaround? 

The Christmas We Make

I’m sitting on my couch in a room transformed into the Christmas my husband and I never felt we had. Both of us had mothers with illnesses, especially around the high-stress times of Christmas, and we tiptoed through the house hoping not to aggravate things. So now we have stockings (hanging on a windowsill; our mantle is a fake fireplace and scaled to make the stockings look ridiculous). We have greenery and seasonal stuffed toys and a now-collectable Avon Christmas train tree that plays tinny Christmas carols. And a tree, lit like my tree in my childhood was, with little multicolored lights. (These modern lights are a bit day-glo, but I’m okay with that).

We play Christmas music almost non-stop. One thing I didn’t know about my husband when I met him is that he has an ever-growing set of Christmas albums on iTunes. Right now, it’s cool jazz; I’m looking forward to some classical pieces on the soundtrack.

This is where some would piously import that trees and such aren’t the real meaning of Christmas. I would argue against this; the real meaning of Christmas is celebration. Let people celebrate the spirit of good that they will. Richard and I celebrate recovery from painful childhoods, among other things. We celebrate that we can make a Christmas for ourselves.

**************

I really apologize for the test note blog yesterday — I was testing to see if IFTTT could submit a post announcement to Twitter and Facebook so I could quit the extra step of using Hootsuite to post. (Note: It can’t.) Ten of you actually read the post, which is really nice of you.)

Short Essay: Through the Years

“Through the years, we all will be together
if the Fates allow – “
I have spent Christmas surrounded by family, sitting in Santa’s lap as a young child. I have spent Christmas stirring gravy for the Friends of Christmas holiday meal for those alone or suffering. I have spent Christmas musing about some fellow I’d developed a crush on. I’ve spent Christmas estranged from family. I’ve spent Christmas sleeping on a friend’s couch. I’ve spent Christmas admitted to a private psychiatric treatment program. I have spent Christmas caroling with Mormons, sitting in silence with Quakers, performing at Lessons and Carols with Episcopalians, holding a Yule ritual on my own. I have spent Christmas trying to convince my mother she wasn’t dying and years later watching her on her deathbed. I’ve spent Christmas being snubbed by a boyfriend’s family. I have spent Christmas holding my breath on a perfectly still Christmas evening among the lights of a community park, realizing that every Christmas holds a mystery for the heart to solve.

My Muse

My muse holds a magician’s top hat in the spotlight,
busks on a street corner playing with fire,
pens sonnets in the corner of the coffeehouse.
He disappears in crowds as I arrive,
and I pursue him to no avail
through the trail of illusion, through lingering tones,
through words scattered in my path,
through his vital force imbued in the air like ozone.

My Loneliest Christmas

This is the Christmas story I seldom tell, of the time thirty years ago that I spent Christmas in an inpatient treatment facility for female sexual abuse. I was lucky to be in a facility with an outstanding program for women like me, and I credit them with turning my viewpoint from that of a victim to that as a survivor. There’s a big difference between the two.
Christmastime is not the time to have one’s husband (now ex) disclose that he had molested several children in his teens*. Especially when one is a sexual abuse survivor. Especially at Christmas. I spiraled into a depression, my promises to weather anything in my marriage warring with my promise not to stay married to a man who could relapse anytime and harm my young nieces. I was already estranged from my parents at that point; I had no support left except friends many, many miles away.
I had exhausted my long-distance friends with my anger and depression and suicidal ideations**. I had exhausted the crisis hotline worker with numerous calls on numerous sleepless evenings. My mentor/father figure and the crisis worker both urged me to seek inpatient treatment. Finally I listened.
I found a place where I could get treatment, a place called Brattleboro Retreat in Brattleboro, VT, one of two facilities my insurance could cover. I visited my PA to see if she could help me get insurance to cover the visit; she informed me that they wouldn’t pay unless they believed I was either suicidal or psychotic. I wasn’t psychotic, and we weren’t sure if I qualified for suicidal despite ideations to the effect, but she convinced the insurance company that I wasn’t suicidal yet, but I could very well be shortly. Insurance accepted me, and I scheduled my stay for the two weeks I had during Christmas break. This, the intake person at Brattleboro told me, was less than the recommended minimum of three weeks, but I knew I needed to get back to work on time to preserve my dignity.
I took the bus from Oneonta to Brattleboro carrying one suitcase as soon as winter break began. I looked out onto a grey, bleak winter which made me feel more bereft. I felt I had nothing, would not have anything ever again. I vaguely remembered the check-in procedure at the small front office, the mental status exam questions about hearing voices and whether the TV spoke especially to me.
My first impressions of the unit, my two-week home, was that of old wood in need of some refinishing, worn green carpet, in a comfortable stately boarding house in need of a little freshening up. I remember the room with bath I had to myself, the front central desk, and the white paneled doors with security alarms.
From the first day, I experienced Brattleboro as a combination of summer camp and boot camp, with my psyche being remade through stark honesty and challenge, meditation and self-soothing. Brattleboro Retreat’s program could be best described by this metaphor: You’re standing on a rickety floor, an unsafe floor, but it’s the only floor you’ve known. Suddenly, the floor is being torn out from under you plank by plank, and suddenly you find yourself falling, but then there’s a safety net catching you and tools to help build that floor up. But I cried a lot, mourning my lost relationship, feeling overwhelmed with the feelings coming up from my childhood abuse, taking the scorn of my new roommates too personally. I know now that they reacted to my academic language, my talking about recovery but not recovering, and to their own vulnerabilities which they tried to hide with tough talk while I wore mine like a suit.
On Christmas Eve, we played Jenga and Scrabble amongst the tinsel that decorated the windows, in a world of our own, as we were not allowed outside the campus until we’d earned outing privileges. Once or twice a resident acted out, using old broken strategies for dealing with feelings, and we would have group meetings to tell that resident how their actions made us feel as part of the protocol for dealing with destructive behaviors.
On Christmas, I felt lonelier than I ever had in my life, and I spent too much time on the unit’s one phone talking to my friend long-distance. But I journeyed down to the gift shop and bought myself a midnight blue sweatshirt with “Brattleboro” emblazoned across it in collegiate letters and a jar of good-smelling body cream. I rubbed the cream on myself after I soaked for a half-hour in the private tub I was allowed because I was neither an imminent suicide risk nor did I have an eating disorder.
My experience of Brattleboro, looking out the large windows of the common space at the frozen river at night and Christmas lights in the distance, changed my life in ways I am still learning. It taught me how to mourn and let go, how to seek the light, how to see myself as a survivor rather than a victim. I am who I am because of Brattleboro, because of that lonely Christmas.


* It is entirely possible (and believed by several mutual friends) that my ex lied about his history of being an abuser for obscure reasons, but I can only go on what he told me at the time. 

** At this point, I was probably also suffering from a rapid-cycling bipolar episode, but I had not been diagnosed yet.

What I’ve learned by using Submittable

When I went to Archon, a conference for writers in St. Louis, a few people advised me to start submitting shorter items, poetry and short stories, as the novel market has been so capricious. One person tipped me off to Submittable, a web page/app which helps writers identify potential publishers (literary journals, writers’ web pages, etc.) and streamlines the submission process.


What I’ve discovered from using Submittable:

1) Many journals have submission fees, so submitting in bulk can cost some money. The lowest fee I’ve seen is $5.00, the highest fee I’ve seen is $30. The more “literary” or exclusive the journal, the higher that fee.

2) There are a lot of themed calls for submissions — fantasy, horror, romance, cross-genre and more.  Some of these offer a prompt — one of the ones I entered had the prompt “Catch up”. 

3) I have a ten percent success rate, which has kept me from the despair about not finding an agent/publisher for my novels. 

I get a lot of rejections for my work, but because there’s always more contests, and more hope, I feel better about trying.