One week down on NaNo …

At the end of the first week of NaNo, I’ve written 16,000 words or an average of 2000 words a day, split halfway between Becoming Kringle and Whose Hearts are Mountains. I’ll be honest — writing lately has been challenging, with a lot of self-doubt after working with one of the publishing editors I tried. This week has been vindicating.

(A hint from case management class to editors of various types: You have to talk about the strengths as well as the failures of a client’s work, not for flattery or reassurance, but to remind the client that the manuscript is worth the work being put into it.)

I’ve finished Whose Hearts are Mountains — by “finished”, I mean “written a very rough draft that has plot holes you could probably drive a truck through, and desperately needs an edit or two.” I remember when I arrogantly thought my drafts weren’t rough and so I sent them out. Writing has been a humbling exercise.

From here on out, all of my words are going to Becoming Kringle. I think this will be more of a challenge, in fact a huge challenge, because I have the barest of outlines to go by. On the other hand, with yesterday’s snow, it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

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.

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.

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.

Meet Sunshine Walton

As I peered into my computer screen, a low and modulated voice broke into my reverie. “May I sit down?”

I look up, and the cafe became solid again. A tall, slender woman with brown skin and fine black braids pulled into a sleek bun stood with her hand on the back of the chair facing me. She is dressed in a red skirt suit with sensible black heels. Her air of calm competence left me feeling a bit awkward.

“Sure,” I said, nodding to the chair.

She reached down to shake my hand. “My name is Sunshine Walton. You asked to see me?”

Oh, I thought. Oh. Of course I had asked to see her. I had thought I needed to see my characters for my latest book more clearly. I hadn’t guessed … “Yes — yes. I did ask to see you. I just didn’t expect you so — quickly.”

Sunshine smiled bemusedly. “Did you want to ask me some questions?” She sat straight, almost primly, in her chair.

“Yes. What is your background?”

“I’m a military brat.” She sobered. “I think we moved five times by the time I finished high school — no, six. ” She chuckled, a low pleasant sound. “I got to see the world. It was a strange childhood. It was hard to get to know anyone outside my family, because then they’d leave, or we’d leave. It was a vivid and lonely childhood.”

“Any romances in your life?” I wasn’t sure that was a good question to ask, but I asked it anyhow.

“Oh, I had a grand romance in high school — that was ages ago …” Sunshine chuckled. “I was convinced he was the love of my life, and then — “

“Then what?” I asked impatiently.

“We moved again. Apparently it couldn’t last long-distance. He never wrote. Since then, I’ve been too busy to have a relationship — college, finding a job in my field …” Sunshine gazed in the distance, then shrugged.

“What is your field?”

“Accounting. But I also have some management skills. I think I have an innate talent for management, but I thought accounting was safer.”

“Safer?” I queried.

“More likely to get a job. I don’t like the thought of starving.” Sunshine raised her eyebrows. “That’s why my dad ended up in the military, I guess.”

“One more question,” I stated. “How do you feel about Santa Claus?”

Sunshine laughed. “I haven’t believed in Santa since I was seven. I guess he’s a good thing for the children. I suppose if I have kids, I’ll do the Santa thing with them, but …” Her voice trailed off as she gazed into the distance, then she shook herself. She checked her watch. “I have to go — I have an appointment across town in fifteen minutes.” She stood in an efficient motion, nodded to me, and strode out the door.

I smiled. Sunshine’s studied calm was about to be upended by a bit of Christmas magic.