I’ve decided to be a rebel for NaNoWriMo.
What that means is that the participant does anything but write a novel in those 30 days*. I have two books I’m editing, the problem child Gaia’s Hands (which may be a novella by the time I’m done with it) and Whose Hearts are Mountains when I get it back from my dev editor.
It feels odd not writing a new novel, but it’s not the best use of my time. I need to get this backlog dealt with and ready for possibilities. When these are done, I will have five completed novels (or four and a novella): Whose Hearts are Mountains, Apocalypse, Voyageurs, Prodigies, Gaia’s Hands. (There’s one more novel, Reclaiming the Balance, but I despair over that particular one, and there’s Gods’ Seeds, the one I’m not finishing for NaNo.
It’s time for me to edit. It’s time for me to write shorter items and try to get those published (I have one short story and one flash item published so far, Flourish and Becky Home-Ecky.) It’s time for me to try something else for NaNo.
*******
* The way one counts progress when editing in NaNo is 1 hour = 1000 words. Which is about right, except when I get really stuck.
Tag: Gaia’s Hands
Writing from the Dark Side, Part 2
Yesterday, I interrogated the scenario my dark side put forth (which involved moonlight and walking in on someone disrobing) and found out it was not about me at all, but was inside the psyche of Jeanne Beaumont, the heroine of Gaia’s Hands. Jeanne felt disturbed by the dream because — oh, hell, let me just show you the passage:
A silver beam from the moonrise sliced through the darkness of her room. In shadows bled of color, Josh stood, the light falling across his face. He tugged his t-shirt off, the beam illuminating a slender chest and burying itself in his dark hair.
“Why are you here?” Jeanne asked, feeling her voice shake.
He met her gaze, his youthful face serious. “For you.”
Jeanne muttered. “I don’t need you,” and turned toward the door to flee.
“You misunderstand.” A smile flitted across his face; the light showing a dimple incongruous to the moment. “It’s my need.”
“No,” Jeanne shook her head, grasping for the door frame to steady herself. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m old enough to be your mother. If I’d started late. This is impossible.”
“If it’s happening, it’s not impossible.” Josh held a hand out —
Jeanne bolted upright from her bed, squinting at her clock’s luminous numbers in the dark. 3:00 AM, the perfect time to have a haunting dream. Josh? She took a panicked breath. And her?
If it’s happening, it’s not impossible, she recalled from the dream.
If it’s happening …
What the hell was happening to her that she began to dream about Josh, that quirky young man she had become friends with?
She knew. He had become more than that quirky young man to her.
He had become compelling to her, and she tried to deny it. “I don’t need you,” she had told him.
But perhaps she did, and he would reject her instead.
********
My subconscious informed me that, in editing Gaia’s hands, I had lost an important aspect of it, the tension (in part sexual, in part fear of rejection) between Jeanne and Josh.
Let’s see Josh’s point of view:
Josh wanted. It seemed a perpetual state for him, so much so that he wondered whether he wanted to be Jeanne’s friend or to bed her. Or both. Or everything. He leaned close to his notepad and wrote automatically, ignoring the lock of hair that habitually fell out of place.
I want to be reckless; he wrote. I want to kiss her with everybody watching in the middle of the cafe. I want to take her clothes off in a room where there are thoughts of only us. I want to know her twenty-five years down the road, even though she’ll be seventy-five to my 47 years.
I should care about the age difference, but it doesn’t bother me. It probably bothers her. I would be her child’s age, if she’d chosen to have children. She’s never married. Maybe she didn’t want to get married.
In my most intimate fantasies, she waits for me. In reality, she holds me at arm’s length, and I don’t know if it’s for now or forever.
I want a guarantee where there are no guarantees.
The vision came to him, the garden in its fullness, and Jeanne standing within, naked. All bountiful curves and sags like an ancient goddess. Does one dare to approach a goddess? He walked toward Jeanne in the garden, slowly and deliberately, each footstep pounding in his ears. He reached out –
The vision drifted out of his grasp.
*****
Why does this come from my dark side? It’s a reflection of how I struggle with my age and face the invisibility that women “of a certain age” (I hate that phrase!) experience. The book is, in part, a biological fantasy about outliers — Jeanne, despite her age, represents a fertility goddess with her preternaturally prolific gardens, and Josh, despite his youth, makes a convincing god of the hunt with the inevitability of his pursuit. That’s in addition to the fantasy elements of Josh’s visions and Jeanne’s preternaturally prolific gardens.
I have to edit this book, bring back to it the tension between the two protagonists, add it to the other tensions and menaces. This is my job, to make these fantasies real and complex.
Editing Gaia’s Hands Again
I actually started working on editing Gaia’s Hands yesterday while sitting at Mokaska Coffeehouse in St. Joseph. Their new digs are amazing, by the way — spacious and warm. Their coffee is always full of intriguing hints — spice and chocolate, or bold berry, or citrus.
How did it feel editing Gaia’s Hands after a long break? I see things that need to be smoothed out, things that need to be added. I have a better feel for the characters than I’ve had before, and that’s saying a lot, as these are two characters I’ve lived with for years.
I remind myself that I literally have known these characters for years, as Gaia’s Hands was the first novel I wrote. Jeanne Beaumont, the scientist trying to ignore the web of mysticism she’s being drawn into, and Josh Young, the mystic grounding himself in writing. They represent the yin and yang symbol, constantly shifting roles.
The sad thing is that I will have to take a break from them again, first because Whose Hearts are Mountains will soon return from dev edit, and second, because November will soon arrive and I will work on a new novel for NaNaWriMo.
I hope, soon, to get Gaia’s Hands in shape for some sort of publication.
Waiting for the Train
I’m sitting in a railway station (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkel). The station in Osceola, IA, still retains the character of a previous era, with golden wood wainscoting and trim, steam radiators, and a worn, black-and-white tiled floor. It’s a great place to begin a journey, actually. More on train travel later, when I have hours to kill at the Metropolitan Lounge in Chicago’s Union Station.
I sit here wondering what I should write next, or if I should go back to editing Gaia’s Hands. There’s not too much impetus to edit it with a backlog of books I’d like to see published (three are strong contenders at the moment, although Whose Hearts are Mountainsreally needs a dev edit.
I just got done with Hands, the short story with Grzegorz – my husband has termed it “a really warped coming of age story”, and he’s right. I hope to post it on this page for you to read.
Interrogating Josh Young again
Josh slipped into the seat across from me, looking fey with his slight frame and mischievious smile. “You were looking for me?”
“Josh, how do you feel about Jeanne?” I ask, knowing that I would catch Josh off-guard.
“Oh, boy,” Josh said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want you telling me she’s old enough to be my mother, or she’s out of my league, or that I have the rest of my life to find someone. I’ve heard all those already, and I haven’t even told my mom about Jeanne yet.” Josh pushed straight black hair out of his almond-shaped brown eyes.
“Ok,” I smiled. “No advice. I just want to know for the sake of this story.”
“Jeanne’s the one. That’s it. No matter what people argue, I know she’s the one I want to marry.”
“This isn’t just ‘I want to go out with Jeanne, then,” I noted. You’re serious about her. How can you be so certain?”
“At my age?” Josh raises his eyebrows.
I slump in my seat, abashed, because that was exactly what I was thinking.
“What does it mean when you’re certain of something? Does it mean you can read the future? Or that you’re deluding yourself? We never know until it shakes out. My age or my lack of experience doesn’t make that any different than for anyone else.” I definitely had the disadvantage in this debate.
“What if you’re not the one for Jeanne?”
“It’s entirely possible I’m not. But if I don’t end up with Jeanne and I find someone else, I will always remember that she’s not Jeanne.” He squinted and looked in the distance; I wondered if he tried to see that reality.
“Are you attracted to Jeanne?” I venture timidly.
“I am. And you’re surprised, because everything you’ve been told suggests that would never happen. We’re both writers, and we both have active imaginations. Do you really believe in a world where younger men are never attracted to older women? Wouldn’t that world be poorer for it not happening?”
“Yes, it would,” I admitted.
a
Interrogating Jeanne again
I went back and had another conversation with Jeanne because I’m having trouble getting over the age difference:
“Jeanne, how do you feel about Josh?” I sipped my cup of coffee.
“You mean how should I feel about him, or how do I feel about him?” Jeanne looked at me, woman to woman, simpatico. Both of us wore summer clothes, and only those who knew us would recognize us as highly educated women.
“I need to know how you feel about him if I’m going to write this correctly.”
“He’s an impossibility. I’ve studied sociobiology, and everything I learned tells me that there’s no possibility our relationship should exist. I’m not of childbearing age, so he shouldn’t be attracted to me. He’s not a provider type – “
“Do you know that?” I asked.
“Guilty as charged. Let’s just say he’s a writer, and you should know by now that he’s never going to be rich.” Jeanne chuckled and set her cup down. “If the whole purpose of the human race is to provide another generation of humans …”
“But you don’t believe that,” I challenged Jeanne.
“First,” she emphasized, “I think sociobiology is garbage. The same sociobiologists who assume that the sole purpose of life is procreation assume all human enterprise – travel, art, architecture – exists so that the male of the species can attract the attention of a bed partner.”
“And you’re not waiting for some guy to write a sonnet for you.”
“Oh, God,” Jeanne lamented. “I’d love it if Josh wrote a sonnet for me. How far gone am I?”
“You tell me,” I grinned.
“As I said, Josh is impossible. He made the first move; did I tell you that? I’m sitting there with my computer, and suddenly, I look up and there’s Josh sitting across from me. With this grin and the hair falling in his eyes. I shouldn’t think this, but –”
“But?”
“I’ve never gone for the traditional. If I wanted a scientist, I’ve been surrounded by them for years. None of them have ever agreed with me – what a statement; they didn’t interest me, especially when they did the ‘Howdy little lady’ thing and told me why I should let the men take care of things. I think it made me more open-minded.”
“And?” I ask. I’m rather enjoying this.
“Josh isn’t typical. He’s not that warrior-hunter type sociobiology tends to promote. He’s bookish, so it’s wonderful to have conversations with him. He’s devoted to his aikido and his writing. He’s – well, he’s not a big guy. That may be an understatement; I don’t think he weighs 130 pounds. Okay, he’s absolutely beautiful, and it drives me crazy because I’m not exactly beautiful.”
“What does he think?” I probe.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows it’s getting serious enough in my mind that I wish we were dating, with all that implies. He hugs me and I’m curious. I have no idea where he stands and I don’t want to scare him off.”
“So you’re going to wait for him to say something first.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be like a cougar or something, and – God, I think he’s a virgin.” Jeanne rubbed her forehead.
“Well, if he’s as bookish as you say he is, then I suspect you’re right. Is it that scary?”
“It’s a lot of responsibility.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” I shrug. We both break out laughing clandestinely, as if caught in something naughty.
Please weigh in
On the road again, this time to Omaha, NE to visit four interns. So I’m taking a break from the pig-wrestling that is Gaia’s Hands.
Part of the problem is, I think, that I’m not feeling the characters. They’re great characters, two oddballs who have managed to find each other despite an age difference and different worldviews. She’s a 50-year-old botanist who lives in the scientific world, and he’s a twenty-one year old writer who believes in spirits.
There’s a big taboo-breaker here; we as a society at least accept older men/younger woman relationships. We might be a teensy bit squeamish about the older man and the sweet young thing, but it’s a trope which is dismissed as understandable given the purported fragility of a male ego and the rich man’s ability to “purchase” youth and beauty. Reverse the genders and it’s unthinkable, the target of nervous laughter and prurient “hot for teacher” fantasies and protestations of how this is against nature because women look for strong males who can protect them … bullshit.
As my husband reminds me, I like to bust tropes all to hell. I also have a fascination with younger men, even though they do not have a fascination with me (that damned biology, I guess). But I’m struggling with the questions about Jeanne and Josh’s relationship:
- Can Josh be mature for his age even though he hasn’t gotten into the workplace yet (and will likely go into grad school after he graduates)?
- Will Jeanne have patience for Josh’s trajectory? (She doesn’t need him as a provider, but would want him to have self-determination)
- Could Josh be attracted to the older, curvy, saggy Jeanne?
- Could Jeanne be attracted to the younger, rather small-boned Josh?
- Are Josh’s parents going to crap themselves if Josh brings home an older woman (they will) and will Josh care (probably not)?
In other words, can I make this believable? Please weigh in.
Hodge-podge of slop
I got my 30 hours in for Camp NaNo, but there’s still so much more to write/clean up for Gaia’s Hands. Every day, I think about what could be missing from the document:
- Is there enough description?
- Is Jeanne and Josh’s budding relationship going too slowly? Too quickly?
- Are there enough female characters?
- Should I have taken Annie Majors out when I took the Eric/Annie relationship out for being too complicating?
- Is the danger ratcheting up enough?
- Do I care about this book anymore?
Honestly, about the last point, I’m not feeling it at all. I feel like this is a hodge-podge of slop and I can’t figure out how to make it into a book.
Good wishes are welcome.
Avoidance
I’m getting avoidant toward Gaia’s Hands.
Honestly, every time I add something, I feel like I didn’t do enough, and I wrestle between going on and adding more plot and going back and adding more detail.
I think I need to do the former, because I need a whole book to react to. But it doesn’t feel rewarding, just a long slog with no cookies at the end of the day.
I’d drop it entirely, but I’m in the middle of Camp NaNo, and I have six hours left to write till goal. I’ve only lost a NaNo once, and that was when Trump got elected.
So I’m going to have to go on and write, with hopefully an aha reaction with my characters today.
Mud-wrestling a pig
I took a break from Gaia’s Hands yesterday to prepare query materials for Apocalypse. Not so much because I’m ready to query Apocalypse as much as I’m at my wits end trying to fix Gaia’s Hands.
I probably wouldn’t bother at all, just relegate Gaia’s Hands to the “lessons learned” pile were it not for the fact that it’s a prequel to Apocalypse, and I think I can get Apocalypse out there.
Gaia’s Hands is a smaller story, dealing with corporate greed and sticking to one’s convictions — and a Goddess, of course. But editing it feels like mud-wrestling a pig, and the pig is winning.
Words Like Me 