Tag: ideas

An embarrassment of riches

I don’t know what to write next.

This, as you may guess, is unusual for me. I have eight novels (with two needing serious work to redo), and these were written in a five-year period. (And should have been edited more ruthlessly much sooner, but I didn’t know better).

I want to hold off a bit on editing the two that need serious work (why? Because I feel like I haven’t done anything but edit lately.)

I have a couple ideas of what to write:

  • Gods’ Seeds. This would be another book in the Archetype universe, taking place after Reclaiming the Balance (which needs much work) and before Whose Hearts are Mountains. and which features a brewing war among Archetypes 
  • A sequel to Voyageurs, which would require a lot of history research, which I detest
  • A sequel to Prodigies, a New Adult novel, with no idea who I’d be following.
  • Something new and I have no idea. 
None of them are grabbing me yet. Probably because I feel guilty for having books out there that need editing. 
I suppose this is an embarrassment of riches and I shouldn’t complain.
Time for me to see what ideas grab me …

What am I going to write about next?

I know it’s a little early to think about this, as I am about to send Voyageurs to the developmental editor and my beta-readers have a hold of Prodigies, but I don’t know what to write about next!

The problem is that most of my new ideas are based on either Voyageurs or Mythos (the book that will go to developmental edit after Prodigies, because my betas get lost in the middle of it)  and I don’t want to make the mistake I made before of basing 3 other books off a first book that I can’t publish.

No, I still don’t have an agent  yet, but I remain optimistic.

Anyone have any ideas?

My plate contains a smorgasbord

I have three books I’m working on at the same time. Three.

I don’t know how it came to this — well, I do. I was working on Prodigies, a dystopic contemporary fantasy about two teens born with unusual capabilities in influencing emotions and thus actions. Because of this, they are in danger from shadowy entities who find them potentially useful. Yes, it has shades of Heroes (a TV show that played from 2006-10), but it has multiple differences, too. This might become a YA novel if I finish it.

Then, my husband and partner in crime suggested I write the 20-something-year-old idea then named “Dirty Commie Gypsy Elves” by a friend of mine. That was my NaNo project, it’s since become two books and I’m working on expanding on the first so it’s a novel and not a novella.

Finally there’s my non-fiction/poetry/prose/story/research book explaining life with bipolar.  That project is currently called “Ups and Downs”.

OOPS. I’m also editing a book on roleplayer support in disaster simulation exercises and writing two chapters of it. That’s four books.

***********
The most compelling project right now is the non-fiction item because it’s creative, informative, and autobiographical. But both of the other books are begging for attention just now. Did I say I was going to quit writing because of too many rejections? (Oops, I forgot to quit.) Do I worry that my ideas don’t seem to quit? (Yes, I do, a little. Is it time for a med check?) Do I still wish someone would publish my stuff so people would read it and I would have money to put into a new computer that had more storage and could handle graphics? (Absolutely.)

I guess I can’t NOT be a writer.

Interrogating the Dream

I get my ideas for writing from my dreams (I’m pretty sure I’ve already told you that). This post regards the first book I wrote and the dream that first tripped me into writing. 

The writing I post today is not the dream itself. I will not post the actual dream, because it, like many dreams, concerns a lodge frozen in the 70’s and run by Mennonites, an underground world with the white plastic walls of a gas station bathroom, and random sex with a stranger. 
I couldn’t get the dream out of my head (blame middle age) so I decided to analyze it, beginning with a Gestalt method — “Talk about the dream from the viewpoint of the mint green Formica countertop” etc Then I switched to interrogating the dream by asking questions of the characters: “Who are you and why did you get involved with this? What did you feel at the time? What would you like me to know about you?”
This process resulted in a snippet of dialogue. Note that this dialogue didn’t make it into the book (It’s a little too dreamy) but a book grew out of the relationship these two characters have. The book is not romance, and has only oblique references to sex. But here’s a snippet of my creative process, “Interrogating the Dream”:
*****
Josh dreamed that night. The scene was a battered wooden stage made up as a living room with a beige couch, a side table cluttered with books, and an easy chair. Jeanne sat on the chair; the lights were set relatively low to simulate a relaxing evening. The mood, however, was anything but relaxed.  The dream unfolded, a disturbing play starring him and Jeanne. When he woke up, he pulled out his ever-present notebook, and transcribed the dream as a script:
A SIMPLE, BUT COMFORTABLE LIVING ROOM. THE FURNITURE IS A COUCH WITH A SIDE TABLE AND AN EASY CHAIR.
Jeanne sits on the couch, leaning forward, holding a piece of paper. She wears a black sweater and wears her hair down.
                                     JOSH (VOICEOVER)
I’m sorry. I’m afraid I hurt you.
                                     JEANNE
It’s okay. I just feel strange about it.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I think I took away your choice.
                                     JEANNE
No. I could have stopped you. I don’t know why I didn’t.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I don’t know why I did it. I was sleepwalking. I was hungry.
                                     JEANNE
This scares me. It’s too dark.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I want to bring this into the light. I’ll find you.
Josh walks onto the stage. He wears a red shirt with the Chinese symbol “ai” and jeans. He sits on the couch, Jeanne stands up and begins to pace, stopping to turn to him when she delivers her lines.
                                    JEANNE
How old are you?
                                    JOSH
I’m 20.
                                   JEANNE
That worries me. You’re fragile.
                                   JOSH
Why do you say that?
                                  JEANNE
You’re so young.
                                   JOSH
I’m young. I’m short.  I’ve had to develop more strength than most. Remember who asked to bring this into the light.
                                  JEANNE
Why leave me a note when you were right outside?
                                  JOSH
Strangely, words have more power when you have to read them.
                                 JEANNE
How so?
                                 JOSH
I say words and they’re ephemeral. They only stay as long as your memory lets them. I write them, and they’re there for you to reread.
                                JEANNE
What if I throw away the paper?
                                JOSH
Your conscience remembers why you threw away the paper. The words remain.
Jeanne stops pacing and faces him on the couch.
                               JEANNE
Let’s bring this into the light.
                               JOSH
Okay. Let’s do it.
                              JEANNE
Why did you — I don’t understand what happened.
                               JOSH
I know. I thought I was dreaming. Until the end. This is not how I wanted my first time to be. I wanted my first time to be slower. I wanted to freeze time; I wanted to register every pressure, every breath. I wanted to see your face.
Jeanne sits on the couch next to Josh.
                             JEANNE
Some first times are ludicrous, some are hurried, some are drunken, and some are rape.
                             JOSH
What was your first time like?
                            JEANNE
Mine was rape.
                             JOSH
How could someone —
                            JEANNE
Two someones. I was thirteen. It’s long past.
                            JOSH
Oh my God. I’m sorry.
                           JEANNE
I shouldn’t have told you.
                           JOSH
Why not?
                          JEANNE
You’re so damn young.
                          JOSH
I’m not so sure of that. I think you’re younger than me sometimes, inside. And maybe I’m ancient, like a tree. And maybe sometimes I can give shelter.
Jeanne turns away.
                         JEANNE
I can’t accept your offer. You’re too damn young.
Jeanne stands and turns to Josh.
                        JEANNE
What do you want from me?
                 
       JOSH
I want you to accept me for who I am.
                       JEANNE
So who are you?
                        JOSH
I was quiet and easily overlooked. I fell in love with my anger, fell into darkness. Until I watched a storm — I saw lightning split a tree. I realized I was the tree as well as the storm. I had to ask myself what the tree needed.
                      JEANNE
What did the tree need?
                      JOSH
To be allowed to be.
Jeanne walks across the stage and addresses the audience.
                    JEANNE
It’s all backwards. We should have gotten the chance to say “this is who I am” first.
Josh stands and walks toward her.
                     JOSH
Would you have even looked at me?
Jeanne turns to face him.
                    JEANNE
That’s the hardest thing you’ve asked.
                    JOSH
Why?
                   JEANNE
Oh my God. You don’t understand. You’re beautiful. I can hardly take my eyes off you. And I’m older, and I’ve lived more. I have all the power here. I touch you, and I’ll overwhelm you. I’ll stunt your growth, you’ll end up gnarled and twisted.
                   JOSH
You describe yourself as the Wicked Witch in this tale.
                   JEANNE
Well?
                   JOSH
What if I came up to you and introduced myself? Isn’t there power in that? And what if I started the conversation?
Jeanne turns away.
                  JEANNE
That’s not what I’m scared of.
Josh puts his hands on Jeanne’s shoulders to get her to look at him
                   JOSH
What if I said you were beautiful?
                  JEANNE
 I would probably cry.
                  JOSH
What if I kissed your tears —
                 JEANNE
You shouldn’t –
                  JOSH
Why not?
                  JEANNE
Because then I might fall a little in love with you.
                   JOSH
And then I’d be powerless?
Jeanne walks away from Josh a few steps to break the contact and turns to face him.
                  JEANNE
Do you accept me for who I am?
                  JOSH
Who are you?
                  JEANNE
I’m 50 years old, I’m fat. I laugh too loud.
                   JOSH
That’s just your skin. That isn’t all of you.
                  JEANNE
I laugh a lot. I have to watch what I say sometimes.
                   JOSH
Go deeper.
                  JEANNE
I fall in love all the time. I don’t weigh the consequences of words. I fight a fatal attraction to people’s darkness. I’m the strongest person I know.
                  JOSH
But who are you?
                  JEANNE
I am a child who talks to birds.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne.
                  JEANNE
Why did you?
                   JOSH
I was hungry for touch. Did I hurt you?
                  JEANNE
No, you were surprisingly … gentle.
                   JOSH
Good. I don’t think I could stand it if I wasn’t. But — why did you?
                   JEANNE
I guess I wanted to be wanted. Not a good reason, I know. It’s dangerous — I give away all my power to the person who pays attention. Over and over again I replay my childhood, hoping that for once it ends differently.
                   JOSH
I guess I do the same thing. ‘Notice me, I’m not insignificant.’
                  JEANNE
No, you are not insignificant. I don’t know how anyone could make that mistake.
                  JOSH
But they do. To be a man, you’re supposed to be tall, built, substantial. People look over my head to look for men.
                  JEANNE
Maybe they don’t know how to recognize a man.
                  JOSH
Maybe they don’t know how to recognize beauty, either.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne; they face each other, putting their hands on each other’s shoulders. 
(Pause) What if I said you were beautiful?
                 JEANNE
I would probably cry.
                 JOSH
What if I kissed your tears —
                JEANNE
I might fall a little in love with you.
                JOSH
Accept me for who I am. I am the tree and the storm.
               JEANNE
I am the strongest person I know, a child who talks to birds.
               JOSH
I am not insignificant. Don’t overlook me.
              JEANNE
Choosing from strength, it ends differently
               JOSH
I want to freeze time, I want to register every pressure, every breath. I want to see your face.
Josh and Jeanne embrace, and the curtain falls.

Even when not writing, I write…

I’m on the road, visiting my father in Wisconsin, and I haven’t taken out my computer since I set out on this trip. This is not to say that I haven’t been writing. 

Writing happens all the time. I listen to the news and wonder what implications the EC’ s step away from Trump will have on Europe — Poland, Germany, Russia. 
While I sit and the coffeehouse in Watertown, three bespectacled teens set up easels with art projects against the wall of the coffeehouse, debating whether to take the protective plastic with the glowering clouds. A sliver of sun peeks out, further muddling the questions.  Two plump yoga moms walk in for a coffee date. One carries her daughter, who wears hot pink rubber boots with her rompers.  
Some people take photographs; I tell stories like my dad and his family and my mom and her family. I listen to my dad’s stories and realize that they will show up in a future story.

The stories — all stories — are important. May I learn yours?