Words, wonderous words!

About progress:

People often ask me when I think my book will be done. My responses vary from groaning, hemming and hawing, or saying one of the following: "It's difficult to say." "Soon, I hope." "Before I hit menopause." You might notice that these responses fall under either the Vague and Ambivalent Umbrella, or the Somewhat and Really Pessimistic Blue Tarp Shelter. If I'm prodded to elaborate further by an inquisitive mind, I'll regurgitate a variant on this: "I wish I could say it will be done tomorrow, but right now, I'm just trying to finish the full first draft by New Years, and that might be pushing it, to be frank. After I finish that draft, I'm in for massive revisions and cuts. I have a whole shopping list of things to fix in X chapter or with Y character. And it's already too long. First novels shouldn't be that long. So, it's difficult to say and I hope it is sooner than later, but definitely before menopause, unless I start that before the age of 40."


On the other hand, if people ask me how my book is going at present, my response will indubitably reflect my progress in the past three days (weekends not included). If you asked me today, I would say, "fair." I worked on it for two hours and change yesterday and three and a half hours on Wednesday, and today, I indulged in two of the novel writer's guilty pleasures: I did both a total word count and a page count!

The reason I refer to these as guilty pleasures is because these numbers don't hold much weight until I have a finished, edited manuscript to shop to publishers, editors, and lit agents. At that point, these numbers may actually help or hinder me in the process of selling the book. But right now, the numbers don't mean a lot because they are going to continue to change daily, probably until the day when my novel actually goes to print somewhere.

But, like UsWeekly, it is FUN to check the numbers out. It makes me feel chipper and light, just like I feel after seeing a photo of Cameron Diaz without her make-up on or that Mischa Barton has cellulite! It positively fills me with hope and something akin to confidence to look at the numbers every three or four months. You want to see these numbers? Voila:

• THE NUMBERS! (as of 10/26/07)

-Approx. Word Count: 121,500 (121,580 if you include "Chapter 20" and other headers)
-Approx. Page Count: 403 (Microsoft Word, double spaced, Times New Roman 12 font)

5 Instances October 3-9

My problem with posting excerpts--if I procrastinate about posting, I can't remember what I wrote on what day. Here's my best guesses for:

5 Instances Over 5 Days When I Did NOT Procrastinate!

Wednesday, October 3
The meetinghouse isn’t anything spectacular inside either. Although a few murals of Jesus flanked by adoring followers and lambs decorated the hallway walls, the walls of the chapel itself were bare, except for half a dozen opaque windows for natural lighting. The rows of pews face a stand in the front of the room that held the pulpit and an organ. That’s about it. Yawn. Grandpa and Dad were already seated on the left side of the chapel, about five rows back from the stand. Grandpa had saved seats for the whole clan, so I followed the Harmons over keeping my eyes on the floor to avoid making eye contact with anyone I might know from school. I slid into the pew next to my dad and slunk down in my seat. “Hi, Grandpa, Dad.”

Thursday, October 4
Mr. Johnson then made a bunch of announcements: sign-up had started for the stake basketball league; so-and-so’s baby had been blessed; a Relief Society Thanksgiving food drive for needy families; and on and on. Then the organist started the opening hymn. “Page 128,” Aunt Sarah whispered down the pew at me and I fumbled through the hymnal and then mouthed like I was singing along. When the hymn concluded, Mr. Johnson gestured to a woman near the front to come up to the stand. She folded her arms and bowed her head. Immediately, everyone around me did the same. Whoopee, it’s Prayer time! I wondered what would happen if I didn’t fold my arms, or if I looked up at the ceiling instead. But when I saw that even little Georgie folded his arms over his chest and had his head down, I gave in and followed his example.

Friday, October 5
“Teachers and Minute Maid? Do the teachers come in here to drink orange juice?” I asked.
Kacie giggled. “No, silly. The 14- and 15- year old boys are called Teachers, and the 14- and 15- year old girls are called Mia Maids.”
I looked her skeptically. “How can I be a teacher when I hardly know anything about the Book of Mormon?”
“It’s just a label, Sam. Before I was a Mia Maid, I was a Beehive for two years. Do I look anything like a beehive?”

Monday, October 8
Elder Reid’s story went on for a long time, a really long time. Most of its content was just filler to draw out the tale for as long as possible. Here’s the quick version: the two men are Jesus and Judas Iscariot. Judas grows jealous of Jesus’ power and is angered at how his friend squanders money. Judas gets so fed up with his friend that he decides to sell Jesus out to his enemies for 30 pieces of silver. After he’s committed this ultimate betrayal and Jesus is on the road to crucifixion, Judas feels guilty and tries to confess and return the money to a priest. The priest and his men tell Judas something like, “You dug this hole for yourself so you can dig yourself out.” And then Judas throws down the money, runs off, and hangs himself. Meanwhile, Jesus is nailed to the cross while his enemies ridicule him from below. He lifts up his eyes to heaven and says, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t realize what they are doing.” After he’s been up there for 12 hours, Jesus takes on himself all the sins of mankind and dies. The end.
I wisely did not wave my hand to ask Elder Reid what was his point in telling us this classic downer.

Tuesday, October 9
The class spent the next hour reading passages from the New Testament and discussing the necessity of repentance. “If you know in your hearts that the gospel is true, and you do not repent your sins, what will happen to you on Judgment Day?” Mrs. Reid scanned the room for a volunteer.
An unfamiliar girl raised her hand. “If you defy the Holy Ghost, you will be cast into the Outer Darkness to suffer and burn for eternity.”
“Like Judas,” Joey Peters added.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Reid said grimly. “Like Judas.”

And that's it for this edition of 5 instances!

And now, a new feature!

So, I am trying to write on my book, consistently, five days a week UNTIL I have finished that elusive first full draft. To give evidence of my productivity, I am going to start posting a snippet of text from each day's writing! Or maybe I will instead post 5 snippets from those 5 days in one blog every week, because I am a lazy blogger.

These snippets may make no sense to you, as they're somewhat out of context. You should not expect context, my dear readers, as the purpose isn't to sell you on the book, but enable you to testify that: yes, Jessica did write something for her book today. If you really want context, you can comment, or e-mail, or at least read my dusty synopsis thus far, which you can link to on the left of this blog! Thus, without further adieu, I introduce to you my new feature:

5 Instances Over 5 Days When I Did NOT Procrastinate!

Wednesday, September 26:
Of course, my sister and I didn’t have to wait for a sleepover invitation to experience a Sacrament meeting for ourselves. We had the Grandpa Myers hook-up.

Thursday, September 27:
“I’m not kidding, Dad,” I had said to my father over dinner that night, “when those kids found out that I’m 9 years old and haven’t been baptized, they all looked at me like I was the Thing.”
“The Thing—he’s the big rock guy, right?” he asked, passing a bowl of steamed broccoli to me.
“Yeah, he’s in the Fantastic 4. Do I have to have broccoli?” I scowled at the green stalks.
“I didn’t cook it to put it back in the fridge,” Dad said.
“So did you cook it to make me puke instead?”

Friday, September 28:
I remember that I made a joke of it, warned Mom not to take the name of our Savior Jesus Christ in vain or she couldn’t join me in the Celestial Kingdom, or some dumb bit of sarcasm like that. Mom had really busted up at my Saint act, and I think Dad was laughing too. But Amber didn’t crack a smile. She must have been in fourth grade already. She stared down at the half-eaten barbecued chicken breast on her plate. Clasped in her right hand, her fork hovered three inches above the plate, a chunk of meat dangling from its prongs.

Monday, October 1:
Almost a year before her suicide, something had already twisted in her soul, and my parents and I had written it off as a bruised ego. It sickened me to recognize how we had chosen to be blind to Amber’s warning signals back then. We’d thought it was safer to adopt a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy than to pursue the truth, but we were dead wrong.

Tuesday, October 2:
“We aren’t babies!” Jules hollered.
“Or monkeys.” Georgie frowned at me in disapproval.
“Sorry.” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, don’t they have pretty good snacks during Sunday School?”
“We get Capri Sun in Nursery,” Jules boasted. “And animal crackers.”
Georgie smiled up at me. “I like to eat de hippos.”

And thus includes the first edition of 5 instances over 5 days when I did NOT procrastinate!