Pages and word counts

I keep meaning to write. A blog, I mean. Because the book keeps going and going and going.
Here's my word count (accord. to Microsoft Word, not standard publisher equation): 168,409.
And page count (double-spaced, Justified, Times New Roman, size 12 Font): 563.
Let me I just tell you all that, for first novels in the literary fiction genre, publishers like the word count down around 100,000--maybe 120,000 if it's really worth it. Page count? Somewhere around 300 is nice.
And I'm going to need to write at least four more chapters to fulfill the climax and the outcome of my story. The end gets closer to my reach, yet it moves further away at the same time.
So come that day, when I write the last sentence to the last paragraph for the first full draft, I already know one thing for sure: I will need to cut out about 50% of my novel. 50-f*#king percent. Editing hell. And of course, I'll need to back up every single version, every single revision so if I cut something out that I change my mind on and want to reinstate later, it still will exist somewhere and I can find it. Just thinking about this process exhausts me. Maybe I am subconsciously preventing myself from reaching "The End" because I am so intimidated about the revision process.
Then there's the part where I've re-envisioned the format of my novel somewhat. My anticipated changes will allow me to cut some sections, even a few chapters perhaps. But they also will require extra attention to make sure that vital story information in the cut sections is conveyed fully in the new format. A lot of these changes revolve around the family characters' background and development, and stuff about Mormonism relevant to the plot. I tell you, DOOZY A COMING.
But it is exciting. It is possible. Completion is at hand, somewhere. So my blogging will continue to be highly inconsistent, because I'm frying a big fish. And then there is all the extra stuff in the frying pan: summer travels; maintaining healthy relationships with my lover, friends, and family; my gardening, knitting, and reading obsessions; self-care; doing household crap.... You get the picture. And with a little luck, and the power of Grayskull, I'll be de-boning the big fish next time I blog, getting it ready to serve up on platter with some extra nice garnish.

Birthing

Okay. The title is for dramatics. I am not pregnant nor expecting to be in the very near future. But sheesh! Just about every single person in my peer group has either given birth in the past year and change, is about to give birth, or has plans to get birthy in the near future. Let me give you the tally and names (last names excluded for privacy of course) of the babes born in the last year and a half.
Boys:
1. Oliver Atticus--December 2006
2. Oliver Lewis--January 2007
*note that neither Oliver is my dog nephew, born in April 2007, who often goes by Shitbrains
3 & 4. Sam and Ben (technically born in May 2006 but adopted and brought home officially in January 2007).
5. Another Ben--June or July 2007
6. William IV--July 23 (my birthday!), 2007
7. Miles--October 31, 2007
8. "Banjo" (can NOT remember his real name)--January 2008
And most recently, 9. Kieran--March 2008
Please note that I can not remember the names of at least three baby boys of acquaintances that must have come out of the womb by now too. Boy crazy year.

On the girl side:
1. Sanika--Early April or Late March 2007
2. Yuki--April 2007
3. Serai--May 2007
Yup. Just three. BUT there's a baby girl due in May....
Then there's plans for a sibling for Oliver L. to be conceived this summer. And I know I am forgetting more babies. They're all over the place.

So while my friends, and Wes' friends too, birth actual humans, I am in the process of birthing other things. Broccoli starts. Peas. Potatoes. Oh, yeah, and the novel.
The novel, the novel, the novel...
Here's the good news: I am writing like a mad woman.
Here's the bad news: this is one big, fat, unhealthy sized baby.

And the four year pregnancy, ugh. Don't get me started. I don't have trimesters, see. I have year-mesters. But I'm tired of carrying around this bulge of notes and computer documents and files and books on psychiatric evaluation techniques and suicide survivors and code-cracking, and Utah, and Mormons and the Bible. I'm tired of listening to Mozart piano concertos and late 90s music to inspire my characters. I'm ready to go into labor.

So friends that are expecting--please expect a delay in receiving your infant's hand-knit booties or hat or ugly sweater or leg warmers. I am preoccupied with my own epidermal, c-section, induced labor, you name it. And forgive me if I keep running away to Idaho and pitch my cell phone into the river--if this helps me finish it, then that's the way it's going to be. And then, my friends, I will be kissing your asses and knitting goodies for all the babes like there is no tomorrow--and maybe a few of you will read the massive manuscript and help me potty train it or ween it, or whatever!

And now I must decide whether to sleep, type up a hand-written chapter, or start a new section in the book. It's 2:30 in the morning. I'm leaning towards sleep, but typing may win. Or those books on my bedside table I've been meaning to read: Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth," highly recommended by my friend Mary and the cult of Oprah, or "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan (I've actually started this one, but then I got derailed by P.D. James. How have I never read P.D. James, what with my obsession with Agatha Christie who-done-its and PBS Mystery! However, I did come up with an idea for a new novel from one of those early Pollan chapters. Which is why I stopped reading--I had to write the concept down!). 2:30 in the morning! Why do I do this to myself--does anyone even read this thing? I read all of yours, even though I rarely comment, and I must confess, my own blogging habits are highly irregular.

It's official. Sleep is winning. But first, five things I am grateful for today:
1. Fresh snow on the fir and cedar trees and everywhere. There is so much snow here, it boggles my mind. Look at the pictures in my littl' Flickr side badge, and you'll see what I mean. I feel like I'm in a time warp, back to Sun Valley when I was really small and the snow piled up in huge heaps twice my height (then) along the sides of the road.
2. Girl Scouts and Campfire for teaching me to build a fire for a cold morning.
3. My father for not dying like he did in my dream last night (I am knocking on wood as I type) and for letting me use this awesome place.
4. The two deer who allowed me to stare at them for quite a while before prancing away in the snow today.
5. Words. They just won't stop coming out of my fingers, my mind, my mouth. God, how could I be anything other than a writer? Thank you, words, for making me eager to work, most days.

And that is all she wrote.

Oh my, oh my, it is a blog.

So I have been silent for awhile, and after attending the Whidbey Island Writers Conference this weekend, I've nudged myself to blog again.
You may be wondering: How's that novel going? Weren't you trying to finish it by New Year's Day? Are you writing ANYTHING?
Well, here are the answers: the novel is going. I was trying to finish it by New Year's, but life does sometimes get in the way. I've been writing in my journal some, and writing on the book some, and scrawling notes to myself daily since the commencement of '08. But I have not written one single word for Amazon.com since July 31st. Coincidentally, I received my last true pay check sometime in mid-August.
The Amazon drop-off was intentional, though I didn't necessarily plan for it to go on for so long. In fact, at this point, it may be permanent vacation. I am blessed that, on both the paternal and maternal sides of my family, I've had family who thrived in the accounting and banking worlds, and who worked long years for profitable companies on the NYSE, and chose to give me stock or a saving bond for my birthday in lieu of the ever-desired Power Wheel, or say a pony. Thus I've been ransacking the savings as I try to finish "the book."
My new "full draft, damn it" due date is April 1st. I have a "massive revision/slaughter your word count" due date too: June 30th. Then, Buddha, God, Allah, Goddess of the Moons, and Satan willing, I will begin to send out the oh-so-tedious and daunting query letters to agents in hopes of finding someone awesome and energetic who thinks my book is the most engaging thing since breastfeeding (either as an infant or with her own infant). And this awesome, energetic agent (Indulge me for awhile, okay?) and I will then do some more revision, I'd imagine under some ridiculously short time constraint. Then she/he will shop my book to the editors and publishers of the world until they're salivating over my book, prompting an exciting bidding war, that will end in a book contract at a mid- to large- sized, but respectable, publishing house. Said contract will offer me a decent first sales check, and publishing house will have design, promotional, editorial teams that are so excited about my book that they're piddling all over themselves. And then the pre-sale copies and upcoming release catalogs will go out to the major book distributors (B&N, Ingrams, Borders, Amazon, etc.), and they'll ear mark the page with my book's details and consult their staff and estimate that they'll need to pre-order copious amounts of the book. This will get the publishing house pr peeps really in a frenzy, pitching me to the Today Show and to Oprah's Book Club and the notable book review papers and magazines.... and then, well, I'll be the hottest thing since Jonathon Safran Foer or Zadie Smith or Jhumpa Lahiri.... AND well, won't I be full of myself at this time next year....
Okay, so maybe not that's not feasible, but let me say this: I NEED to finish this novel. Then I NEED to revise like there is no tomorrow. Perhaps 15 times. And then I will be begging anyone for proof reads and feedback, etc. It could be you. If not you, I encourage you to please, please, please throw tons of encouragement and love my way this spring. Because this has been the darkest winter of my soul during my life thus far, and it is time for everything to come to fruition. Let the blooming begin.

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!

audience? Shmaudience!

I am feeling a little Grrrr today. Actually, I've been a little Grrrr in general for two weeks now, but overall, I am coming out of that funk. The Grrrr feeling today, however, stems from feedback. A writing colleague asked me the old "who is your intended audience for this novel" question. S/he isn't the first, nor will s/he be the last to ask the question. But this is also perhaps the 4th time s/he has asked this very question after reading my work for some time. And again, s/he isn't the first nor the last to ask me this question multiple times over years of reading from my novel. And this makes me feel GRRRR.

To be honest, I am a person who puts too much value on the feedback of others. And that is dangerous to my sense of self worth--as a human, as a woman, as a writer, etc. BUT it is important for a writer to learn to receive feedback in an open-minded manner. Sometimes, I need another person's critical eye to show me what isn't working, or what is working better than I suspected. When I get the latter type of feedback, it rocks. It's like getting a pat on the head, it is validation. I can proceed with my work revitalized, with confidence. When you are writing a novel, you crave this positive feedback, because it is such a long, solitary journey, and until the day when you sell your book to a big publishing house and Oprah calls and the NYT book review runs... There are few barometers the writer can use to assure her insecure self that this is the right path, that the time spent writing this book has not been in vain, and that her writing is, in fact, good.

Then there is the former type of feedback: what isn't working. Most of the time, I actually like receiving constructive feedback about what needs clarification or feels out of sync with other parts of the book or chapter. I like it because I often know this or that part is off, maybe I'd struggled with that section. Thus the feedback validates my concerns. All about my ego, I tell you. I especially LOVE it when someone offers possible solutions. Not that the solutions are always, or often, good, or appropriate to my characters and plot. But now and then, I luck out and someone offers me a truly workable solution. LOVE that.

The feedback that has me GRRRR today doesn't necessarily fall into either the positive or the constructively negative categories. Perhaps it falls into the personal opinion category. A separate example from a few years ago: I was enrolled in a writing program with eight other novelists. Over nine months, this group read several chapters of my novel for workshop (workshop: group discussion/critique). And every time the group workshopped my work, at least five minutes of the discussion was squandered on whether the language of my protagonist Sam was too coarse for a 9th grade boy in contemporary America. Half the group thought that Sam cussed too much and that 14-year-old boys (or 10-1/2-year old girls in the case of Sam's sister) don't swear that much, still more or less innocent. The other half agreed with me: once kids learn a little profanity, they use it abundantly--it makes them feel grown up, cool, and tough. My subjective experience: Between the ages of 9 and 11, I spent the majority of my time grounded because I would call my mother a "bitch" when quarreling. My characters talk more like I did at that age than Beaver Cleaver--they are MY characters.

So it frustrated me to no end when workshop after workshop, this same discussion came up. To make the matter more aggravating, several group members would dedicate much of their written critiques to this same subjective debate: "I still wonder if a 14-year-old boy would use that language so liberally...do kids really talk that way?" Please. Give me some real feedback. Get past the surface and actually pay attention to my work. And if you can't, tell me where the swearing really doesn't work for you and where it feels more appropriate. Don't just ask the same old question.

Back to my GRRRR feeling today. Like my protagonist's ample use of cuss words, my colleague's question revolves around voice in the story. Who is my intended audience, adults or teens? The answer: I am writing a book intended for adult readers and mature young adults. Think Catcher in the Rye. It is hard to write from a teenage perspective about child suicide and a crumbling family in Mormon Utah. I struggle daily with questions about whether his vocabularly is becoming too sophisticated, too educated, too grounded--unrealistic and out of character for a teenage boy. Likewise, I struggle daily with questions about whether dialogue and scenes between Sam and his teenage friends feel too "teen-y" for an adult audience.

So I concede that the question of audience is relevant and important. When I receive feedback about a specific passage that paints Sam as too grown up, or a specific scene that resembles Saved by the Bell more than Stand by Me... that it is helpful. But please, gentle readers, do not ask me who my intended audience is again and again. Show me that you've paid that much attention to my work, like I pay attention to the work that you do. Cut the questions and go straight to the evidence; be specific and my characters and I will thank you.

still alive!

Keeping up a blog, with remotely intelligible content, is hard! Especially with travel and taxes and trying to stay organized... Oh, and writing too...

The work I'm currently doing on my novel doesn't resemble writing as much as assembling a patchwork quilt--or the crocheted blanket I made for Rachel and Charity's wedding last year. The blanket is made up of crocheted granny squares. Here's an example of a granny square for all you in the dark:
The squares in this blanket are in a cornflower, eggplant, scarlet, and dark moss (= blue, purple, pink, and green). And I'd estimate that there's about 80 of them right now. The squares are quick to make, but then I have to make enough in the right colors and then attach them together. It's slow, so I decided that the blanket should grow over time, like their love. Aw, shucks.
Now, let me try to tie this metaphor together. The chapter(s?) of my book I'm currently working on is made up of assorted scenes and descriptions, pieces of the story that strive to:
A. move the action forward through several weeks of time, without losing the narrative thread.
B. break up, while gradually advancing several separate plot lines (Dad's growing attachment to the Church of LDS; Mom's continuing abuse of alcohol; Sam, Charlotte, and Ozzie's gradual decryption of Amber's coded music)
C. prevent the author from getting bogged down in any one particular plot angle in the interest of finishing this book this year.
Hopefully, the resulting chapter will be amazing and complete in itself, like Rachel and Charity's blanket. Right now, though, it's pretty heady. I spend a lot of time parsing out the data I wish to reveal and wondering how much time the teenagers would realistically take to dissect Amber's code. Trying to figure out what day of what week X and Y take place and in what relation to Z. Crafting what I hope are seamless transitions back and forth through time and place. I have much of the decryption scenes written already, which was exhausting in an entirely different way, but the scenes with the mom and dad are new. I really like writing those, actually. I really like writing all of it. But the snapshot scenes with the parents are quick writes and more or less self contained--like making single granny squares.
On that note, I invite you all to make your own granny square. They're super easy, and you can learn how right here. Also, for those of ye interested in my latest knit hat creations, I've put them on my MySpace.com page for the viewing pleasure of those of you who double as MySpace WebBots. Check them out!

Big Bad Synopsis

So I now have a link in my sidebar that leads you to a synopsis in progress of my novel in progress! Maybe my musings on character will make more sense now. As is the nature of "in progress," plot/character, etc. are subject to change or rearrange. In fact, I have an another synopsis that outlines potential edits for each chapter! I won't subject you to that though. You need a little surprise.
I really HATE writing chapter-by-chapter synopsi (what is the proper plural of synopsis?). You'll see that my synopsis is ridiculously verbose and detailed. Every detail seems important to me, so I never can bear to leave anything out. When I have finished a full draft and have revised to coherency, I hope to have a friend read the whole thing to:
A. give me feedback on the coherency factor, -and-
B. volunteer to write a concise, brief chapter-by-chapter synopsis to submit to editors and lit agents.
If you think you are that awesome person, step right up!
And now, I depart to work more on Chapter 16, which may not end up being CHapter 16, but perhaps 17. Or 15. Or....

I have been writing. Really!

I've been slacking off on my writing blog. I admit it. I have been writing though. And thinking about writing and structure and plot and character development and all those fun, fun things! But I also have been doing a little of this:Writing content for Amazon.com. Good times. This has been my primary source for dough for three full years now. And guess what? I'm about to re-up my contract as an independent contractor (i.e. freelance writer) for yet another year. To which I ask myself, "Are you mad?" Sure, I whine about my Amazon assignments all the time. You would too if you had to think up content about some of these things:

A log splitter!

A hose connection set!


A Ferrari projection clock!


A leopard-pattern hooded pet bed!


The Happy Dog Toys Bubble Kitty Cat Toy!


Lone Star Metal Detector!

Happy tableware set!


Rachael Ray fondue set!

AND, of course, these guys!

But for all my whining, I must admit that Amazon.com does pay good money, that I sometimes enjoy writing about this junk, that I have definitely learned about what you might use to reseed a lawn and what LCD stands for (liquid crystal display), and that I know more about grammar and style than before. This Amazon.com deal works for my erratic writing swings, frequent travel plans, occasional teaching gigs, and volunteer adventures. So, yes, sign me up for another year. Anything to keep the bills paid until A Bug Stuck in Amber comes to print. Don't you dare ask me when that will happen.

Lately, I've worked on drafting a new time line for the novel's plot to unfold. Right now, I'm not worrying about implementing new time line, but I've got two Publisher calendars: one for the time line that the book currently follows, and one for what I'd like it to ultimately follow. This detail stuff takes WAY too much time and I suspect no one will notice any lingering inconsistencies in the long run, aside from myself and my writer cronies. I've also been working on some decryption scenes where Sam, Ozzie, and Charlotte decipher a message left in a piece of music that Amber mailed before her suicide. Another task that takes WAY too much time. Word count progresses slowly, but this groundwork is essential as I start trying to tie up all the loose ends. That's the goal. Start tying them all up. All 100 of them. This thing is going to be epic. And great, I think.

As I sign off to walk around the block on a GORGEOUS spring day in Seattle, it occurs to me that I should probably put up a chapter synopsis and character outline to provide blog readers with some context for my novel ramblings. I shall work on that. Tomorrow.

The best littl' character - part two!

Yesterday's post discussed the 5 different methods to present a character. My exercise of using the latter 4 methods on the character of Gil "Grandpa" Myers from my novel continues with:

4. Speech. “I do not use profanity, nor am I prone to slang. Such terms degrade the English language. I’m not against the occasional conjunction, abbreviation, or compound words. Clearly, I am not a purist, but I have standards.
"Do you know what a ‘leading question’ is, young man? You best become acquainted with that expression, as I ask leading questions frequently. Asking a leading question often puts me in a position of power over the question’s target: if the recipient does not know the answer, a concise definition on my part creates a dichotomy of teacher versus pupil. If the recipient does know the answer, I have forced them to bring up my topic, thus they must submit to the discussion as I would have it run. I also find sarcasm useful now and then. I do enjoy jokes, but most tend towards vulgar or insult my personal code of ethics, and I have never been skilled in crafting my own.
"I do not take the Lord’s name in vain. While I seek to be judicious to those who uphold a different faith or code of conduct than I do, it is my duty as a Saint to try to illuminate the true faith to those disillusioned souls and to correct those in the Church who have strayed, whether inadvertently or by choice. For it shall come to pass that our Holy Father will meet us on Judgment Day to separate the true believers from the ambivalent, the misled, and the perfidious, admitting our souls to the Celestial, the Terrestial, or Telestial Kingdoms, or condemning us to suffer the outer darkness for eternity. On that day, I will rise up into the Celestial Kingdom to live forevermore. This I know is true, and I intend to share that information with every man, woman, or child within hearing so that they may choose to join me in paradise."

5. Thought. Deliberate. I must be deliberate. I cannot afford to make missteps, to reveal the inner blackness which chews at the lining of my stomach, my intestines, my lungs, and my liver. Secrets are made for keeping and I am a man of my word. The black thoughts only come to me when I become idle. I must focus on activities and following through with every intention to keep the receptors and signalers in my mind well-greased and moving. Stillness allows too much space for those thoughts to slip through and sink roots. I will not be consumed by the evils I have witnessed, committed, feared, or thought. I must stay focused. The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not wont. He makes me lay down in green pastures. He binds me in His strong rope, my body and soul bared face-up to the spring sky. The wind hurries the pale gray clouds across the cornflower sky to clear space for the charcoal thunderheads that roll in from the west. He leaves me there and the thunder croaks and claps, the lightening flicks and flacks. He leaves me there and the hailstones pelt my body, freckling my skin with red splotches. He leaves me there and the rains begin, pouring down and blowing hard, beating against my skin until it is scrubbed clean of the rotten sin. He leads me not into temptation, but delivers me from evil, each and every time he leaves me there.

An Elder duck.


This exercise was so liberating for me! I really enjoyed stepping into another character's voice. Especially this character, who my point-of-view (POV) character Sam only knows in a very specific, limited capacity. Sam knows his grandfather as someone who disapproves of his mother, as a patronizing, headstrong father to Sam's father, as a Mormon blow-hard, as an old man, and as an occasionally doting grandfather. But it's what Sam doesn't know about Gil that creates an intriguing character. So I'm glad I've delved deeper. Especially because I finished a 30+ page chapter today that revolved heavily around the two of them!

I did page and word counts today, so I could pat myself on the back. I have written 302 pages on my novel (Times New Roman, size 12, double space)! I can't believe I'm over 300 pages. Per word count, I'm around 89,000 words. The average first novel falls in between 80,000 and 100,000 words. SO by that measuring stick, I should be about done. Except I'm not. There's so much more to write! But after I finish the full first draft, there will be so much to cut and trim and condense. Even though I've plenty of work ahead of me, it is still so exciting to look
at this work's growth from when I began writing it three years ago and now.

The best littl' character in the whole wide world!

After two weeks away from my novel (bad, Jess, bad!), today I journeyed to my not-so-secret-but- adequately-not-stimulating writing hideaway in the Natural Science Stacks of the UW's South Allen library. Opening up my current chapter-in-progress, I realized how disconnected I can become from my work in a short period of time. Note to self: if it feels like a steep incline after two weeks away, don't you even think about taking two months away like in years past! Ugh.
Luckily, I brought my notes from the writer's conference last week. I flipped my notebook open to see what I'd scribbled to myself, inspired by different talks and workshops over the three days. After getting through the fairly vague agent/editor notes from the first morning, I came to my notes on Gail Tsukiyama's fireside chat, entitled "Body & Soul: Developing Character."
I've always found that character development is somewhat intuitive for me, right up there with dialogue and voice. Plot--trickier. Setting--oh boy, bores me to tears. But I have been struggling with a particular character in my novel of late, Grandpa Myers. I took a look at my notes from Gail's talk. For example: to help the author further understand a character (particularly a bland character, a small character, or one who is really bad or really good), Gail suggests the author create/discover a defining moment in that character's life, often from childhood. A miscarriage. Witnessing a deadly house fire at a neighbor's. A drunk man peeing in the yard. Winning first place in the spelling bee. Basically, the most important moment in determining who that character will come to be, be it a wonderful moment or ghastly or just incomprehensible. I'm still weighing Grandpa Myers' big moment in my mind. I'll keep you posted.
The other thing that caught my eye is more along the "intro to creative writing" line. She briefly outlined the five methods for presenting character:
1. Author’ interpretation (or POV character’s, i.e. my protagonist, Sam)
2. Appearance
3. Action
4. Speech
5. Thought
As an exercise to get closer to Grandpa Myers, I decided to write a paragraph for four of the five methods. I excluded #1 because my novel employs this method throughout due to Sam's first-person POV. Anyway, I thought I'd post a few of these here today, the rest tomorrow. First, here are a few basic facts to root you with Gil "Grandpa" Myers: 70-year-old white male from the imaginary Salt Lake City suburb of Micah Hills. Widower, wife Ellen has been deceased approximately 10 years. Two children, Kevin, 42, and Sarah, 34. Four grandchildren, Sam (14) & Amber(deceased, 10-1/2) Myers, and 2-1/2-year-old twins Julian and George Harmon. LDS. That's the basic lowdown. So:

2. Appearance. Gil “Grandpa” Myers looks younger than his 70 years. Relatively fair in complexion, he burns then tans in the summer, though his long, parsnip-like nose and the skin on his high cheek bones stay pink throughout the year. His skull, like his nose, is long and narrows from his crown down to his chin. A scar the shape of an bow tie marks his skin between the right-side jut of his chin and his lower lip: he got it on a Boy Scout cookout when Hubert Ellis turned around too quickly with his hot-dog roasting stick in hand, the tip aglow from just poking the campfire’s cinders. Gil has blue eyes the color of sky on a clear winter morning, but icier—there are only minute flecks in its blue canvas giving no texture to his irises, like they’d been polished with a sealant that rendered them unable to let dust particles in, or allow teardrops out. His eyebrows don’t have much of an arch, nor do they dip down, but run in modestly bushy horizontal lines over his eyes, separated by a centimeter or so.
He is bald on top, but still has abundant hair around his ears and the back of his head. He keeps it long enough on his left side that he can comb the hair over his massive bald spot. His hair used to be blond, but now it is white as snow. Gil never has grown facial hair, aside from a few days worth of stubble.
He has broad shoulders and strong arms, but overall, he’s kept himself fairly lean, aside from a healthy-sized belly, about the size of bread loaf. Gil’s tall, like his son, maybe 6’2”. Despite his height, broad shoulders, and strong forearms, his hands are small, with short fingers but wide palms. When he curls his fingers in to make a fist, his hand takes on the look of a croissant—the skin withered rather than flaking, the surface accentuated by a network of indigo veins rather than folds of dough. His size-12 feet correlate with his height appropriately.

3. Action. Gil never walks idly. He takes large steps with his feet, placing his heel down first then dropping his toes with a concise snapping motion. His shoulders jut ahead of the rest of his torso, following the pace of his footsteps. His movements tend to be quick more than slow, but not so fast that he becomes clumsy or cedes a smidgen of control. He is not prone to flamboyant gestures; he doesn’t wave his hands in the air to emote nor kick things in fits of rage. When he uses his hands while speaking, the gestures are quick and contained within the range of his torso. He rarely makes sudden movements, nor is he prone to abrupt stops. Gil Myers is deliberate with his every action, be it physical or behavioral.

Tomorrow, I get really down and dirty as we compare how Grandpa Myers speaks and how he thinks. WILD. I swear.

word count--day one

So not lots of words today, but I'm writing an intense scene and every word feels weighted. I hope to crank out more tomorrow. Maybe if I can produce a little more each day than the day before.... I plan to document AT LEAST my weekly word count, if not daily, through out the month, in my own NaNoWriMo of sorts!

Bright things and some less so...

The light today is not as gray as I'd anticipated, rather the sun breaks through the clouds and I feel something akin to cheerful, even though I've stowed plenty of less harmonious feelings just below my skin. I spent forty minutes digging out unwanted shoots of holly in back while waiting to change over the laundry. My hope is to plant some tulips and other spring-flowering bulbs there in a month or so, after they've chilled appropriately.

This is what I call a transition day. I polished off two weeks of Amazon work last night and sent off the invoice today. Now I'm trying to get myself re-acclimated, into a more creative frame of mind, so that I can pursue novel work in the right head space. That's probably not going to happen today though, as here it is, already 3:30 on a Friday afternoon. WW is working tomorrow though, so perhaps I can make some creative writing use of my Saturday morning/afternoon, if the fall pleasantness doesn't lure me outdoors.

The nice thing about transition days is that they allow me to attend to the little things that I've put off. Thus, I made the bed fresh and washed the clothes. I practiced piano for an hour, then weeded and did a crossword puzzle. Next I'll do the stack of dishes. I can't wait to get rid of those. And before we go to friends' for dinner, I'll try to squeeze a bike ride or a run to feel something akin to fit.
Tomorrow, the dishes won't be bugging me. That plot of earth is cleared up, the clothing is washed and, with a little luck, folded and put away. Maybe I'll feel the temptation to clean the bathroom or mop the kitchen, but maybe I can wait until Sunday for that too. Tomorrow, I'll dig in again with Sam and the Myers family, with Sam's friends Charlotte and Osbaldo, with the mystery of Amber's suicide, and junior high in the fictional Utah town of Mica Heights, or is it Hills? You see?!!

November is Nanowrimo--National Novel Writing Month. The idea behind Nanowrimo is pretty much what it says: write a novel in a month. The official website allows folks to register for regular posting, reading, and support. If Nanowrimo didn't require you to start a novel from scratch, I would LOVE to use this network. If only to post my daily word count and track my progress in a supportive network! It's all about having someone to hold me accountable for my productivity--even if that person is a complete stranger. It's that notion that someone might look to see how my progress is coming along on a regular basis.

But, since I need to finish my novel in progress before starting anything new, I think I shall post my weekly word counts here instead through November. I'll break it down day by day, for the perspective. NO one reads this thing, as far as I can tell; but it is a public blog, and it does link off of a friend's blog who many people I know and love do read, and which i often comment on. So perhaps someone will see that picture of driftwood by my name and drift over, stepping up to be that person who, unbeknowest to me, holds me accountable for my words....

writing tithing

So this one's for me. and so i can leave timmy comments. but as my novel requires great study of the church of latter day's saints, i know all about tithing, the gifting of ten percent of a household's salary to the church. well, this blog is going to be my way of giving to my church of writing. i write to live. and i think that writing fiction requires more than just indulging my imagination's fantasies. it demands reflection and research and practice and exercise. so this is where i give back to my fiction writing, to think through ideas, try new things, document progress and passion and agony, as i work to bring my first masterpiece to fruition....