FEAR

Fear sucks.

Do I really want to do this?

Okay, I'll try to say more than that. Because fear is this thing that we all feel at times. Some people are all about confronting their fears. I know times when I've confronted a fear, face to face, and the fear ceased. And sometimes I've confronted a fear face to face and it has been awful and the face-off created new fears to arise and caused a lot of havoc in my life. So is it helpful to confront your fears, or is it dangerous and prone to backfire? I don't know. But some people are all about confronting their fears.

And some people are all about avoiding the situations and things that cause them fear. I've dealt with fears this way lots of times. Like I wanted to move in with a boyfriend once. And I'd asked him before and he said he wasn't ready yet. So I didn't ask him again. I was afraid of being rejected so I just avoided that topic for years and got very comfortable living alone until he was ready, I guess, and he needed a roommate. And then I moved in, but we never talked about how best to do it because I was afraid he'd say no and reject my ideas again. So I never brought up the fact that I didn't necessarily want to move into that place with him, but would have preferred to find a brand new place. And I rarely brought up the topic of rearranging furniture, or changing stuff on the bedroom wall, or getting rid of some of our stuff because when I tried to do this initially, I felt my suggestions were rejected because he didn't have time or he liked having all these matching but space consuming side tables and sofa set. So I stopped asking because I was afraid of another rejection-sounding answer. But sometimes, avoiding a situation that cause you fear, like driving blindfolded, is really smart. And safe. And perhaps can maintain the peace of a relationship instead of shaking things up over a minor disagreement that really doesn't have anything to do with love or commitment. You just ignore the fact that he leaves his tea bags on the kitchen counter or toss them in the compost bucket instead of letting that annoyance surface and having a big fight over a pet peeve, resulting in reinforced fear of bringing up annoyances--and those other annoyances might not be such small potatoes. So avoiding being afraid can be easy and it sure can feel like the safest option, or it can be a poisonous plant that eating a little of isn't so bad, but if you eat a lot, you're going to have to go to the hospital and get your stomach pumped.

Then some people ignore a fear. Pretend it isn't there, even though it is and your stomach is all queasy. Like I am afraid of falling down skiing or hiking or wake boarding. But I still do these things, even though I'm uncomfortable when the trail is steep and dry and I'm going downhill and my hiking boots are slipping with every step. Please, please, please DON'T BIFF IT--but hey, I'm still doing it. Maybe I'll biff it and get cut up. Or break a bone. And then maybe I will acknowledge that fear more and be reluctant to go hiking on steep dusty trails. If I don't ignore it, would I still go hiking? Or would I talk about the fear constantly while doing it and say out loud all the time "Please, please, please DON'T BIFF IT"? Ignorance is bliss, but if you aren't truly ignorant, but playing make believe, and the make believe sweet unicorn turns out to be a vampire unicorn... Eek.

And then some people just let fear take over and paralyze them. Actually, if confronting fear, avoiding fear-causing situations, or ignoring the existence of your fear backfires, well, it doesn't take much for paralysis to swoop in and stiffen your limbs with fear. I guess paralyzing fear is why I am writing about fear today. Because it SUCKS. And even when you feel paralyzed by fear, fearsome stuff still happens. Then not only are you paralyzed by fear but you are surrounded by the fearsome stuff that has mounded up all around you. You are now also frozen and surrounded by fears and it feels impossible to move. And if you move, you have to go through the scariest stuff possible and there could be more fearful stuff beyond the piles--you just can't know. Which causes MORE fear.

So I am having problems with fear. I always have had issues with fear. It doesn't feel good, so not having issues with fear seems kind of unrealistic to me. But I suppose I could have fewer issues with fear if I could learn to care less. I care a lot. About EVERYTHING. Care Bears--they know nothing about caring. And I care so much about how to do this or how to talk to y, that I don't do anything because the fear of doing it wrong paralyzes me and--whether my caring is about how best to communicate with a family member going through a rough time or about cleaning out my fridge and separating the compost stuff from the recyclable stuff from the garbage and doing the dishes so I can cook dinner--I end up doing almost nothing. I don't clean the fridge. I don't call. I obsess about my concern and how I could screw it up and then it is time to eat and I haven't called that family member or dealt with the fridge at all and I'm eating blueberries and tortilla chips for dinner because they're not stale or bad yet and they require no preparation--though I should technically wash those blueberries. I can be paralyzed in fear and concern and still eat those things. Yes, this is ridiculous and wasteful and self absorbed and stupid to the max.

So ever since I moved out of my place with Tomato and into my new old apartment, I've had scores of days where I'm just wasting my time away debating whether I should do this or that and it is because I am afraid. I am afraid I will organize my files wrong so I still haven't finished unpacking my files and desk stuff. I moved in early MAY. I haven't gone through receipts and updated my expenses and then applied that data to my "budget" that I haven't created yet because I'm collecting spending and earning data still because the project totally inspires fear in my heart because it's mounded up so high. When I was in Costa Rica, I didn't feel paralyzing fear. I did things. I dealt with the fear one way or another and if it backfired, I dealt with that. When I am out and about, I don't feel paralyzed by every decision. When I was on vacation with my family, I felt fear, but I wasn't paralyzed and not doing things. I did things. Being back here in this apartment now, after living somewhere else with someone else and having fears about us or the place or our time or how I said x or y pop up in my face all the time and having to deal with them whether they went away or not, being back here has had a somewhat paralyzing effect on me. I am afraid. I fear starting anything here or finishing anything in this space. And this doesn't bode well for my immediate future. And that doesn't bode well for my future further along. So I have to get out of the fear or get out of this apartment. This apartment used to be my sanctuary! What happened?

When I ask myself this--why am I so paralyzed with petty fears and wasting my time and sleeping hours away in a place where I used to be so industrious?--it doesn't take long for me to figure it out. I am afraid to embrace this place as my own again because that would be fully acknowledging that I live in a place on my own again and that I can't go back to that apartment I didn't want to move into necessarily in the first place because the person I wanted to move in with who wasn't ready when I first asked isn't living there anymore and I only moved in there because I wanted to live with him. And I can't go live with him because he and I don't share our lives anymore, and I hear his place is even smaller than my old new place anyway--I don't fit there, just like he didn't fit here. I am afraid to embrace this place as my own again because that would be fully accepting that I am not in a relationship where I can lean over and kiss my partner on the cheek good night anymore, fully accepting that I don't have a relationship with him at all these days, fully accepting that I am single, fully accepting that I am alone. Fully accepting that I can not entertain the idea that we can brush this under the rug and get back together for a second because it isn't going to happen, even if I don't know that 100%, another idea I can't entertain for a second because if I entertain these ideas, I will stay frozen in this apartment, I will never fully accept that I am single, that I am alone, and that I can live my life however I want to right now and that this fact alone has the potential to be exciting, productive, beautiful, and fulfilling, even if it IS going to be scary often. But being with someone was scary too. I can't escape fear. But I can avoid fearful situations if I want, or not. And I can ignore the feeling if I want, or not. And I can confront it face to face if I want, or not. But I can't let it paralyze me anymore in the place that I refer to home, even though I don't feel at home here like I did before, at least I don't yet.

Fear sucks. But it isn't going anywhere, and if I want to go anywhere or do anything in this place, I have to deal with it one way or another, and then I have to move on. Scary, but maybe it can be scary and fun at the same time. Like this...

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.

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!