NaNo Gremlins Almost Got Me

I had a few bad moments this morning. Everything was fine at first, made cofee but didn't have any half&half but even half asleep I figured that one out. No problem...I just used milk. The coffee's perking, the dishwasher I forgot to turn on last night is now whooshing away in the background and my load of whites in the washer is just beginning to agitate. It all sounds good so far, right? Peaceful, laid-back, a nice, relaxing morning. Wrong. There was nothing even remotely zen-like in the next few moments. I sat down to write my blog, moved my mouse to wake up my monitor and - nothing. Black screen. The hard drive wouldn't turn on no matter how many times I pushed that blasted button. So I crawled under the computer nook, pulled out the hard drive and started wiggling cords to check connections. Nope, nothing was loose so I pushed it back under the shelf. Got back up and tried turning on my monitor (the light was yellow, not green). Nothing. Went through the whole process again with the same results. Absolutely not a dad-blasted thing! My computer's dead! OK, normally this wouldn't have bothered me this much but on Halloween???? Tonight is the start of NaNoWriMo! I need my computer and I have absolutely no money to get this one repaired much less ha-ha-ha buy a new one. It's NaNo time, I can't quit before I even start so did it again just to make sure it was really as dead as it looked. Once again I ripped out cords but this time practiced some words I haven't used since I was in the Navy! Still nothing. What do I do? Take a big gulp of rapidly cooling coffee and call Debe. No "Hello, Good Morning, Did I wake you." I just blurted out what was going on and told her it was either call her or scream like crazy and scare all my neighbors. She made a good suggestion for a work around and has offered the loan of her husband's lap top from time to time if I need it. Now that, dear readers, is a wonderful friend! So I told her I'd try one more time, which I did. I crawled back under the computer nook, pulled out the hard drive (should I be saying PC? Not sure about that), pulled out all the cords and plugged them back in again, crawled back out, sat down and pushed the 'On' button. Voila!!!! I'm back up and running. You know, I think it was the 'sailor talk' that did it.

I have to tell you, facing the very real possiblity of not having a computer really scared me this morning. My very first thought was "NO! I want to do NaNo." That's when I knew how important this year's NaNo competition is to me. I owned it this morning, this feeling of preparing for battle, for fighting off my personal and PC demons to reach my goal. There have been a lot of motivational songs running around in my brain this past week and this morning's was the theme song from "Rocky."

So, uppercut to you, little NaNo Gremlin. I may sweat blood and tears during this competition but I won't fall. I bow before no one! Here's a one-two punch and....the Gremlin's down for the count!!!!! Cathy Wins!!!!!!

Chariots of Fire

I hate competitions. I choke in the clutch. I am lousy at tests, I even freeze up when I have to take a typing test and that’s what I do for a living…I type. I’m fast, and I type well! But put me behind a word processor with the clock going and it’s like I’m in my first day of typing class. So, I’m a little worried now about the NaNo competition – something I’ve wanted to do for years!!!! Now that it’s almost here, the fear has set in. Why am I so afraid? Can I actually pull this off? Do I have it in me to finish this month-long foray into lunacy? What made me think I can write a novel in one month when I haven’t been able to do it since I was 12? It’s official…I’ve lost my last little bit of grip on reality. I’m crazy! That’s it – I’ve lost it, gone ga-ga, cuckoo.

But…there’s still this itty bitty teeny tiny voice telling me to go for it. I so want to listen to that voice, to believe that siren song that keeps pulling me into writing, to believe that I’m not crazy and I really do have a small modicum of talent. Mostly I want to believe that I can finish this race with my head held high.

So, I tell myself that I will do it. I will tilt my chin into the wind and feel the sun on my face as I jog down the beach with the beautiful piano music from Chariots of Fire softly playing in the background. Actually, I’ll be shifting around in an uncomfortable chair, I have to squint at my old fading monitor because the light over my computer area is bright but I will keep that anything-is-possible feeling and use the soundtrack in my mind as pacing while I write; each letter, then each word and on to each paragraph. I’ll use that momentum to create chapter after chapter, jogging along at a steady speed until the endorphins kick in and I’ll pick up the pace. One more paragraph, one more chapter, a short sprint here, a long jog there…and still, always, the siren’s Steinway song is there. Her beautiful music pulls me along to a destination unknown, fingers pounding the keyboards, heart quaking in fear but now I’m flying, I’m soaring and the song is my own. The chapters fly by and suddenly, the race is my saving grace, my defining moment.

Ahhhh – there it is. The core of my fear: my defining moment. Will I? Won’t I? Can I? Should I? No more second-guessing. As MJ said shortly before his death, “This is the moment….This is it.”

Nuttin' Honey...and I Ain't Talking Cereal

I got nuttin’ today; no little golden nuggets, no gems of wisdom, no tantalizing tidbits. I must be giving my brain a break in preparation for the big day…November 1st…the start of the National Novel Writing Month competition. October 31st, I’m going with two other friends who are also NaNo participants, Debe and Carol, to the NaNo Kick-Off write-in at Gypsy’s in Cary (I think it’s a small coffee café type of place); we’ll get there in time to meet some of the other writers from the area who are also participating in this organized craziness and then, at the stroke of midnight Halloween Night, we’ll all hunker down and plunk fingers on keyboards (I just got a vision of Schroeder hunched over his piano).

BTW…I owe Debe a thank you for putting the NaNo participant badge on your blog (debewinkler.blogspot.com – you’ve got to read her blog, she’s great!). I had been wanting to do that but couldn’t figure out how until I saw yours. Yes, dear reader, I stole my wonderfully creative friend’s idea but I had to tell the truth and give credit where it’s due. This leads me to another subject: Veracity, aka: truthfulness. Writers must always use truth in their voice, be it in their choice of word, writing style, pacing speed – whatever it is that makes that writer unique must always be present in their work or their ‘could-a been a bestseller’ story will remain untold for all eternity. Why is that? Because upon reading by the powers-that-be, it just didn’t ring true.

For example, let’s say I were to *shudder* write a sci-fi. My ‘voice’ would sound odd, my way of relating to the characters would be just that little bit off because I wouldn’t be able to be true to the genre. I’ve never been the least bit interested in sci-fi so how could I speak with authority, with conviction, with truth, about perceived far away lands and people/aliens with super human/woo-woo talents? My ‘voice’ would be a mish-mash of romantic tongue in cheek followed by a murder in the spaceship with a phazr/tazr gun by alien dude #1. Somehow, it just doesn’t ring true, does it?

So, although my voice, my style, is sometimes flowery, sometimes wordy, it is my own and I stay true to it in everything I write.

Well, I guess I did have 'sumthin' after all. Somedays my brain leads the way, other days I sit down and let my fingers do the talking. Today it was the fingers because when I started today's blog early this morning (I've been really busy today and couldn't post until now), I had 'nuttin' for you. I hope I have days like this in November: days where I know I have to write but have absolutely nothing to say and when I sit down and just start typing, something comes along like it did today. Hey, the lightbulb just went off. This is my veracity, my truth. If I write, it will come regardless of whether or not I'm conscious of it on any particular day. Whew - that makes me feel better already!

That’s it for me today. Hope all are well and happy.

Murder in a Place Called Hope

I set my mystery in a fictional small town in western NC, and have spent many hours actually creating a map of the entire town. Besides the beauty of the surrounding mountains and the many waterfalls in the area, Hope is known as an idyllic wedding resort area. Many of the businesses in the town are geared to the thriving wedding industry. I have so many characters for this story that I can already see perhaps two or three more stories after this one. I surprised myself on this one as it leans more toward main stream fiction than hard-core mystery.

I'm really excited about the direction in which my "Hope-fuls" as they call themselves are leading me. What a rich expression of human foibles this book is turning out to be! The young and the old, the pretty and the plain, the fat and the thin, the rich and the poor...my characters show both the best and worst in themselves, just as we all do from time to time. It's the story of how they respond to the 'worst' thing that really makes them interesting.

This story revolves around loneliness and the lengths people will go to when they are desparate for love. Without giving away too much, a church, a wedding, a divorce and a funeral are key elements and writing them is giving me immense pleasure. I also find myself rubbing my hands in glee and doing the 'bad-guy' heh-heh-heh as I plant clues for the reader. I guess I'm a little naive about writing but I just didn't realize how much fun I can have with my writing.

I'm so emotionally and intellectually invested in this book that I almost wish I hadn't committed to doing the NaNoWriMo competition so I could keep the momentum going with "...Hope." But then again, committing to NaNo back in September is what somehow got my creative juices simmering again. As the last seconds of the bewitching hour of All Hallows Eve silently slither into November 1st, I'll be sitting in front of my PC, fingers poised over my keyboard and waiting for 12:00:01 so I can write the "School of Hard Rocks" in 30 days.

Pontification

It’s amazing how much writing one can accomplish while one’s brain is on fire. Oh, not all of it is good writing, nor should it be when dashed off at the speed of thought, but it is considerable writing which can be made to shine and that, my dear readers, makes all the difference.


“Oh, Lord…here she goes again,” dear reader mumbles as she rolls her eyes, “pontificating about some obscure concept that really only affects her.”


You know, you’re way wrong, and it’s precisely for that reason that I and so many other people write: it doesn’t affect just me. Stories take people out of their ‘ordinary.’ Think about all the wonderful movies you’ve ever seen…they all started with a great story, a story that made you laugh or cry or got you angry. A story that lifted you out of yourself for those two hours of sitting in the dark with images flashing in front of your eyes. That’s what happens to me when I write. I see my story like a movie and it scenes flash in my brain like a tennis ball machine at a kid’s practice session: whuh-whump (action bit), whuh-whump (love scene), whuh whump (murder happens), whuh whump (funny bit occurs), whuh-whump, whuh-whump, whuh-whump. My fingers race to keep up with my brain so I’ll be in position for the next ball lobbied at me: whuh-whump, I was in the grocery store and couldn’t write it down…I missed it. A writer, a story-teller, volleys these scenes, these words back and forth, watching for strengths and weaknesses we can exploit in our characters, mentally grunting with the effort of perfectly placing the ball so it just skims, but doesn’t hit, the net (our ‘cliffhanger’ moments), building the rhythm, controlling the pacing, focusing only on that which is right in front of us, until with one last powerful backhand we slam the ball over the net and win the match. Besides Garrison Keillor, our storytellers, our oral historians, are all gone: Will Rogers, Charles Kuralt, Mark Twain, Red Skelton (remember him? Now he could tell a wonderful story). People don’t want to listen but so many of us still have stories to tell. So we write our stories, we ‘drone on’ in our blogs. We do whatever it takes to share our tale, we talk in parables or prose or iambic pentameter. We write high-brow literature and we write down and dirty smut. We write of romance and adventure on the high seas. We write of dragons and UFOs. We write of things that go bump in the night and in your face cold blooded killers. We write of faith, and hope, and the uplifting nature of happily ever after. But we all write for one reason: to share our stories with you.


So, I’ll pontificate from time to time and my intelligence will show; I’ll write in vernacular and be trendy with my use of current verbiage. You’ll see my tears in my words and my joy in my actions – you’ll share in my triumphs and setbacks.


My brain was on fire and I wrote a lot yesterday. Most of it’s good, some…not so much but that’s okay because I can really work with what I have and make it better. Writing stuff that’s just okay is better than not writing anything at all.


So…which paragraph do you like better? The pendantic prose in the first paragraph, or the vernacular re-write in the paragraph above?

Random Thoughts Today

This is one of those Monday’s where my brain is really scattered so I’m just going to free-associate with my blog today. First off: Saturday was really an overall nice day. I went to the Raleigh Wide Open 4You festival and while it was nice, it seemed to be a spillover from the State Fair with the same food and the same type venders. The only big difference I saw was the Wheel Mobile (and no, my name wasn’t pulled from the spinning bin to go onstage to audition for Wheel of Forturne). However, the crowd was really into it even during the driving rain. I stopped by Tir Na Nog to see if they had any live music going (no) so I had a wonderful glass of Malbec wine and met an interesting man. Born and raised in Raleigh, he’s very involved in its goings-on. I laughed at Bobby’s ‘First Night’ story and still chuckle just thinking about it. Wish I could tell the tale but the story is his, not mine. We talked for a bit and I was disappointed that he had to leave so soon as he was just delightful to talk to. As soon as he left, another gentleman said something to me (this guy was with his younger gentleman lover) about the festival. Wouldn’t you know it…Bobby forgot his umbrella and came back in. He said something along the lines of “Picked another one as soon as I left” and walked out again. I just don’t get it. Oh, well. I guess that’s one phone call I won’t be getting.


I still have “An Oak Tree Proper” taking up most of my waking thoughts! What could be more true to form than Scottish pride running rampant and leading to murder on the moors? My Anderson clan (the characters) have come so alive for me that I feel their presence on an almost continuous basis. I’m almost beginning to wonder if they will actually walk the path I’ve built for them or take off through the heather on their own. The Finlaysons are another strong presence – not as volatile perhaps in their actions as some of the other characters – their emotions run deep and hot and true.


I was invited to join yesterday’s birthday celebration in Cary for my 23-year old niece. After church (in Apex), and while our rather large party was waiting to be seated, I was given a wonderful gift by my niece: a plot idea for a mystery novel that was very unusual in both the concept and the setting. I spent most of yesterday afternoon writing down ideas and capturing characters that immediately came to mind. Normally I would put this in my ‘blurbs’ folder until I had time to get to it but instead, I’m setting up a new set of folders for this story. A workable storyline, snippets of dialog and character bits are percolating in my brain and I need to capture them before they evaporate into thin air. Eventually, they will coalesce into a book entitled, “Murder in a Place called Hope.”


I’m looking forward to the holidays – Thanksgiving at my mother’s and then Christmas. The Saturday before will be my family Christmas at my sister’s house then it’s off to Arkansas for Christmas week with my daughter and her boyfriend’s family. We (I think the whole gang) will be going to Diamond Crater State Park and actually diamond hunting! I think it’s going to be a fun week. I can’t wait to meet his mother (she’s coming from Alaska). We will all be staying at his sister and brother-in-law’s home outside of Little Rock. Think Santa will find me there?


Speaking of daughter’s, mine is graduating in May! Where does the time go? How did she go from the babe in my arms to this wonderfully strong, independent woman? Tempus is definitely fugit-ing!!!


Have a great day everyone!

An Oak Tree Proper

That's the name of the novel I've been working on in spurts for the last two years.  This mystery takes place in a tiny sea town named Portree which is located on the Isle of Skye in Scotland.  The Oak Tree Proper is a reference to my Scottish heritage; I'm descended from the Andersons (and MacAlisters as well) and our badge features the Oak Tree.  I ended up spending 4-1/2 hours typing without stopping.  I was there...in the zone.  I felt deliciously tired when I finally reached a natural stopping point and went to bed happy and very satisfied with the world in general.  It just keeps growing, this wonderful, wacky, scary urge to capture words on paper.  Like the Anderson motto, "Stand Sure," I will stand sure, I'll be steadfast in my efforts and finish this novel. 

More about the mystery itself tomorrow, perhaps.  Right now, I'm off to Raleigh Wide Open as a treat for getting so much writing done yesterday.  Who knows, I may visit the Wheel Mobile and audition for Wheel of Fortune while I'm there.  Gimme an "A," Vanna.  That's what every writer deserves just for effort alone!

Until next time...may you help a stranger in need and give of yourself with an anonymous good deed. 

Fog

I love fog. Its dew lightly lingers on my face as would the hand of a lover and the silver-grey light softly swaddles me in its silken embrace. Its softness is a memory of a favorite pair of old flannel pajamas from my childhood and its moisture rubs against me the same way my favorite blanket did: tenderly, quietly, safely. It muffles the staccato click-click of my high heels and accentuates the swish of my skirt as I glide through its vaporous tendrils.


Fog flirts with my vision, playfully showing as golden organza, giving hope that the sun is going to peek through at any moment, then twirling and heaving a heavy steel-grey woolen blanket over all I see – causing everything to shape shift for an instant.


Fog is a child darting in and out of the trees, one minute wrapping a chubby fist around a trunk and walking in measured circles, around and around and around…and the next minute, it’s playing peek-a-boo behind a fallen log.


Fog is a lullaby, a caress, a moment in which to breathe. It’s the rest between heartbeats.

Saving Words

Good Morning, Dear Readers.

There appears to be some confusion about the paragraphs in italics in yesterday’s entry. That bit of story was just free flowing association with the main symptoms of whatever this sickness/crud/yuckiness is. I wanted to make sure I blogged yesterday and didn’t want to use illness as an excuse not to write. However, my brain was so cloudy the only thing I could think to do was turn the negative aspect of being sick into a positive writing exercise. Those paragraphs have nothing to do with my National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) story – I can’t and won’t start writing that until November 1st. To do otherwise would be cheating myself, even if no one else knew about it. So, I thank you for the kind words about my writing but nope, that wasn’t my NaNoWriMo novel.

However, I will be saving those words. I’ll put them in a folder I’ve had forever, labeled simply ‘blurbs.’ That’s what those little snippets are to me, just blurbs – but only for the moment (or a year or two) because I may need to refer to them soon. They will sit there until I need inspiration for something I’m stuck on; sometimes it’s a turn of phrase, sometimes it’s simply a distraction to let my brain rest from whatever I’m working on. I’ll pick up that old manilla folder, read through the blurbs and suddenly I remember why I wrote that piece or, and this happens just a little too often for comfort but it’s true, I clearly see the reason I relegated a particular bit (yes, I shudder at some of my writing, particularly when I stay up way too late and find myself nodding off in front of the monitor) to the blurb file. But those blurbs are important…

They remind me that I DO have ideas and I CAN put two or twenty or two hundred sentences together. They soothe my ego and serve as proof to myself that I can write, have written and will continue to do so.

I just thought of something: putting words on paper is like experiencing a birth and death all at once with all the joys and sorrows that accompany each. Being in the zone, going with the flow, writing on auto-pilot, man-I-was-on-fire ~ all those wonderfully seductive creative highs occur as a writer births their baby (puts the words on the paper). The writer acts as an indulgent parent while their work grows and matures, giving it little nudges here and there to go in the ‘right’ direction. We are so proud of our creations and sometimes they stay with us for years. Sometimes, just moments. But, inevitably, death follows. With a click of the delete button the words are gone. That particularly wonderful/horrible bit is dead. We mourn those words. We mourn the time and attention we lavished on each and every one of those oh-so-special words. We loved those words and even though we know they had a good life, their time on this earth had come to an end. Gone, but not forgotten. Our blurbs in those old manilla folders that always smell like a dusty school room are a writer’s pictures of loved ones.

So, I save my words. I never know when I’ll need the comfort of seeing them again.

No Time for Yuckies

Hello Readers,

OK, I’ve run into my first writing roadblock: I’m sick. I started feeling bad yesterday afternoon and today…well, today it’s a challenge to keep myself from going home and pulling the covers over my head for the next week. However, I’ve made a promise to you and myself. I have to keep writing whether I feel like it or not because I have a goal to meet.

So, putting on my writer’s hat, what can I do with this case of the ‘yuckies’ I have? How could I use it for a character? Could my teary eyes be indicative of crying rather than illness, and could that incorrect assumption lead to some action on the part of either the hero or the bad guy? I have the chills so I’m wearing a sweater even though it’s supposed to be seventy degrees today; I could use the excess clothing as a ‘cover up’ of bruises perhaps. My body aches in all my joints which makes me move just a little more tenderly, how can I use that? Hmmm, I’ll just go with this line of thinking and see where it takes me.

With tears pooling in the corners of her cornflower blue eyes, the usually bustling woman gingerly perched on the edge of the purposely uncomfortable chair positioned dead center in front of her boss’s sleek desk. Her hair a hot mess, she negligently tucked a strand behind one ear and winced as she gathered her sweater closer to her body.

“Has that rat bastard hit you?” Rich abandoned his normally rigid posture and leaned slightly over the desk. “Is there something we can do to help you? I could have our HR rep help you call the police to file charges and we have an excellent Employee Assistance Program that…”

“No, Rich. The ‘rat bastard,’ as you refer to him, didn’t hit me.” At least not this time. “I only came in here to tell you I’m sick and I want nothing more than to go home, get some chicken soup then crawl into bed and pull the covers up over my head.”

Rich reared back in his chair and let his breath out in a big gust. He jerked forward and slammed his broad hands against the desktop. Linda jumped and Rich clenched his jaw. Very slowly, and very softly he asked, “How long are you going to keep pretending that we haven’t figured out he hits you? Do you think we don’t see the way you move every other Monday? Pay day is every other Friday and then Monday you come in looking like an old woman, covered from head to toe, wearing sweaters in the summer and scarves around your neck. We know, Linda. We know. So, how can we help?”

“Please, Rich. I’m just sick and I need to go home now. As you know, I have plenty of sick and vacation time. Hopefully, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Linda attempted to keep her voice well modulated, to tamp down the need to throw back her head and scream ‘Help Me.’ While she wished someone could help her, she just couldn’t risk an attempt to reach out to anyone. It was so much safer this way. The ever present fear was a potent deterrent to pursuing freedom from the chilling horror of her life. Besides, she was the only getting hurt, so what did it matter what it took to keep Jilly safe?

Well, I certainly didn’t expect to go in that direction but every writer knows that you have to let the story lead you, not vice versa. Ugh - I don't feel good and just don't have time for these 'yuckies.' I’ve used up what little bit of brain energy I had today so I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Stay well, everyone.

From Sizzle to Fizzle

After work last night, I went to Aladdin’s Eatery here in North Raleigh for dinner. Lawsy mercy, how I love that restaurant. I was there on opening night and I go usually once a week for either lunch or dinner. They feature fresh, natural food, the staff is courteous and knowledgeable about the dishes, and the friendly owner (his name is Tom) talks to everyone and makes them feel welcome. While I was eating my Chicken Lentil Soup, I was making notes on my current mystery - a story of redemption. This particular piece, well…I’m kind of stuck at the moment. Pondering this impasse over a glass of delicious Lebanese red wine, I thought I’d drag out some of my older stuff once I got home and see if there was anything worth revising to fit my current work (hey, when your brain stops creating, you’ll resort to any measure to get it going again).

After an hour of searching my tiny apartment – mind you, besides my bedroom closet there is only one little coat closet and two cabinets for storage in the whole place - I finally found some of my previous “inspirations” stuffed in a ratty, torn, cardboard box marked “Junk” shoved just far enough under my bed that I couldn’t reach it. Hmmm, that says a lot, doesn’t it? It will tie in later on, though.

I was pleased to discover, upon re-reading these potential best-sellers, that two of the five pieces were actually good, and of those two good pieces, one was really good, no, make that Really Good. I’ll just talk about those two today; the other three, well, back to the hidey-hole for them.

The first piece contained a compelling opening paragraph and four fairly complex scenes or set pieces, I believe Alexandra Sokoloff called them when she spoke at a recent writer’s conference in Raleigh. These set pieces mark the progression of the action leading up to the final climax. I had a lot of filling in to do for “Frères Jacques” but I had a skeleton, the bones, of my tale established in my mind and on paper and the twist was really cool. The writing was terse: clean and efficient. It matched the emotion behind the murder. What I had of my story was workable into an actual book! Woot Woot!

The second piece has a working title of “Baby’s Breath.” Wow, who knew I could write like that? Certainly not me! The murder scene was all the more chilling because I had written this one in a soft, feminine, loving voice. Pages and pages of the macabre (as in murder technique, not monster physique), gently wrapped in velvet layers of words as soft as a newborn’s blankie.

What happened? This stuff is actually good! Why did I stop working on it? What made me go from sizzle to fizzle? Last night, I figured it out.

As writers, we all have a special something deep down that drives us (yes, we are truly driven) to write. A fear, a hope, a dream - some kind of an intensely personal, powerful need that relentlessly pushes us on to write. It was that very drive that scared the hell out of me. I felt big and bold and strong while writing these stories; I felt wide open and surprisingly free from boundaries. However, when that immediate euphoria left, I feared that very wonderful feeling, I feared that drive. I'm a girl...I shouldn't be thinking like this. So I doubted. I doubted that I had any talent. I second-guessed my writing style and convinced my self that I shouldn’t be writing like this!!!! I was afraid to trust in, enjoy, and ride the wave of that strength because I always felt like I should be writing ‘nice’ things – not about horrific, violent murder, and the depravities of humankind. I was frightened by the way all my words would come so fast (what if they ran out? I’d be a failure) and the ideas would continually pummel my brain (what if I run out of ideas? I’ll be a failure) and my characters’ emotions would be so strong that I felt I could barely contain them on the page (what if I can’t convey the depth of their soul? I’ve failed). So I stopped. I didn’t take my stories to their conclusion because the conclusion wasn’t ‘pretty’ enough. I felt like I was writing too strongly, more like a man than a woman (whatever that means). So, I drew back and tried to write neat and tidy, more...feminine. I tried really hard to pull it back, to scale it down but I felt so boxed in that my storyline became weak and cramped and pinched-feeling. My story fizzled, and so did my appetite for writing.

Georgia O’Keefe just came to mind. I wonder if she would have continued to paint had she tried to force herself to fill in paint-by-number kits using only primary colors instead of embracing her unique, delicately overblown style. She opened herself up to her painting and allowed her vision to freely flow. She damned any societal consequences; by her self-truth, her colors remain beautifully vivid and her style is still unusually bold to this day.

This is what I figured out last night: how to keep the sizzle going. Like Georgia with her blank canvases, I have to paint my pages with big, bold, wide-open slashes of color. I, too, am finally able to say, “Damn the Consequences’ and write it as I feel it. I am not a pastel person. My spirit sizzles, my writing will, too.

Prepping for NaNoWriMo

Hello Everyone,

Welcome to my new blog: The Zen of Murder (Writing, that is….)! I’m really excited about the upcoming National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) contest I’ve entered. More information can be found at NaNoWriMo.org (I’m Mystery Cat). I have the entire month of November to write a 50,000 word novel. Thirty days! It doesn’t have to be ‘good’, and it’s obviously not going to be a polished work of literature at the end of thirty days, but the point is to complete a first draft of a novel. So….what do I win when I’ve finished? Not a darn thing but bragging rights LOL. I reminded my gal pal Debe (another writer who got me off my duff after years of ‘silent pen syndrome’) of the competition and now she’s signed up also. There is another mutual friend, Carol, who will hopefully join us. Carol, like Debe, is an incredibly talented woman on many fronts.

So, what did I do this weekend writing-wise to nourish my soul? Well, actually nothing but so much! Oh, I wrote quite a bit but it was more to allow my brain to function next month. OK, I’ll back up and ‘splain’ what I meant.

This contest will be mentally grueling. If you put this feat into any perspective, you’ll realize that 50,000 words, and 30 days in a month minus at least one day to turkey, leaves 29 days in which I have to average 1,724.1379 words per day. Let’s just call it 1,725 because that’s much easier to type. So, on my really productive days right now I’m good for between 500-800 good words before my brain just shuts down: good meaning words that have been edited a bazillion times before I close down my computer. I’m going to have to put forth twice as much work for twice as many words every day except Thanksgiving. Somewhere in there, I have to work from 8-5 each day (no writing at work), occasionally eat which means grocery shopping, do laundry (so I’ll have clothes to wear to work), pay bills, go to meetings, and – well, you get the picture. I might as well not have a TV for November because I won’t have time to watch it and I don’t have a DVD-R thing to record any shows. I just checked the word count: 390.

Hmmm, so what does this have to do with writing a first draft? Well, I won’t have time to sit and ponder plot lines and the quirky mannerisms that make a character unique. Nor will I have time to research locale to find the nuggets that make a place interesting and ring historically true when I describe it. I won’t have the luxury of time to wallow in writer’s block (remember 1,725 words per day on average whether I’m sick, hungry, sleepy, or just plain don’t feel like writing a darn word on that particular day).

In other words, I have to be…dun dun dun ~ organized.

In the magazine or newspaper world, this paragraph would be a sidebar: Look at the font used to type the word ‘organized’, compare the word to my personality. I immediately hear some comedian holding a mic right up to his mouth and saying ‘organized’ like Gollum says ‘Precious’ in Lord of the Rings. Organized is an anathema to someone like myself, someone who likes to fly by the seat of her sweats (those or really ratty flannel pj’s are my writer’s uniform).

Back to the main page, so to speak. So, in order to get myself organized, I created a story board. It helps me outline my story structure so I know who’s going to do or say what and when. I’m using a science project board (come on, you remember those tri-fold poster boards that you pasted cut out magazine pictures of the planets on hoping for a better grade) divided into sections to keep me on track. Into each section, I put index cards explaining the actions of each character and also I keep notes like “explain why he had a knife” as a reminder to flush out certain aspects. Word count now is: 694.

Almost three times this much writing and I’ll be at my minimum for the day.

Where was I? Oh yes, staying organized. See what I mean? I went off track with the word count and almost lost where I was in this story. This is what I cannot allow to happen while I’m working on my NaNoWriMo novel. I have to use this last bit of time before 1 November to have my story fully outlined, know who my characters are, who the bad guy is and how and why the bad guy kills a character (I’m writing a murder mystery), how and when the hero and his girl fall in love, how the mystery gets resolved and everyone lives HEA (happily ever after). I also have to know the location of where the story takes place, what each person’s home looks like, the weather for that time of year (can’t talk about flowers in April if they don’t bloom until May or June there) and any other little goodies I can add to bring something special about a location to the page.

Somehow, I can’t see myself writing a novel in the short time I have to write each evening without having all the information previously mentioned readily available.

To further explain my original answer (nothing but so much) it was all brain activity that will lead to soul-nourishing at midnight, November 30th – when I will be finished with the first draft of “School of Hard Rocks.” Right now that’s my working title so I don’t give away any secrets.

OK – I’ve written enough for now. Wonder what my word count is? Ahhh, 969 words, over halfway through my daily minimum and while I could go on, and on, and on just for the sake of word count, that’s too much like spearing fish in a barrel. Who does that anyway?

So, my friends, I ask that you send me coupons for Lean Cuisines and by all means, please bring me dark chocolate and tons of decaf coffee.

But most of all, I ask for your support and best wishes. For my close friends who live nearby, I ask for your understanding when you don’t see much of me for the month of November. You know where I’ll be: in my apartment, sitting in front of a really old monitor that flickers from yellow to white as the background color can’t decide if it wants to stay or just give up the ghost all together, pounding away at my mystery and smiling because I can actually write instead of trying to figure out where to go next in my story. On reflection, I’m changing my previous font on the word ‘organized’ to:

Organized.

Doesn’t that look so much better? It certainly makes me feel better knowing that it’s done AND I have time to revise should I have any more ‘brilliant insights’ in the middle of the night! Friends, check out your writer friend’s home. We have notebooks everywhere just in case we are inspired and HAVE to get down this one thought before it goes away.

This word count checking is getting just a tad obsessive ….I’m just going to write, from now on, and not even peek and the numbers – at least not too often. Final word count on this piece is>>>> DRUM ROLL 1,253.

Sorry, but the Jokerman font for the first use of 'organized' and the Lucida Calligraphy font used for the second use of 'organized did not carry over when I copied my Word document and pasted it into my blog. Anyone know how to do that????