Time to Get Back to My Girls

August was never a realistic timeline for the completion of my current WIP, especially with that pesky day job of mine sucking away all my time and sanity, but you know what? I quit that job. I did. I quit a decent-paying job that let me work from home to take care of my kids during a pandemic and I had the support of HR to do it. THAT, my friends, is how badly I was being treated.

So… let’s see, now. It’s mid-July and I’m not quite 3/4 through writing my first draft. I ditched the job, but not the children so it’s not like I gained a lot of time for writing. I did get my brain back–which was so stressed out that I had perma-fog and consistent headache–and perhaps that’ll help me figure out… what the climax of this story should be. Because right now… I do. not. know.

There’s only so much inner turmoil that can count as plot, right?

Anyway, here’s another excerpt from Like Two of the Same, the sequel to Like Two Opposite Things which just recently became a physical book to hug and love. It’s the reunion of summer besties after some selfish behavior and forced time apart.

Too many “best friends” photos with cell phones in them. What’s that about? This is a 90s story, ya’ll. Photo by Bran Sodre on Pexels.com

He grabs my hand and pulls me forward, down a side path I didn’t even know existed before now that acts as a much too quick shortcut to Heather’s road. I can see her through the trees running around in her bathing suit with a towel around her neck.

“No, see? She’s busy. I should just leave her alone.”

“Helia, this is ridiculous. I bet you anything in the world that the second she sees you, Heather will bust out of the screen house, jump over the bushes and bear hug the snot out of you.”

“Doubtful,” I mumble but I guess I’m about to find out. 

“Heather!” Jason yells from just down the lane from her driveway and waves enthusiastically like this isn’t the worst thing possible for me. I shift a little behind him so she can’t see me right away when she looks up.

“What up, Jace?!” she yells back. “Who’s that behind you?” she says right before it becomes pretty clear that she knows exactly who it is. 

“OH HEELLLLLLLL–” she says and starts running, dropping the towels and sunscreen on her way. She jumps through the bushes–not over, so Jason was wrong about that part–and slams her entire body into mine with the force of a thousand football players. “YEAHHHHHHH!” she screams in my ear and the only reason I haven’t been thrown backwards into a tree by the collision is because she wraps her arms around me so tightly, there’s no way to escape.

We do fall down, though. 

Heather’s on top of me, squeezing and snuggling, and “Oh My GOD”ing, and all I can see is Jason standing over us, smiling.

“See?” he says

 

Secrets of a Hobby Novelist: Character Development

Today, my writer friends, I’d like to tell you some secrets about my characters:

1. They’re all me because I write them. I don’t understand why that’s not more obvious to people who ask authors, “Who are your characters based on?” Duh, it’s me and my perceptions about the people around me all mixed up in one of those little smoothie blenders so I can work out my issues through storytelling. Maybe there are writers who don’t think their characters are themselves but like… where do the characters come from if not your own brain? If they are based on someone else, it’s your perspective of that person. I think the only thing that would make this not true is if you have a co-writer or a very opinionated editor.
2. All of the villains are some version of my parents. Because I have issssssssues. According to my newest therapist, those issues are called Complex Trauma because of insidious emotional neglect throughout my childhood. So even when I base the villain/antagonist on an actual person I hate, I usually hate them because they’re delivering similarly messed up messages about who I am and how little worth I have intrinsically as a human regardless of my behavior.
3. Every single story I’ve ever written has been about me trying to work through some facet of my childhood trauma.
   • The Homecoming Effect: Issues of belonging, safety, knowing there’s a responsible adult looking out for your well-being
   • Like Two Opposite Things: Mixed messages and misunderstandings about sexuality, the neglect in giving children too much independence, belonging and knowing there’s a responsible adult looking after your well-being
   • Lay Her Ghosts to Rest: Being valued and understood for who you are, belonging, knowing there are responsible adults at your workplace looking after employees’ well-being
   • Fully Functioning: I mean, this whole story was about how I had postpartum depression and my entire family did absolutely nothing to help me
4. The reason I keep writing the same themes over and over again is because I’m not over any of it. I have just found a therapist who finally sees me and takes me seriously sooooo… guess who will probably make an appearance at some point as the mentor/savior character and/or the one responsible adult in the story who is taking care of things? Maybe I’ll name her Linda after the therapist in Lucifer who is my absolute fav character in that show. Sure, Lucifer is flashy and fun, Ella is a delight, and Charlotte had a pretty satisfying redemption story but Linda? She’s my gal. So, keep an eye out for Linda the Hero in some future book of mine. I’ll demand that Rachael Harris play her in the movie version.

What does it say when you have a favorite fantasy therapist? 

I Write for Fun So… Let’s Have Fun

I am STRUGGLING to finish the WIP I started for NaNoWriM0 2017 and I’m for real getting close to scrapping it altogether. I just don’t care. I don’t care what happens to this character and my mind is on this other story I’ve been itching to write.

But I have that, “If I start something new before finishing this one then I’ll never finish this one and whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”

So I had a good chat with myself. Self, I said, who cares? And my self said, “Not me.” And I said, then stop stressing out about this story that no one cares about and write something that makes you want to write.

And my self said, “Yeah. Ok. That sounds good.”

Going Off the Deep End, Like Everybody

I’m trying to teach my son that happiness and pleasure can be found in simple, every day things as long as you have the right attitude and you intentionally build your life around the things that make you happy.

My husband and I talked about this recently. We are not Go Away For the Weekend people, partly because we both work weekends but also because if we’re not working, we just want to be home. We like our house and our local restaurants and stores, our neighborhood playgrounds and our area attractions. We found a place to live that we’re happy to be in, jobs we like to do, and a regular schedule that we can easily live with and/or adjust when necessary.

I’m sorry, Loverboy, but we disagree. We do not work for the weekends. Also, what… is that song about, really? It’s kind of all over the place. While also being awesome. And now it’s in my head and I’m not mad about it.

 

This is how I feel about writing as a hobby as well. If I can just have a regular schedule where time is put aside just for writing or editing or promoting or whatever, I can be happy with whatever I do (or do not) accomplish.

The sad happens when writing gets backburnered to holidays and family drama and work disasters and that’s where I’m at now. I have had no time to write. I don’t 100% remember what was going on in the story so I’m finding it hard to continue without re-reading first. And my primary mode of processing my ish and decompressing is TRAGICALLY ABSENT FROM MY LIFE!

Seriously, ya’ll, what do you do when you can’t write but you desperately want to? Is it Netflix? Buzzfeed? Daydreaming? Keep in mind that reading is out for me as well because quiet moments alone are nonexistent in my world.

By the Seat of My Pany-pan Pants

This is the blog post where I try to decide what to do for NaNoWrimo. Write something new or finish something I’ve started?

No matter what I write in this post, I will end up doing whatever the hell I feel like doing coming November 1. And there’s a good chance I will change my mind and start over again on November 2.

So this blog post is pointless. Trying to plan ahead is pointless. My writer self does whatever the hell she wants whenever she feels like doing it.

Incorrigible. Inveterate. Resolute.

Pantser for life, ya’ll.

 

Time to Pub That Themeless Series of Flash Fics

I haven’t self-published anything this year and for pretty good reason but with NaNoWriMo looming, I’m starting to feel bad about that.

I mean, I shouldn’t. I… had a child. I… suffered from postpartum depression. I… was the primary caretaker for two young children while also working two part-time jobs. The fact that I wrote at all is amazing.

But I’m so much about moving forward, especially in my writing career, that this past year feels like a limbo time suck of cognitive dissonance.

I really just want to feel like I completed something. And I didn’t. And it’s disheartening.

As the Fingers Type

Is anyone else, like…

*type type type, check word count, update CampNaNo word count, words written = 74*

*type type…. typetypetype, type… and…. type, check word count, update Camp NaNo word count, words written = 97*

*Buzzfeed, Instagram, Twitter*

*type type typety type type typetypetype typety type type typetypetype, check word count, update Camp NaNo word count, words written = 112*

UGH, is this month over yet?

Boosts Go Up. I Want to Go Through.

I discovered a new word today: liminoid. It’s the in-between place described by the word liminality but optional and secular because it doesn’t belong to a ritual.

It’s what I’m going to call this place between finishing an old WIP and starting a new one. It’s both freedom and lostness and it’s super uncomfortable.

I would like to be writing something new but as my free time is limited, and I would like to sell the book I just finished, I need to concentrate my effort on marketing, right?

Or do I?

I have no issue with considering myself a hobby novelist and while I enjoy the gratification of that sales graph climbing ever upward, making money has never been my goal.

Oh, but it’s nice, isn’t it?

When it comes down to it, though, I write for the pleasure of writing. I finish a story for the pleasure of seeing it through to the end. I self-publish for the pleasure of hoping my story means something to someone else. I collect a couple o’ pennies in royalties for the pleasure of a cup of coffee I didn’t pay for out of my day job paycheck.

All in good fun.

So maybe it’s time to start something new? To step through the threshold and find out what’s on the other side? To stop feeling guilty about not doing enough or posting enough or paying* enough to get my books sold and read?

Yes, I think so.

*Paying for advertising when you’re not 100% invested in making money on a thing is just a dumb waste. Hear that, Facebook? Please stop harassing me about “boosting” things. There will be no more boosting for you from me, thankyouverymuch.

But Let Me Tell You a Little More About Me

Much later than I had hoped–since I had a whole new book sale/old book promotion thing going on a month and a half ago and this was part of my marketing plan–MyBookPlace.net has finally posted my Author Interview!

It’s chock full of such pearls as…

I can appreciate Grover’s growing anxiety at discovering the monster within

and…

back in my early teen days when I would have done anything to kiss a boy–any boy, I wasn’t picky

Good quality stuff. Yeah. Actually, it was the third author interview I did and most of the questions were the same so I was scraping the bottom of the barrel of thought nuggets for this one. Sorry.

Still, you should read it because it’s Sunday and you don’t REALLY want to go check the laundry, do you?

Eda J. Vor’s Author Interview on MyBookPlace.net

 

 

Hello My Name is WRITER

I went to college with a woman whose life plan involved “getting on a soap opera and just like, doing that for a while.” She assured us all she had a friend or an aunt or someone who could help her and while we all smiled and nodded, she neglected to audition for any plays, refused to volunteer for any student films, was much too busy to attend local casting calls and spent most of her time barely attending classes and showing up to sorority parties without having helped in any sort of event planning. Apparently, she thought that if she majored in Theater and had a friend in the biz, her life would fall into place as if by fate or magic and all she would have to do was her hair and makeup.

If I remembered her name, maybe I’d look her up to see which chain restaurant she was working at but there was literally nothing about her other than her lack of ambition that I can recall right now. And I’m trying! She wore sweatshirts sometimes? She had brownish or blondish hair? She… chewed gum? That’s all I got.

I’m thinking about Sweatshirts because I keep seeing these motivational whoosits for writers on Twitter and Tumblr in the vein of “Keep writing until your signature becomes and autograph” and “Imagine your favorite writer* becoming your biggest fan”.

*Chuck Palahniuk is one of my favorite writers. He seems like a bit of a psycho if you wanna know the truth. He… doesn’t need to know who I am, thanks.

I feel like the problem with these things is that they’re just setting most of us up for disappointment. Becoming famous as a writer doesn’t seem like an easy thing for the best and most prolific of writers, never mind for those of us writing our second novel 20 minutes at a time while our kids nap (or, you know, whatever everyone else is doing).  I see so many unrealistic expectations on Twitter that it makes me a little sad. These are the people who are going to give up when what they want doesn’t come easy.

My husband and I own a small business that caters mostly to the after-school crowd with a small smattering of adults who enjoy the activity. We knew from the outset that this business wouldn’t make us rich. We had very reasonable expectations for what our student capacity was, for how much money we could hope to make, and how we’d have to set up our lives to continue running this business while also paying our bills and eventually taking care of our child.

The Small Business Association mentor we were set up with was NOT FEELING IT. He was a retired CEO. He had built and destroyed and rebuilt companies 10 times the size of ours and why were we even bothering him with this piddly shit? Then he set up an appointment with an evil evil lawyer who mocked us viciously before busting out a contract she actually thought we’d sign. Go Big or Go Home, they both said.

We went home. And to the library. And to small business owners we knew and trusted. And then we built a decent part-time small business that pays our mortgage and home expenses while our second “day” jobs supplement that. It’s all working out just fine because we went into the situation with 1) realistic expectations and 2) a willingness to put in the right amount of effort to accomplish our goals.

I approach writing the same way. I’ve always wanted to write a novel but for a long time, I couldn’t get past the feeling that nothing I ever wrote was good enough. It’s when I stopped trying to please ANYONE else and just wrote for myself that I finally accomplished my goal. My novel is not famous or outstanding or life-changing or, you know, selling very well on Amazon. But I wrote it. Some people read it. One of them left a good review. And for a first time novelist, that’s freaking fantastic! I’m very happy with myself for accomplishing a goal. I’m happy with my one 5-star review. And two of my best friends read it and thought it was great, which is enough for me right now.

The thing is, if I wanted to write a best-seller, I’d have to put in a whole lot more effort. I might have to hire a professional editor. I’d definitely have to do some serious marketing. I’d probably start looking for an agent or submitting my manuscript to publishers or contests to get more exposure. I’d have to work! Hard! And I’m… not willing to do that. I have two jobs. And a kid. And other responsibilities and hobbies and I’m not willing enough to re-prioritize my life so I can put that kind of effort into my writing.

At some point, with any endeavor, you have to figure this out: Here’s the amount of effort I’m willing to put in and here’s the reasonable result I can expect from that output.

Sweatshirts didn’t quite understand that concept. A lot of the writers I see on Twitter don’t get it either. And those motivational cards are just a symptom of this disease of wanting more than you’re willing to put in to get it.

In the words of John Lennon, “a working class hero is something to be.” You can still write without being a best-seller. You can still be proud of your work with only one Amazon review. You can still call yourself a writer if you’re putting some effort in to your writing. But you’re never going to be Castle without the plucky attitude and custom-made vest.

We can’t all be Castle. We can’t… any of us be Castle, really.