Despite the well worn and lackluster appearance, we put on our skates and are excited to begin our adventure. I forgot the magic of skating rinks is when the lights go down.
Despite the well worn and lackluster appearance, we put on our skates and are excited to begin our adventure. I forgot the magic of skating rinks is when the lights go down.
Traveling excites me, and for once I was prepared to leave my house.
In general, I present a very serious and reserved persona. Most people who meet me think I have zero sense of humor. However, I do have a sense of humor.
So, I’ve done it. Kind of.
What did I do? I finished a novella, which is lengthier than I ever thought I could write. Now I’m done with the first draft, it’s time to edit and shine it up into a precious gemstone, readying it for cover art and marketing, to have an amazing debut into the world.
At least, that’s what is supposed to happen. The poor file has been sitting in a folder, calling out to me as I go about other things.
Unfortunately, the reality of writing tends to get in the way of, well, writing. Let’s take this blog, for example. I started with the best intentions. Wrote diligently, and I saw progress in my writing style, voice, and other people having interest in what I have to say.
And then I stopped. Why? For several reasons. The most pressing is the need for money. Let’s be realistic. Unless independently wealthy, working while writing is a requirement. I am fortunate with my situation, both in not being the sole earner in the household and in being paid to write.
But this is where writing gets in the way of writing. I write marketing content, blog material, and social media for clients. The work provides some income, and I’m closer to what I like doing than in my previous career. However, writing for clients takes time away from writing on personal projects.
So, client writing comes first. Because it’s money. Second in the priority list, at least for me, is writing for contests. Why contests? I prefer a specific contest by NYC Midnight because of the challenge and feedback provided by the judges. Due to my innate tendency for procrastination, the timed and assigned aspect instigate my perfectionist anxiety, bringing about the best in me.
Or the worst. Depends on who you ask.
Plus, along with Twitter, contests have given me a shallow end to step my virgin writer’s toe in and compare myself to the writers of the world. I know, we hear all the time to not compare ourselves to other writers. On one hand, this is true. I would never compare myself to Dickens or Atwood or King. And different writers have different voices, different audiences, and ultimately different goals for their art.
I have accepted my style of writing is not likely to have a large, commercial demand.
However, despite our tendency as writers to support and praise each other, there are amazing writers, great writers, okay writers, and then stubborn writers who struggle because their audience is nowhere to be found. I am prone to stubbornness as a general personality trait. So contests and Twitter give me a true perspective of how I rate in the overall world of wordsmithing.
Yes, I include Twitter in my priority list, just under contests. Contests occur once a quarter, at most, while Twitter has become my daily writing exercise. Not only do I write to prompts, sometimes pushing myself, but I watch and read writers and wordsmiths who I admire. I take apart their flash fiction. I try to understand what works about it. Also, I understand what I would do differently or how I would have written the piece. All in attempts to push myself to be a better writer.
On a side note, this can be a dangerous endeavor if a writer’s voice is not fixed. My voice is not fixed. In fact, I can mimic most writing styles pretty well if given enough exposure. While this is a great trait for client writing, it’s a horrible trait for a creative writer. There have been times when I’ve lost myself, and I see it in my stories.
Also, there is the unfortunate marketing aspect as a writer. A lot of new writers are in love with being discovered by a traditional agent or publishing house and making it big with their first book. Why? Well, the prestige, of course. Whose ego doesn’t need that? But aside from that, self and other forms of publishing require a large amount of marketing by a writer.
In fact, I would argue traditional publishing requires a large amount of marketing by a writer. And marketing does not mean blasting your published book in regular timed frequencies on social media. Traditional marketing meant book signings, traveling the country, making yourself available to the public.
Social media has made that a bit easier, in that there is more public readily available. But to be successful, a writer has to interact and engage. Which is a huge weakness of mine. My strong introverted nature, combined with social anxiety and a private nature, puts me at a disadvantage. So yes, Twitter is a priority.
As a quick recap, I have client writing, contest writing, and Twitter writing, all which seem to come ahead of my short story and novella writing. While some might say Twitter should come after my own writing, I disagree for the two above stated reasons.
Which brings us back to my novella. In an ideal world, I would set the piece aside. I would come back to it and begin my editing, putting on lipstick for it’s debut. And then I would begin querying or submitting it to literary journals.
Instead, my priority list takes, well, priority. So I reverted back to my innate flowchart. In my attempt to be more business-like in my approach to submissions and creative writing, I found a contest in a literary journal that accepts excerpts of longer pieces. Waiting until the last minute, and knowing my first draft needs a lot more than red lipstick to be acceptable by literary standards, I focused on one part of my novella as a submission.
Which I completed three days ago.
Will I get back to the other parts of my novella, editing and preparing them for a reunion with the submitted piece? Yes. The resting time is nearing completion, and my mind is ready and willing to make the necessary changes.
In fact, I’m looking into various options for publication. One option I came across is serial publication online, with authors receiving portions of the membership price if individuals subscribe to their writing. I’m hesitant about taking this approach with my debut, but on the other hand it will be a great learning experience.
And it’s time for this project to get bumped up the priority list.
The house is still breathing in its own space, separate from us. We are no longer in open warfare, though the peace agreement is tenuous.
“Hey, what can I help you with?” The foreman removes his ear buds and looks at me from his sitting position on the dusty root cellar floor.
I move further down the steep, uneven cement stairs as I look at two of the three workers I can see. The foreman stares at me, like I was interrupting their flow. I understand, clients don’t interact much and get in the way when they do.
“So, I’m taking my daughter to dance class. I was wondering when you guys will be finished.”
I edge myself to sitting on the stairs, barely fitting and aware a slight lean forward would tumble me to where the foreman is crouching. The second worker has his back to the crawl space that extends under 2/3 of the house, looking straight across the basement towards me, and finally I can see the third worker standing by a joist support that isn’t attached to the floor. Inside I shudder at all the times my daughter has bounced across the floor upstairs, unsupported.
“Oh, yeah, we are just waiting on Jose, slow on filling up his buckets,” the foreman and middle worker laugh as they look towards Jose.
I look at the dozen and a half filled buckets, dirt and concrete the three have been hauling up for most of the day. My eyes travel across the expanse of what could be called my basement, for a lack of a better term. No, there is a better term. More like root cellar with a thin sheet of poorly laid concrete, overhead joists cut by unnumbered, poorly done infrastructure remodels and heavily burdened with HVAC and plumbing. Slowly I take in the 2 x 2 holes pockmarking the floor. In another day the holes will be filled in with rock composite, designed to disperse weight of two floors bearing down on 3 steel beams and 9 jacks.
“Well, we are better off than I thought we would be, ahead of schedule, so we shouldn’t be here on Thursday but for some clean up or concrete checks,” the foreman begins talking his end of day dispatch talk. I catch every other word, distracted by sounds of my daughter while also mesmerized by what has become of the uneven floors. “So, I don’t think we have much more to do.”
“You guys can stay as long as you want. Just saying I won’t be here with you,” I smile.
“Yeah, well, we are in a good stopping point and probably need to get checked into our hotel, if you don’t mind us leaving the buckets like this.”
“I was wondering if you would drive back down to Monument tonight,” I comment lightly.
Although there are structural companies and firms by the dozens in Denver, this company is from a town that is on the southern edge of halfway between Denver and Colorado Springs, the two main urban areas of Colorado. I don’t know much about Monument other than it’s a bit of a hill sitting on I-25, away from the mountains, so snow storms pick up speed and slam the small town.
Why did I pick a company so far away? Of all the PMs that came to bid work, this one felt the most genuine, honest, and forthright about all my concerns. Choosing a contractor by intuition? Yes, that’s what I do. Plus, they were all about the same price, and this one could do it without me having to play contractor and hire additional companies to move HVAC and plumbing.
“Oh, yeah, well we were actually going to put up cots here if ya didn’t mind,” jokes the second worker, his full beard still well formed after a day of hard labor.
“Sure, you can stay here. But in full disclosure I gotta tell you I’ve smudged this house three times in two years, and there is still stuff going on,” I meet the eyes of the second worker, expressionless.
For one heartbeat there is silence. Confused, the foreman tilts his head as he searches my deadpan face. The second worker, his shirt rolled up to show sleeves of black and grey skulls, tribals, and Americana, stares in my eyes frozen. Jose nervously jokes, “that would explain the shadows,” breaking the spell.
The foreman jerks towards Jose, and the second worker laughs. I laugh and say, “seriously, guys, I was kinda hoping you hauling out dirt would take care of some of this. After all, this has got to be the creepiest basement and crawl space I’ve ever experienced.”
All three voices chime in a harmony of believing disbelief, as the second worker moves quickly towards Jose. Jose laughs, “damn, man, you’ve had your back to that crawl space most the day. You thought you felt sumthin, maybe you did.” The second worker shakes himself as he sits on a bucket of dirt.
The foreman looks at me, asking,” have you really experienced things?”
“Yeah, I have. Voices and things, mostly at the beginning.”
The truth is this house called to me, before I could even sense it. In fact, the reason we found this house was because I was being driven mad by our last house. In all rational sense, we shouldn’t have bought the house we were living in. We made it six months before deciding to sell. Denver was still in a crazy real estate frenzy, so we decided if we wanted to get away from our poor housing decision with a little bit of money, we needed to move soon.
Our real estate agent, unlike the previous one, is a very smart man. I gave him some of my requirements, and he took me to different areas to test what I said. All in all, he knew I was a neighborhood buyer and not a house buyer. What does that mean? Houses are houses, and I can live in whatever. As long as I’m not going mad. But a neighborhood is beyond everything else. For me, the full environment needs to feel right, otherwise the house will never become my home. Plus, houses I like are found in neighborhoods I like.
After seeing a few houses, and losing a bidding war on a house not far from here, we were getting a little frustrated. Day by day my sanity was wearing away. Until I received a call to meet our agent at a house under renovation. The minute I stepped from the car, I heard the crows cawing and felt this was our home.
At the time the house was ripped to studs, lath and plaster torn to shreds and thrown into the crawl space below the floorboards. It didn’t matter. This was my home. The potential I saw. The feeling I sensed. This was my dream home.
Though it really wasn’t. My preferred house is a Craftsman bungalow, complete with full brick porches, pane and stain windows, and solid wood bookcases around coal fireplaces. Second to a bungalow is a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian, complete with bay windows, crown and dentil molding, and a solid keystone above every window. Third is a hardy American four-square, complete with wrap around porch, butler’s pantry, and solid wood trim everywhere. So this house, a simple four room folk Victorian with a 1920’s kitchen and bathroom addition, wasn’t even in the running of my dream homes.
That didn’t matter. The crows called. The walls spoke. This was my house, despite my rational senses stating I saw the potential in the blueprints and I could pick my own colors and I could choose the octagon marble floor and subway tile in the bathroom and I could dictate gray cabinets with open shelves true to Victorian kitchens. This was my house bare boned and empty.
My house per contract at the end of June. A house we didn’t move into until the end of September. We bought the seller’s reasoning that contractors were hard to find, though come to find out that wasn’t the full story. We bought the surface because it seemed reasonable. After all, two years later and Denver still has more cranes in downtown than the four-state area combined. We played understanding because we had no choice. Our house had sold while we were in Panama, a single buyer offering more than asking, and rent back was not an option. Finding another house was not an option. After all, it was a seller’s market. And this house was my house, the decision was out of my hands.
So we figured it out, living in a loft downtown where energy bombarded me 24/7. We took deep breaths, feigned patience, and ultimately moved in before the house was finished. We reasoned the chaos of the workers was less than the chaos of loft living, and at least we were home. Though that first night made me question if moving here was right. Or maybe this house wasn’t mine, after all.
To be continued…
Welcome to a class that believes social stewardship begins before birth. Empathic beings can only be brought into this world by woke mothers who defy child birthing myths.
In general, humans do not like ambiguity.
Though there are a few people who can handle a gray existence, their number is far less than those who proclaim to have that comfort. And this tendency extends to everything within comprehension. The need for labels, definitions, categories, and boundaries was necessary at some point for our survival, and these layers are an extension of the black and white, binary trait of needing to know yes or no.
Will I live, or will I die.
And without survival stressors, at least for most of us in the Western world, it’s moved into existential sensibilities. How we view ourselves and our identities.
Just as humans are incapable of conceptualizing reality and layer levels of labels for understanding, writing has it’s own labels, categories, and boundaries. We observe complex humanity, yet we cannot resist falling into camps with a dichotomous structure.
As with most labels, I resist limiting myself by placing boundaries on or categorizing what I write. However, there comes a time when I realize there is a grain of truth despite the exaggerated discussion I usually come across.
One of the dichotomies that has slightly more truth than others, and notice I said slightly, is character versus plot driven writing. The reason I say slightly is there isn’t a true dichotomy. As with any other human trait, there is a complex, dimensional continuum to cover all that is entailed by stating character versus plot.
But in resisting the rabbit hole, I will simplify by stating yes, there are writers who begin their writing with characters. Likewise, yes, there are writers who begin their writing with plot, or external events.
As with most discussions, people like to group up in one camp or the other. Almost any discussion board will have most writers arguing plot based writing is poor writing. In order to entice a reader and have depth of writing, one must develop and build complex characters.
First, poor writing can be found everywhere. In fact, I produce mass amounts of poor writing to create a small gem that I read and reread, amazed the words came from my mind. Whether a writer is plot driven or character driven has very little to do with quality writing.
Second, there is some amazing literature that we all know and love that does not have complex characters.
Third, plot driven writing does not mean characters are not developed or well-thought out complex beings. To be a plot driven writer means the primary focus of action is external events. Usually found in genre writing, such as Mystery, the plot is the device which causes the character to act. Things happen to the character, and the character responds.
In fact, I would argue that most novels and writing is plot driven. Of the categories of conflict, there is only one category that would not require external events precipitating a sequence of decisions in the character. Namely, man vs self.
That is not to say character driven writing excludes all conflicts except man vs. self. That would be a simplistic, dichotomous view of writing. Nor am I stating plot driven writing excludes man vs. self. Again, simplistic view of writing.
Rather, character driven writing focuses on the internal world of a character as primary. Their drives, their motivations, their backstory, and ultimately the progression of the story is tied to exposition of or change within the character.
There is no question as to where I fall in the complex plane of character and plot writing. I am a character writer.
That is not to say I don’t write plot driven stories. I do, it’s inevitable, but the first step in writing for me is to understand my characters. Who they are. My least interesting stories, at least to me, are stories where I haven’t developed a complete profile of my MC’s internal world before writing.
Since I do not outline, my characters decide where the story goes. Their personality decides how the plot develops. Rather than forcing my characters to fit the action of the story, my characters tell me what happens in the story.
In fact, I delayed writing on my current WIP because even though I knew my character, I had no plot in which she could engage. I had nothing for her to do, no canvas on which I could display her and tell a story.
Of course, then I delayed another month because I wasn’t in the mood to write her. The forms procrastination comes in.
But at the end of the day, there are three things stories must have: character(s), plot, and setting. Without any one of these three, a story does not exist.
The degree in which character or plot plays importance for the writer is entirely subjective. And neither one or the other is indicative of poor writing.
A dental practice gains new life by partnering with a data storage firm, only for the doctor to discover she made a mistake.
It’s inevitable. Rejection is a way of life for authors.
Once in awhile an author has an amazing, unbelievable debut novel that blows everyone out of the water. These novels are published immediately to great acclaim. I can’t think of one now, but I don’t want to exclude the possibility.
However, for most of us writing means rejection.
Last week writers around the world received results in Round 1 of a short story contest. I entered, along with 4000+ other writers. And all but 700 received news they would not be moving forward.
During the six weeks between submission and results, I vacillated between absolute certainty I would get into Round 2 and complete belief I would not progress. The second belief proved accurate.
I won’t lie; I was devastated at first.
After talking with friends who write, and people who care, I slowly processed my disappointment. I worked my way through the pain of hearing you are good, but not good enough.
The contest provides feedback from the judges, giving an opportunity for growth and development. The additional information gave me data points of strengths, as well as ways I can make the story stronger.
Also, I came face to face with an aspect of me. My perfectionism gets in the way of trying, of putting myself out there. Constantly. In turn, I am sensitive to critical feedback and rejection of my writing.
Critical feedback and rejection will be an aspect of my life for as long as I write.
There is no going back regarding the choice to write, so I will have to grow up a little. Work on my sensitive nature. Review rejection stats until they are ingrained in my head.
That will take some time.
The important piece is to keep bitterness at bay, remaining open to any opportunity. For now I will look for more contests and continue on my WIP: a short story collection.