Yes, I'm still here.

Hello, my very few readers!

Didja miss me?  It's ok if you didn't. 

I've been trying to avoid the news after enough exposure to know what level of destruction we're at but not enough to overwhelm me to tears. I've been spending my time focusing on the novel that has been itching in my head since the 80s.  I didn't have the maturity or insight to do it justice then.  Getting older has its advantages.

I've completed the first draft. This is amazing for me because I think the last thing I actually completed was my handfasting ceremony. (For the sticklers: I know handfasting is the engagement in certain traditions. Our vows were unique and it fits for us.)

I've always had a problem finishing things.  The anxiety of "doing it wrong" or "not well enough" is too strong for most things.  Case in point:  I was going through a divorce at this time ten years ago and was berating myself because I "wasn't even able to complete a damn marriage." 

Anxiety is a lot of things-- a bitch, disabling, overwhelming-- but it is rarely rational. As long as I complete "living" each day and do not cause injury to another, whatever I do, don't do, don't do well enough, what have you, does not matter.   I know this. I still cannot feel it.

I have various ways to resolve it.  I haven't hung a picture in forever because I have this crazy idea that it won't be placed well and the hammer/nail strike will result in a cartoon-style crack in the wall.  Irrepairable, of course.  If anything, my imagined screw-ups will be done with perfection.

So let's hand a picture anyway.  And do it "wrong" on purpose   Crooked, too high/low, and dent the wall somewhere outside the frame's coverage. Has the world come to an end?  Nope. Will it be criticized?  Maybe. Does that matter?  Hell no.

Sounds good, huh?  I can plan well.  But 80% complete is about as far as I get.

Getting the entire novel down on paper is enough.  It has to be. I told the story in full. DH was worried -- maybe still is-- that I will feel like a failure if it's not published.  My head says no.  My heart says eh.  The goal was to write.  That goal was and is under my control. Publishing has too many factors for it to be "my fault."   One member of my writing group mentioned that an agent somewhere will be as passionate about the finished product as we are and they will sell it to a publisher who feels the same.  The trick is to find the right combo; that is in the hands of the Fates.

Preliminary research tells me an adult contemporary fiction debut novel rarely clocks in at more than 100k words.  It happens, but it's the exception to the rule.  My manuscript (unedited.... and it needs editing) is a cool 182k words.  There isn't a logical place to split it into two novels. There's a "then" and "now" aspect that is too interconnected to stand alone with any satisfaction.

I've cut a subplot that wasn't intended and it's still over 161k. 

I have reached a tentative decision.  I'll have two versions of the manuscript:  in full, as I intended; and a shorter version for possible publication. I feel good about this so far and will see what unfolds.

Yay me!

Happy New Year and Writing Dangerously

Happy 2018! (I hope!)

I've been too distracted to write here. Or maybe too scattered.  Or afraid.  I'm not really sure.  There are 11 unfinished posts in my draft folder.  But I have been writing....

My current WIP is almost two years old.  I've been working on fairly consistently, taking a few breaks to recharge and to explore other sides of the same characters. It's the longest I've ever stayed with a project.

So now we've entered the Terrible Twos.   And I'm stuck.

One of my most favorite people in the world gave me a book for Christmas called  A Year of Writing Dangerously: 365 Days of Inspiration & Encouragement by Barbara Abercrombie. The perfectionist in me said to start reading it on January 1st, and I did. I'm also sharing its passages with my writing group.  I didn't expect to gain much insight.  However, to put it bluntly, at Day 4, shit got real.

On Day 4, she hints that we are free to write the truth, or whatever we believe the truth to be (insert Trump joke here).  She encourages us to basically just write it down because no one will read it until it is actually presented.  Rewrites and purging are always options.  We're free to lock it away in the depths of our file cabinets or clouds.  Whatever is typed onto a screen or scribbled on actual paper, only sees the light of day if we choose.  If I choose.

Nice.  Ok. Just get it down. 249 words.  Ok. Better than the previous days.


Day 5 stopped me in my tracks.    Here is the full passage:

 I asked a group of students once if writing felt dangerous to them.  They all nodded vigorously, so I asked them to write why.

One student wrote, “Writing is dangerous because you might get caught.”

Caught, found out, exposed. The stuff of nightmares.

Is this why writing feels so scary sometimes?  We’re caught like a fish on a hook of our own words, our secrets exposed, out inner life and imagination up for inspection.

Anxiety is not only an inevitable part of the writing process but a necessary part.  If you’re not scared, you’re not writing. ~~ Ralph Keyes

And I've figured out why I'm stuck.

My WIP is a complete work of fiction when you look at it as a whole.  I've borrowed names, descriptions, places, speech patterns, and so forth from a number of sources.  None match enough to pull a whole person together and say "OMG, x is y!!!"  (Except maybe for whoever owns or lives at the property in Catskill where I've set my world.... They might find it a little creepy.) But fiction is rarely that perfect little world of pure imagination.  We all have a point of reference, something that anchors even the most outrageous storyline to something solid in our lives.

Oddly, writing fiction with a touch of truth doesn't scare me.  Isn't that crazy?  Nearly 18 years of psychotherapy has wiped out a good part of my timidity. Up until now, whatever I've written has had some real connection, some modicum of truth.  It may be stretched out so far that only I can see the connection, but, dig deep enough, and you'll find the speck of something real. Someone reading it can ask "Did ____ happen to you or someone you know?" and I can answer "No," with complete honesty.   But there's also a yes in there somewhere, if they pick the exact right thing to ask.  I can easily lie on the pages I write if I can defend that it's both fact and fiction. The closer my words are to "a truth," the easier they've been to write.

I know the reason for this: I tend to shy away from decisions and debates without knowing what I'm talking about. I never buy something without researching it.  I will not argue a political opinion without exploring the opposite side. Unless I have a generous amount of information, I rather ask questions and listen to others.

It's not that I'm afraid to be wrong-- not in the sense of being misinformed.  That's a learning experience.  I'm afraid to disappoint, to be misunderstood, to mislead.  I know where that fear comes from and I'm doing what I can to confront it.  It'll never go away; it's too much of a human trait.  But it is a fear that paralyzes me and lack of movement isn't acceptable.

I am at a section of the story that is "filler-but-not."  I need to bridge a gap in time where a few relevant things happen, but... I can't feel the truth in it.  I don't think there actually *is* a truth in it and that means I need to make it up.  Fiction in its truest form where my only defense is: I made that up, and it makes sense to me.   

That's what "writing dangerously" means to me.

OCD is the doubting disease. Couple that with decades of reinforcement that I'm not doing ___ right, and my confidence level is so far down it can keep America's reputation company.

My writing has no real-world consequences, making it a logical place to take some chances. Take some chances to make some changes.

Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.– William Faulkner