Podcast, Podcats, and Gearing up for NaNoWriMo

On this edition of what is going on in my world, I present to you: ALL OF THE THINGS.

The husbandperson and I have created a Podcast on creativity. We've been having morning discussions on our creative lives to keep the levity in a downright horrid environment. It's been helping both of us clear our heads, and we've been enjoying the discussions so much that we decided to have more formal discussions every two weeks in the form of a podcast (which features some podcats - har har har, I'm hilarious). 

You can find the Write / Sound on Apple, Spotify, Overcast, and of course the Buzzsprout website that the husbandperson found for hosting. We have three episodes live so far. The first one is about titles, the second about comfort and discomfort, and finally the latest episode on creative influences. Check it out!

http://writesound.buzzsprout.com/

I am also gearing up for NaNoWriMo again this year! This will be my 10th year participating! I started in 2011 (year one) and have been consistent in participation. This year, I will be writing Frozen Over, a YA Horror with a little flair of post-apocalyptic chaos. 

Who is joining me on NaNoWriMo 2020? I want to cheer lead you! 

Enjoy the playlist for the novel below!

Powering Through

Being creative is hard work. It takes effort, commitment, time, dedication, and tenacity. I've seen artists become successful on a local level, but I also know how many years it took them to get there. Writing and editing are no different from other forms of art.

Writing for me comes naturally. My first drafts are messy, convoluted, and sometimes need a huge overhaul, because I do a little bit of outlining and a bunch of pantsing. I go into writing with vague ideas that end up getting fleshed out halfway through, which means I always have to go back. Rewrites are a big part of my writing process, and they are also more time consuming than writing.

There's something about re-reading the first words I've put down that makes me a bit disheartened. I think in my head, "This isn't good." I second guess myself and my art. It pushes me to the edge of wanting to give up, because the words didn't flow the way I wanted them to.

Rewriting is where I get stuck. It's the part of the process where I have to power through and just "do it." The only person holding me back is the inner editor inside me that dislikes (hate is too strong of a word) my first draft.

Drafts are not supposed to be this shiny, perfect thing that you can push out into the world. Drafts are for shaping and folding, mending into the story you want it to become. This part of the process should be fun (at least on some level). I have this novel in my hands that I created, and now I just have to make it better. I should look at this as enhancement, but I always struggle to get through.

All writers struggle with some part of the process, and despite the struggle, you should never give up.

Being creative takes time and dedication. You have to forgive yourself if it's not perfect, and then you have to work on making it better. I could throw this book aside and say, "Eh, I'll get to that later." But if I stop now, I'll lose momentum. I'll, essentially, give up.

What is your reason for powering through when you are struggling creatively?

Mine is the characters I create. I know they have a story worth sharing, which makes me want to finish what I've started. Even if the story is over, the characters never really leave me.

Staying Creative to Beat the Blues

Some of you know that I take a lot of pretty photos, mostly of Oregon seeing as how I live here. A few of them are on @OregonIsGross on Instagram.

Last year, my creativity took a nose dive. I had no direction. I was struggling to publish even one book, let alone work on my other ones. I distracted myself with video games, and then I fell in love with running. At first, running was also a distraction. I needed something to do because my mind was restless. I wasn't being creative anymore, and frankly, I was more than in a "slump."

As I started to run farther, I explored more and more just in my own neighborhood. I started to find trails. I started to look for new places. I started to find beauty in everything. The first creative spark I had in ages was back, and it was because I wanted to jump back into photography.

Staying active helped keep my health up, but I still wasn't all that motivated to go back to sitting in a chair to read or write. It was when my back finally gave out (probably months of running without properly stretching mixed with stress mixed with a terrible snow storm that got me trapped in a car for three hours) that I realized there has to be a balance in life. You can't be active all the time. There's a time and a place for everything.

Since it is winter, and it somehow keeps snowing in Portland, I have hung up the running hat until it warms up a bit. I've started doing yoga, which I can do from the comfort of inside my warm house, and have picked up reading and writing again. Obviously, I'm also back to blogging with a vengeance. It has been too long since I've seen the creative side of myself, and I'm determined to make 2017 the year that I figure out how to balance work, life, and play.

I'm also really excited to start doing little photo updates for you all. There are some amazing shots I've managed to take throughout the year, and I plan on going on more hikes and adventures once the weather is warmer.

What do you do when it's cold outside? How do you stay warm and beat the January blues?

On writing 9,000 words in a day

I know people have done this before, because people have written short length novels over the course of the 3-day novel challenge.

But let me be (probably not) the first to say that it's a lot of work.

Surprisingly, I got done a little over 3,000 words in an hour, so I can see where other people could accomplish a novel in a weekend.  But me?  I'm burned out.

When I get inside my character's head - really inside their head - and I'm writing from a hugely emotional standpoint (this whole novella has been one emotional trigger after another), I get my own gut wrenched.  I just spend the last thousand words sobbing as I brought my character to his emotional conclusions.  His resolve and the decisions that he has made for himself brought me to my own tears, as I know how I would feel if I were in the same situation.

And that's the thing:  It's every emotion at once.

Now that the 9,094 words are out of the way, I feel exhausted.  Not mentally, no, my brain can continue to pump out words for days.  But I'm emotionally hollowed out, my character burrowed a hole into my brain and I no longer have the emotional capacity for even myself.

Does anyone else get this emotionally invested in their characters?  I find that when I do cry, the words flow more genuinely onto the page, with true emotions and feelings.  The negative, well, I already said that.  It takes a lot of work.

I don't ever want to hear anyone say that writing is not a real job.

Oh - and now I have a fancy new Camp NaNoWriMo badge to show off in the corner.  Yay accomplishing goals!

In Edits

Don't forget to check out my giveaway!

Cara Michaels may want my head on a platter for not updating my #WIP500 lately, but honestly, I can't really do it.  No, not can't.  I won't.

Why?  Because I have three pieces that have not been edited as much as I like.  So I'm reworking, rewriting, and keeping track of the new word count (which, yes, I will use, because it is technically still a WIP500), but my word count is... tiny.  Minuscule.

This is why I hate editing.  I feel like I need to be working on The Unanswerable or Kingdom of Obession, not bumming around in the first chapters of Rioss and piddling over my word choices.  I feel like Rioss and Soul Therapy and Ruhe already took so much of my precious time, that I really want to move onto the next shiny new object.

But shame on me.  Because I know for a fact that I sometimes call "Marc" "March" because of the numerous typos throughout Rioss.  And I know that Jessica goes on way too many internal ramblings without enough action/responses in Soul Therapy.  And Ruhe just needs to be longer, the scenes need to have more tension in them.  So here's my wrist slap.  Stay with it, stick with it, and edit it. 

Editing just feels so much like work.  But something that makes it easier?  I got new vinyl from M83, including Saturdays = Youth and Before the Dawn Heals Us (consequently, these are the first vinyls I have ever owned).  Which, for people that don't know me - M83 is my favorite band to zone out to.  It makes doing things that I don't like much more pleasant.  Each week, I am going to attempt to complete at least three hours to editing. 

And last night, I spent an hour curled up on the couch with two cats on each side of me, sipping on wine, listening to M83, and pouring over words.  Wasn't a bad set up, but I still forgot to submit my new word count to Cara Michaels (shame on me).

Giveaway Winner & NaNo Reflections

Congratulations goes to:

callmebliss!!

I will be in touch on G+ for your address :)  The winner was chosen by random.org.

Thank you all for participating and following my blog.  I promise now that I am no longer suffering from bronchitis, I will have more time to update.  Like now!

I just finished NaNo.  This was my first attempt and a successful one at that.  It excites me, because my goal is to have three finished manuscripts (not polished, but finished) and three awesome query letters by the New Year.  Once the New Year hits and the agents have had a week or two to sift through their inboxes, I am going to send my query letters.

I have this feeling.  It's a lightness that I haven't felt in a long time.  I think most people call this "optimism," but I'm going to call it "success."  I feel like there is success ahead.  I know life is a roller coast, but I'm going to try to stay at the top as long as I possibly can.

NaNo has given me a nasty habit of wanting to write every night.  I say nasty because I could be spending time with my loving husband.  But in reality, I couldn't be happier with this new habit.  I wrote 1,100 yesterday, and although that is not close to the numbers that I reached during NaNo, it is still something.  It is still writing, and it was by choice.  I don't have a NaNo deadline hanging over my head.  This was my decision.  
I don't think I was this excited about writing and reading since fourth grade.

In fourth grade, I was only excited about it because my teacher had this awesome closet with some pillows in it.  If you finished your work early, like I always did (yes, I was a huge, tiny-faced overachiever), you could sit in there and read quietly.  I always snuck away whenever I could.

It's hard to imagine my bookwormy little self.  I had no self-confidence.  And thinking back on it, I didn't really need it.  My friends were all characters in those books that I read.  I was surrounded by mythical creatures, talking pigs, fake wars, vampire bunnies... you name it.

And when I think about the few human interactions that happened when I was younger, I start to see myself through another set of eyes.  The girl that hiccuped every time she stood in front of the class.  The girl that sat next to the same boy on the bus and never spoke.  The girl that chose to read news articles that dealt with questions and answers on how parents should raise their kids (e.g., if my son/daughter has an obsession with eating worms, what should I do?).  The girl that spent time in a closet and read by choice, by choice.  Yeah, that girl was weird.

And that girl brings you these words today.  There's nothing wrong with being a bookworm, there's nothing wrong with a love of writing.  There's also nothing wrong with a little social interaction every once and awhile.  ;)

Day 21: Have a Teaser

She clung to her legs and squeezed her eyelids together.  Come on, she said to herself.  Come on, if I can just get back there one more time, I know I can figure it out.  She imagined the field.  She could almost taste the sweet air that had once filled her lungs.  A bird flapped its wings.  She opened her eyes and stared at the graffiti covered door in front of her.

Jess swung her leg out, kicking the toilet paper dispenser.  The force of it reverberated in the walls and sent a shock wave through her leg.  Her nose scrunched as the repugnant smell from the toilets reached her nostrils and nestled there.

Her head spun, the ground fell away from her feet.  She floated on nothing, and the turning of her stomach wouldn’t stop.  Jess hopped down from the toilet and threw the lid open, just in time to retch her stomach bile into the stained toilet.  It only made her gag more, seeing that spill out from inside her.  

-----

Though a part of me is disappointed, I am grateful my manuscript is no longer "hanging in the balance."  I received a solid "No," which means I have more places to submit it to!  I have never received a rejection, other than for short stories, because I've never submitted.  The fact that I had the strength to submit, finally, only gives me more hope for myself as a writer.

And besides, there were only 30 (35?) winners out of 300 - and there are some brilliant, unpublished authors out there.  RUHE may not be the strongest piece of work by me, but it is the first finished piece.  It is coherent, and it does have a decently strong female lead, but it is more of the typical coming of age.  

But I'm very excited for Soul Therapy (again, I still need a new title) because it is less typical, and my main character suffers from huge anxiety - see excerpt above.

I think she touches on something that a lot of people overlook.  Panic disorder is a real thing, something that many people struggle with, myself included.  Granted, I'm not nearly as bad as Jessica is, but I find it hard to control my own emotions.  A surge of fear sweeps over your every cell, the hairs on the back of your neck stretch upwards and you can't explain it, you simply are worried, panicking, over everything.  You think, this is it, this is the end of the world, the end of my life.  Your breath outruns you and your body starts to act like your are drowning on air.

It's heavy, it's frustrating.  And a lot of people don't discuss it.  Hell, a lot of people think that it is "normal" to have some anxiety.  There is a difference between a stressful situation versus being unable to breathe, move, or function because you are shaking so much.

If I had known panic attacks existed when I was younger, I wouldn't have assumed that it was "normal."  I would have realized that there was something different about the way I see the world.  And with that knowledge, I might have handled a lot of things in my teenage years in a very different manner.  Though, I must say, my curling up into a ball underneath the covers with my teeth chattering because I was freezing in 100 degree weather certainly makes for a good character.  Jess is the pinnacle of that:  Someone who is afraid of disappointing anyone with massive anxiety attached.

And I love her, probably a little bit too much, because she is so close to home.  RUHE was the opposite.  I had no knowledge of that girl's life, I had never been in her shoes - I still think her story is interesting, but I didn't have such a connection with her.  Jess is different.  We're kindred, and because of that, I think Soul Therapy will be my stronger piece, and possibly, the first piece I get published.

Oh Coffee, I loate you...

This is my ode to coffee.

My ode to a really, horribly sour deep brown that I used to spit out and cringe at the smell. My ode to adding in far too much sugar, natural and raw, and too much almond milk and still making the cringe when I sip through my cup.

I can drink tea plain, but not you, Coffee, no not you. You are too strong for my head, you cause swelling and pain and frustration. You smell so delicious after the flavors and sugars and creams that I feel delighted, enticed by you. But that the end of the day, you remain the same. A now milky brown liquid that has the same, devastating effect on me.

I sip you from my royal blue cup and inhale your intoxication. I swim in the magic of your caffeinated dreams for just a moment. I perk up because of you, get more intense with my words, seeking and soaking in your wisdom. It isn't you that motivates me, but it is me consuming you that keeps me going.

So my ode to you, coffee, and your horrible nature, your deadly grasp on my brain. I wish I could quit, sometimes, because of what happens to my sleep.

Sleep, my ode to sleep, my ode to dreams, my odes...

My night is spent tossing and turning, awake and yearning for the sweet caress of the sandman. I awake not once, not twice, but three times from dreams, small bumps in the night, and I'm alert. A switch got flicked on in my brain and it swells with thoughts mixed with dreams. I cannot tell if I am awake or sleeping until I realize I've been wide-awake the whole time. Eyes open, glazed over, transported to another place. Another moment where the demons come out, haunted by your touch. You've awoken them, you have, with that claw you wrap around my dreams.

Oh, Coffee, why is our relationship so tumultuous? The interesting, shadowy nightmares, the desire for more vivid an imagination, a more un-tapped deeper, darker place. You bring me there. My writer's eye is so fascinated, but my soul is shivering, alone in the corner, begging the writer to drink tea again. Stop with the coffee, she says. The writer waves her away, no, we need to see where this rabbit hole goes. And we drop further down, mixing our dreams with reality until the very essence of both are lost, wrapped up together, as one.

Yes, Coffee, I do hate you, even though I still drink you. The dreams you give me are horribly frightening, but the creative switch that it triggers is greatly enlightening.

-------

I know this technically isn't poetry, but I couldn't think of a better main category to stick it into. I find that this would probably be better named "slam poetry" or something of that nature. No, it isn't traditional, but yes, I am a writer, and I can break the rules (sometimes).

A Pause

Writing will never leave me.  I know that now, more so than ever before.  It is intrinsic in my natural, my being to be able to make words out of what I'm feeling.  To put myself in haunting places and scenarios, places I may never even dream of being, but it is where my characters take me.

I used to worry when I didn't write for days on end - that this was it.  That was the last thing I would even put down on paper, into words.  But more often, now, I find myself ever forming stories - random bits and pieces that I come across throughout the day, ways to keep my brain entertained - and sometimes, on the moped ride home, I create fabulous lyrics, ones that can never be heard again by anyone but myself as I sing softly along with the hum of my motor.

I worry less because this is me, it's what I do.  My day job, whatever it may be, will never change the solid fact that I am a writer.  When I stop writing, it is my pause, my time to reflect, my moments to gather myself for the tasks ahead.  Although, I feel more of a desire to finish my unfinished pieces than ever before, I still don't have the motivation and drive to sit down and produce them.  But the desire is there, hungry, gnawing away at my heart valves.  One of them will burst someday and a fountain of words will spill out onto the page in a unyielding, passionate rage.

Until then, I will sit down and read my books, watch my television, and be the constant observer of people, facial expressions, conversations that shouldn't be overheard.  I am the creep that sits by you at lunch staring into the distance, a long look on her face, and you wonder - is this girl listening to us?  Yes, in fact, she hears every single word.  When you look away, she studies your face, feels your voice and your words, takes in your essence, only to use it some day, covering the white blank page with your secrets, or words inspired by your secrets.  And you'll never think, connect two and two together, that she was there while you were conversing with your co-worker, that you, in fact, inspired her.

I am the quiet observer, and I'm taking my time off from writing to gather new materials, new phrases, new words to stitch together my sentences. 

In the past three days, I have read the Young Adult novel FLIP, by Martyn Bedford, and half of Ender's Game.  I haven't felt this desire to read since I was much younger.  Maybe that's why my characters have been lacking - I haven't kept up myself.  I feed off of words formed by others, I am motivated by seeing, devouring finished pieces of work - I see and feel all the possibilities of my own life, my own ideas, just by reading.

FLIP was actually pretty good.  The one downfall of most YA Fiction is the lack of intelligence in the characters.  I really think we should be challenging young readers - especially if we assume that these readers are high school, maybe middle school level.  When I was in ninth grade, I had finished Moby Dick - and at that point in my life, yes, it was the most boring read ever - but looking back, it was a huge challenge.  I learned so much from just one challenging book.  That's not to say that FLIP is bad, I guess I was just hoping for a more challenging read.  And yes, I'm an adult, but I was reading books like this in sixth grade.  The concept - awesome, the characters - great, believable.  I think it is definitely worth the read, especially if you do have a child, you should get them to pick it up.  It is probably one of the more solid YA Fiction novels to come out in awhile.

As for Ender's Game - I am so upset that I didn't read this earlier.  I cannot put it down.  So many of my friends read it before me and I always wanted to get around to it.  But I thought, "Well, I'm not THAT much into Science Fiction, so maybe later."  Then I started reading it.  Goodness, it is like The Giver meets space, meets some crazy Ayn Rand novel, meets awesomeness.  Honestly, if you like Sci-Fi, you need to read it.  I found it in the Classics section at the Library (which is, ironically, in the corner, stuffed next to the YA section).  I have three more YA books coming my way - and as long as I'm reading, I might not be writing, but I am creating vastly new universes for myself.

If nothing else, I will at least review what I am reading until I feel the urge to write.  Once I'm back, I'll come back with a huge vengeance.  That's a promise.

Jaden

            The lights went down and the energy in the club instantly dwindled to nothing.  I turned on my heels and started walking out the door.  I hesitated for a moment.  What if I'm right, what if he is?  I glanced back to the stage and looked him over - brown hair covering his dark, brooding eyes.  His ripped jeans, his cruddy band t-shirt, everything about him breathed some weird kind of oozing sex drive.  I couldn't peel my eyes off of him.  But I saw the way he interacted with his band mates.  No, he was just another guy, just one of the guys.  And they had their girl groupies already approaching them.  So, I finished my walk out the door and started towards the subway. 

            The street had cleared up a lot in the few minutes that I had hung around.  Thing was, no one wanted to be around here at night - it was the shit part of the city.  Dirty streets, dirty people, and well, me.  I wasn't necessarily dirty, but I'm never going to admit to being the cleanest guy in all of the town either.  But this was also where all the violence happened - and that's what I was thinking about "Geez, I hope no one decides to attack me" when I got dragged into an alleyway by my collar.

            A sharp pain shot through my side, knocking the wind out of me.  "Fucking faggot."  I opened my mouth to scream and felt cold fists cut through my skin, at least it felt that way.  It felt like my head was splitting in two, it felt like my body had given up.  I was caught completely off guard, and I wasn't a fighter anyway.  I was that kid that sat in middle, listened to his parents, and did alright by what "society taught me."  My teachers would call me "goal-oriented."  Hey, no gay bashers, it's totally cool, I'm goal-oriented.  I'm going to give back to society.  Please stop beating me up.  I couldn't even bring my ears to hear what they were yelling, or listen to myself as I sputtered sick copper tasting blood over the pavement.  

-------

I got stuck creatively.  I continued to write some nonsensical things in a document until something more came out.  This is actually a piece about one of my characters from my novel.  The main character, and the first person, is this guy Anthony - who Jaden meets after this unfortunate incident.  But I felt like, maybe, I should get a better look inside my other character's heads, especially since I can't really write anything right now, this is a good exercise.

But a fun except out of my struggling process:

Tapping my fingers to the sounds of Our Lady Peace thudding through my speakers.  Here I am, now where are you?  The brilliant, creative spirit that has been giving me so much motivation, so many words, and so many ideas.  Here is my time, it's on a platter, open to whatever you feel like filling it with.

Waits.

Waits.

Waiting.

Fine.  I tap my fingers some more at you Sir and/or Madam!

-------

And later: 

RAWR.

RAWR RAWR RAWR.  This is the most frustrating, non-creative day I've had in a very long time.  I'm still convincing myself that if I keep writing something good will happen because of it.  Something good usually happens when I keep writing.  I just have to focus, breathe, fill my energy with positive, "You can totally do it!" thoughts.

Different music.

And so the process goes :)