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NaNoWriMo: Back in the Saddle

5 Nov

I’m procrastinating to tell you all that I’m not procrastinating anymore. I have my laptop back (still on the fritz, alas — can’t afford a new $300 motherboard), and I’m diving in there. I totally flaked on my local write-in today, but at least I got a thousand words out. It’s starting to be fun. Hope the momentum continues.

In other news, they still haven’t chosen my short story to be a featured item on NPR’s Three Minute Fiction site — phooey — and the competition is winding down. I didn’t expect to win, though. I’m just happy I submitted this time.

Edit: I wrote two thousand words this afternoon, for a total of 2622. Hoping to do more later. Must nap now.

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Novels & Nostalgia

13 Aug

Every so often, I drag out my journal from 1993, the year I studied abroad in Russia. At a rate barely faster than that of glacier migration, I’ve been transcribing the yellowing handwritten thing into a Word file. I was tired last night and needed inspiration, so I chose a Russian classical playlist on iTunes and searched the web for a photo of the Smolny Cathedral in the snow. I found a good one on Google Images. Then realized it was from this blog.

Oh yeah. The blog. How I have scorned it!

I’ve devoted most of my summer to revising my NaNoWriMo 2009 novel and ordering various proofs. I’m finally at a good resting point. A few kind souls have volunteered to be beta readers, I have the cover I want for now, and so I’ll pull back from it for a while. If anyone wants to join the beta brigade, let me know. I have pdf and epub versions.

Here’s the cover:

Nocturne Cover (proof three)

Click on the image below for a link to the first two chapters (on Deviantart.com)

Those of you who read my 99th Page blogfest entry will recognize some of this. I moved a middle chapter from my original novel to the beginning of this one (the alternate version).

Now I’m waiting for the next prompt for NPR’s Three-Minute-Fiction…

Boo

12 May

We are not amused, American Idol. It’s the sad, sad truth that James’ performances were one of the few things we looked forward to each week*. It’s been that kind of a spring. (Plus James Durbin is awesome.)

Now we have to amuse ourselves by skulking Hunger Games movie blogs, trying to imagine how well the actors fit their roles.

Okay. I only go there once in a while, but I did spend an otherwise useless hour today making Josh Hutcherson into Peeta Mellark — or at least a blond. Yep, that works. Easier to imagine now. That guy could decorate a cake and throw big sacks of flour around. Real.

*(James’s? James’? My name ends in an S, and I liked apostrophe-s, not s-apostrophe, but now the former looks wrong.)

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut

15 Feb

From my fortune cookie:

Today’s oak tree is yesterday’s nut that held its ground.

I knew it was good to be a stubborn eccentric.

Plugging away at my story today so I can be tomorrow’s oak tree.

Or an author.

Or something.

On Ravens & Writing Desks

12 Feb

How is a raven like a writing desk? Well, in my case, they’re both glossy black and perch high, staring out at rooftops. Also? They both steal and hide all my shiny treasures.

It’s a funny thing. I bought a writing desk two weeks ago, and now all my shiny muses have gone MIA. I sit at the pretty little thing in the corner of my bedroom, surrounded by glorious windows, snowcapped mountains, miles of blue sky, and sunshine, and my mind is blank.

Then I start eyeing my old desk.

My old desk was my bed, pillows piled high behind my back, every spring in my ancient mattress jabbing me in most painful fashion, and a rather inadequate plastic bedtray holding my wheezing overheated laptop above my trapped legs. In this exalted spot, I wrote hundreds of thousands of words — many of them perfectly cromulent — but it was ergonomically lacking, and it often led to mountains of papers and books stealing my husband’s spot beside me. Furthermore, I couldn’t rise without the back-straining fun of lowering laptop and tray to the ground, so I rarely did. I wrote late into the night, woke in the wee hours with thoughts of my stories, and the first thing I did in the morning was lift that burden back onto my legs.

Since getting this desk, a strange transformation has occurred.

My bed is now…a bed.

I sit at my desk, and…oh, look at that cozy bed…  I lose the urge to write. I just want a nap. And, when I’m not napping, I find myself reading. I’ve read like a fiend from this intriguing new land of Bed. It’s been glorious, but when I wake in the wee hours now, my thoughts are full of these other novels. It’s kind of disconcerting. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about those words or characters. Three a.m. is not the hour for literary analysis or technical comparisons.

Damn if my mind isn’t trying, however.

(Especially since The Rejectionist inspired me to read Elizabeth Hand’s novella Illyria this week. It’s beautiful, haunting, and there’s a note of magic/mystery that I can almost but not quite get a grasp on. My mind keeps going around and around on it, and I don’t know if there’s any final destination to be had, or if it’s even important. But the wee hours are good for that circular sort of anxiety and confusion. Aunt Kate… Emerald rings… Sob-inducing voices… Theaters…)

And my own words. I have none. I’ve sat on the rug and made index cards for my storyboard. I’ve made one or two blog posts. I wrote a one-paragraph message to an old friend. But I’m just not feeling it.

I am a creature of habit. Change really throws me off-kilter these days. And apparently my muses are terrible at reading maps. Hopefully they’ll pull over for directions soon, reach this new desk, and this old dog will learn the trick of a new workspace.

Do changes in your routine throw you off, too? Do you have some sort of constant that eases transition for you (music, lighting, a space, a picture, etc.)?  Do you prefer variety? Do you know of a good GPS system for slowpoke muses?

What Were They Reading When You Were Born?

10 Jan

A fun dealie-bobber, courtesy of the fine folks at the Office of Letters and Light today. We’ve all seen the site where you can find out what the number one song was on the day you were born. Now there’s a literary version!***

If you go to Biblioz and enter the pertinent data, you’ll find out the fiction and non-fiction bestsellers from the week you were born. (Be sure to use the correct date format of DATE-MONTH-YEAR, not MONTH-DATE-YEAR.) Then your job is to come back here and report your findings in the comment section below.

I did it. I was imagining happy little families out in the happy little maternity ward waiting room, reading happy little stories, awaiting my birth.

Which books were they, I wondered.

Well. Lemme tell ya.

THIS:

AND THIS:

Is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?

What were your books? I look forward to the answers.

*** Brilliant reader M. Howalt pointed out that BibliOZ can be used as a tool for writers who are researching a particular time period for their stories!

Something Stupid

29 Dec

As I fumble my way back into writing after dealing with the holidays, a son with a bad case of toothache, and Drama in Real Life (we’ve come down with a bad case of The Economy over here), I thought I’d fill in the posting gaps with a little bit of nonsense I discovered in my files today. I wrote it in late October as work on my NaNoWriMo novel (about Bebe, an aging Vaudevillian) rekindled inspiration for my main novel, set in 1969.

Music plays a big part in painting my fictional worlds.

I’m sure it makes no sense to those who haven’t read my novels, but just consider it a promise that I’ll be back soon with something more relevant.

_____________________________________________________________

Bob Dylan and George Harrison stopped by today to say, “Hey, what the hell, man? Your main novel heard you were seeing some floozy from the ’30s. What about 1969?”

I’ve been pining for their stupid novel, missed it so much that I was an emotional wreck at the sight of them, wanting to fling myself into their arms, but I didn’t want them to see that.

I said, “What about it? Main Novel’s refused to answer my calls or see me for months now. I’m tired of weeping into my pillow. I have to move on.”

Bob held out a hand. “But Main Novel loves you. It just got…confused.”

I turned my back.

They said, “All right, man. We didn’t want to do this, but now we’ve got to call in The Beach Boys.”

One by one, the Beach Boys filed into the room, and I faltered. They lined up behind Bob and George and gazed at me with big sad eyes. They said nothing, just hummed in quiet harmony. They knew how protective I feel toward the character they represent.

Sergio Mendes slipped through the door, apologizing for being late, said Mama Cass took too long at the diner. Looking out the window, I saw Jose Feliciano shuffling up the front walk, feeling for each crack with his white stick, and I threw out my hands.

“Okay! Okay! I admit it. I miss you and want to come back. No more!”

The sound of approaching mambo drums ceased, leaving a moment of quiet in which I could hear one last fading wail from Jimi Hendrix’s guitar.

Bob nodded at the file for my primary novel and made an impatient gesture, but I shook my head.

From the back room, I could hear Hoagy Carmichael and Scott Joplin warming up on the piano, hoped they wouldn’t come out here.

“It’s just… You came at an awkward time. I’ve already got plans with my rebound prequel for the next month.”

There was grousing and mumbling among the men, and I wondered if I was crazy, risking this longed-for reconciliation, but at last George said, “Okay, but if we decide we’ve waited long enough, you’d better be ready to drop everything and come with us.”

That pissed me off. “Excuse me?”

Sergio placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “He means please. Please come back, if we need you. Being dead makes George uptight.”

I relented. Nodding, I showed my guests to the door.

At the foot of the front steps, George turned back. “You’re just lucky we didn’t have to involve that Maria Cortez.”

A voice behind the hedgerow said, “It’s Marisa Elena Talbot Cortese, you bastard!”

One last beat from the mambo drummers sent the men scrambling.

I closed the door and patted Antonio Carlos Jobim’s head. He’d been hiding his face in a pillow, feeling awkward because he’s in both books. He asked which book I was going to do.

I said, “I don’t know. Might get ugly if Bebe goes to battle with Marisa.”

But, hey, it would make a hell of a story.

Three-Scarf Weekend

21 Dec

A visit from the in-laws, Christmas pageants for two kids, and a three-scarf weekend means zero words written. Well, nearly zero. I did have a few ideas while knitting scarf number two, so I recorded those in my Ideas file. That ideas file is going to be thicker than the OED soon, but much less useful.

It will be interesting to see the scarf/word tally at the end of the holidays. I’m looking forward to some family time, so I’ll bet the scarves win. Or maybe the dark horse, cookies, will dive in and take the crown. Yeah. That’s more likely.

Happy holidays, everyone!