The Only Way Out Is Through

Since it's the last Tuesday of November, that means we're going to talk about NaNoWriMo and how far behind I am. 

Here's a screenshot of my progress: 

This is what the graph of a busy procrastinator looks like.

I think my favorite part of the month is the four days that just go straight across the top with zero progress, not coincidentally overlapping my monthly work deadline of November 20th. Also, I took this screen shot after writing over 5,000 words today, making the graph only slightly less bleak than it was mere hours ago. 

So I should feel stressed. Yesterday I was stressed, and also super bummed because I really love NaNoWriMo, for so many reasons. 

I love that an entire virtual community comes together every year to finally attempt the dream of writing a novel. Many are successful, many not, but all of them are thousands of words closer to that goal than they were on October 31st, and many of those for the first time ever. 

And I love the camaraderie, the feeling of everyone finally chucking the perfectionism we all heap on ourselves and focusing instead on tapping in to whatever stream of consciousness inspirational mecca is out there, the thing that you can't mistake for anything but divinity when it hits you and grabs you by the lapels and pulls you wherever it wants you to go. There is a fabulous TED talk on this concept of elusive genius, by the way.

I love boycotting the constant self-editing, both literal and figurative, that populates my life and so many other people's lives, writers or no, and instead just focusing on words on page. Pen to paper. (Okay, fingers to keyboard. You know what I mean.) Even if it's just for 30 days.

Because there are so many reasons not to follow through on your plans.

photo credit

Many of them valid. 

But the thing is, even if I don't get there-- even if I don't reach my 50,000 words-- as of this moment, I have put 29,816 words toward my own goals this month. That's nearly 30,000 words slammed out toward a future of my own making, without killing myself or staying up till midnight like I did last year (yet). And that feels amazing, whether or not I make it to 50,000. 

At the same time, I haven't had to sacrifice a huge amount of family time, and I managed to please my notoriously picky client-- who was so happy with my work this month he actually sent me an email thanking me, a huge turnaround from last month. 

Oh, and this nearly 30,000 words is of course in addition to the 65,663 words I wrote for work in November. So far. Not including lengthy emails or edits or rewrites. 

My 10 minute plan is working, my back is still unhappy but not impossible to work around, and I feel like I'm through the crunch. I feel like I won. I really do. Even with 20,000 words ahead of me over the next-- oh my god, only four freaking days, I have to finish this blog IMMEDIATELY and get back to work. 

Arrgh, no. I can't leave without a conclusion. DAMMIT.

Okay, so here it is. 

Sometimes the only way out is through. And the interim is impossible and murky and ridiculous in every respect. But then once you're out the other side, inevitably you look back at all the thorny, brambly nonsense and think "Huh, that wasn't so bad. I don't know why I was such a baby about this back on the other side." 

It's not because you were wrong about it being hard and sticky and scary. You were totally right. It was all of those things. But on the way through, you change. You grow. And by the time you reach the other side, you're someone who is less scared. Who is more capable. Because you know now that things that seemed impossible from one end are, in fact, possible. You know this because you just did it. And then you start to wonder what other things are possible that you always thought were impossible. 

And if anyone would know, it's Muhammad Ali.

And then life gets real amazing, real quick. Just as soon as you push through to the other side.

writewritewrite

Much like anything you do constantly, writing is now exhausting me. It's ironic, I guess, that writing more-than-full-time means I'm dropping the blog ball. You'd think if I'm writing anyway, why not this too? Right?

Hm.

Well, anyway.

Here's the progress update on my venture into self-publishing. I put my first book up in the last week of January. It sold 14 copies by February. Now, that doesn't sound like much, but an average of 2 books sold per day for a brand-new author with no other works, no reviews, and no 'also-bought' listings is a promising start.

Book Two went up about a week ago, and sold 3 copies in the first day.

Book Three is due out this week. Then I combine Books One thru Three into a trilogy and publish that. Should have another book out in a few more days.

I am completely, completely exhausted. But with every sale number that moves up, and every penny that goes into that royalties account (over $40 whole dollars!!), I think "Wow. This-- might actually work."

I have had a lot of crazy ideas about how to support myself and what to do with my life, but it is just-- I know there are better words for it but my brain is kinda numb, so forgive me-- but REALLY FREAKING COOL that one of them might work. Not just work, but work long-term. Work to give us not just a living wage, but also the flexible lifestyle we want-- hanging out with the kids, camping and hiking, traveling. Everything we want. Everything we want, doing something I love.

Totally worth the exhaustion.

Nom de Plume

I never realized how judgmental I am until I was scrolling through stock photos, trying to find one who looks like my romance-writing alter ego so I have something to use for my forthcoming fake author profile picture.

"Not pretty enough. Not edgy enough. Too pretty. Too edgy. Too boring. Too fakey-looking. Not enough tattoos. Too many tattoos. Too skinny. Not skinny enough."

In real life, I am not as pretty as any of the photos I looked at (hello, they are models) and am definitely skinnier. I have some tattoos but nothing outrageous; my ears aren't even pierced. (Also, I mostly wear jeans and the majority of these girls are wearing almost nothing.) But none of these things should matter, because Alter Ego doesn't exist. I'm making her up. She can look however I want her to look.

Okay. So what how do I want her to look?

Fun, spunky, and creative, but so much of any of these things that she alienates potential readers. She has to stay relatable. I want her to look older than 18, but not too old. Maybe mid-to-young thirties. Hip, but not hipster. And I don't want her to look too posed, because I want her to feel, you know, spontaneous. Free-spirited, yet committed. Not flaky. And she can't be blonde. Maybe a redhead. Probably a brunette.

It's funny that putting my best face forward is an instinct that kicks in even when it's someone I made up. And all the personality attributes I'm ascribing to imaginary-her pretty well describe the actual-me, which is also kind of funny.

You'd think, as a writer, I'd have more imagination, but it turns out that in spite of total carte blanche to create whatever personality I could possibly come up with, Alter Ego is, in fact, pretty much exactly like me.

Which is kind of cool. 

Happy Endings

Normally my thing is creative nonfiction, but for this year's NaNo I'm writing fiction. I don't know what compelled me. Literally the longest fiction piece I've ever written was a terrible sci-fi play called-- I am not making this up-- "A Slip of Tongue and Time." This was back in the fourth grade. My friends Brian Arnold and Andy Young and I recorded our LIVE premiere performance direct to cassette tape in my room one weekend afternoon. I'm pretty sure I still have the original script somewhere.

I can't blame that early effort for my fiction avoidance in the intervening couple dozen years. Meticulous journal-keeping led naturally into longer nonfiction pieces. My real life never lacked for interesting material (still not sure if this is a good or bad thing), so it never occurred to me to make stuff up.

With nonfiction, I strive for accuracy. I struggle to remember things as they happened, think hard about truthful dialog, attempt painting yesterday's story from today's perspective without giving away the ending. I comb my journals for reference, double-check photos and old emails for authenticity. It's a lot of freakin' work.

Fiction, though. There's no background check required. The characters can say whatever they want. Go where they please, kiss whomever they like, change their minds at the very last minute about-- well, everything, hijacking the entire plot in the process. And me? I'm just along for the ride.

In real life, we're stuck with the choices we make, good or bad. We spoke words that cannot be unsaid; heard others that we cannot unhear. We had complex childhoods, disastrous middle school fashion, amazing adventures, failed relationships, and incredible days that could not be described. We forget many of those; others haunt us. Our past tags along like little burrs on our socks-- mostly unnoticed, with occasional unexpected pain.

Real life cannot be un-lived. Done is done. But the future-- that's wide open. Instead of feeling trapped by the parts you've played in the past, set your plot on its ass. Write your own happy ending.

NaNoWriMo Eve

When I was a kid, we didn't celebrate Hallowe'en, because it was the devil's holiday. Instead, we went to church dressed up as saints and/or bible characters to celebrate All Saints' Eve. I am not making this up. I still don't know why it mattered to them; we're not even Catholic.

As a result, I have trouble getting on board with Hallowe'en. Nothing against the day itself; I just don't always remember that it's important to the rest of the world. Only moments ago-- when I walked out the door and saw the neighbors' yards all decorated-- did I realize I have zero candy for any kids who might come knocking on our door tonight. We didn't even carve pumpkins this year. I forgot all about the holiday.

My first college boyfriend was appalled to discover I'd never been trick-or-treating, and insisted not one more year should go by un-treated. He explained at every door about my childhood deprivation; I don't think many folk believed him, but we scored a decent amount of candy anyway. And I wore these awesome multi-colored checkerboard thigh-high stockings that I really wish I still owned even though I haven't owned thigh-highs in years. 

When Miss G was just a little thing, we got dolled up and I took her out to the college dorms for the evening. The last few years, we've gone out as a family. (Dan makes the perfect Abe Lincoln, by the way.) But now, with Miss L gone and Miss G old enough to get to and fro the haunted houses on her own, it's back to being just another regular night. 

But wait! It's not just another regular night!

October 31 is NaNoWriMo Eve! Tomorrow, I start writing my 50,000 word novel... in just 30 days. 

I've downloaded Scrivener, poring over it with the dedication others devote to their zombie make-up. I'm squirreling away post-it notes and plot bunnies like they're mini Snickers bars. And Dan, god love him, promised to keep me stocked in Outrageous Ginger Ale, in amounts to rival any Hallowe'en haul.

It's like a fabulous, nerdy, month-long trick-or-treat. And I plan to eat myself sick.

If not now then when

Okay.

So, you know how sometimes you see a job listing for an article writer on craigslist and you think "I'm totally unqualified" but something about it catches at you, nags you, maybe the way the ad was written or something, and you leave it open in its own browser tab while you do your daily trifecta of email-facebook-reddit and then you go back and read it again; they want a grammar nut and you're definitely that plus they're asking for three writing samples so maybe those could get you hired even without experience if you're actually any good and if there's not much competition and it's kinda funny how lately you've been thinking about updating your resume anyway so, what the heck, why not today, what else are you really doing with your time and so you get everything out and spend the next six hours tweaking your accomplishments and polishing your degrees and adjusting fonts until it's all just so and the entire time you're thinking "Why am I doing this, I really need to mud that living room wall" but some whisper makes you keep going anyway, some insistent if not now then when and all day you keep re-reading that damned ad and you find yourself polishing up three writing samples instead of making dinner and you really wish your sister weren't sailing in stupid Puerto Rico this week so she could proofread everything for you and you think "Well it's not like I'm applying for anything right now anyway, just getting my resume in order, it can wait" and then you're spending another hour composing the perfect intro letter that's the just-right balance of funny yet professional yet casual yet definitely interested and hoping it's not too funny or too casual or too interested and then you're hitting send in spite of yourself and thinking "My god, what just happened here" and all of it without you ever consciously deciding to actually apply?

Yeah. That totally happened to me last week, too.

An hour after the guy got my email, he called me to schedule a phone interview. He offered me the job, pending a one-week trial period "Which in your case," he said, "will probably be just be a formality. I have a good feeling this will work out really well."

It pays almost nothing. Nearly enough to support us, if we lived in a third-world country. And it completely doesn't matter, because I can officially add 'writer' to that hard-won resume now.

I love my new life.

Guess they weren't kidding about the soul-eating.

I thought NaNo would be a background thing, just something I was doing along with many other things. Writing 1600-some words a day isn’t that much for me, not really.

I was so wrong. It’s taken over my life, and I’m not even halfway through.

Unopened mail stacked up on the front table. Kitchen floor un-mopped. Unbalanced dinners, served way past dinnertime. It's embarrassing.

The writing itself? The whole thing is a blur. I’m disorganized. I forget where I am. I’m almost positive I described a particular plot point not once, but three times now, just in different places.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not much more than I usually write in a day. It shouldn’t be so pervasive, thinking about it constantly, or so complicated to stay focused and keep track. But more than that, it shouldn’t be this fun.

So, disclaimer: there’s about a 93% chance the rest of this month’s posts will be about NaNo and very little else. I’ve become a pod person. On the upside-- it’s only for 16 more days.

Breaking through the boring

NoBloWriMo reminds me of an exercise we did in drawing class. We were told to bring a small, simple object to class. I brought a little stuffed penguin. The girl next to me brought a seashell. The boy across from me, a disposable razor. Then the teacher told us, we could only draw that object the entire quarter. Nothing else. He said, "You're going to get so sick of looking at your object. But just-- stick with it. I think you'll be surprised by what happens." We all exchanged looks of dread.

I can't tell you how dull it was, weeks of looking at the same stupid penguin, stupid drawings of him standing up, lying down, all mind-numbingly lame. And stupid. Then one day, in desperate whimsy, I tossed out a jewel-toned pastel of the penguin lined up with nuns, drenched in stained- glass sunshine. I hate pastels, but I loved that piece. My teacher laughed when he saw it and said, "You're getting there."

Things got easier after that snap of impatient irreverence. A couple weeks later, after I finished a particularly intriguing abstract in shades of grey (actually a closeup of chubby penguin belly, beak, and flipper), he said "There. You got it. Now just keep it up." And he was right. That piece, and the ones I turned out after, were some of the best I've ever done. I still have them.

At the end of the quarter, the teacher told us the point of the exercise wasn't to get really good at drawing one object. It was to force us through the boring. Once you get past the boring, you break through into seeing your object in new ways, ways you'd never thought of if you weren't sick of it.

NaBlo had the same effect on me. I started out writing as usual, just more often.  Then got a little bored and came up with new ways to post, things I don't normally do-- photos, little short quips, even a list. And I whipped out a couple things I was really happy with, that just showed up out of nowhere. I wrote more and edited less. I traveled in directions I would not have gone, except for actively seeking new ways to write.


NotHannah was right. This was fun.

That was-- unexpected.

I expect changes. I mean-- I should, seeing as I’m actually trying to change... new horizons expanding, etc and whatnot. I just didn’t expect them to be all sneaky like this. I thought I’d feel lighter as old things fell away, brighter as new things bloomed in their place. I thought I’d notice crawling out of hibernation, see a sharp division between Winter and Spring.

Nope.

Looked up the other day and was startled to find my atrophied moxie right there in the passenger seat, looking very much like her former spunky self. I didn’t put her there. I didn’t even know she was still around. She just kinda waved and grinned and fiddled with the stereo.

I must be closer to “there” than I realized, and that’s good. But there’s an uncertain fog hesitating too; I don’t know what I think about parts of me becoming unrecognizable even to myself. Or maybe I just haven’t seen them in so long, I forgot what they looked like.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo today out of nowhere. Ohhh, I briefly thought about it before today. Sort of how I briefly think about emigrating to New Zealand. And then I’d chase the whim away with logical reasons not to commit-- like, the fact that I don’t really write fiction. How I moved from dismissal to choosing a username is still a little fuzzy. When I came to, I was introducing myself on forums, trying to figure out what genre my novel is going to be.

What. The. Jiminy. Crackers.

Really? I’m really taking this on? I couldn’t have picked a worse month to find 50,000 fictional words than this November. My calendar is already crammed with long weekends, roadtrips, turkeys, and at least one surgery. But-- the timing was nuts for NaBlo too, and I’m holding steady. I like the push of it, like working for a clear, objective goal. There has been far too much murky subjectivity in my head for far too long.

Today, from somewhere, the mission-should-I-choose-to-accept-it part of me yawned and stretched, then shrugged “Bring it” over coffee. She’s a leisurely kind of defiant, but no less determined for it. I forgot how it feels to push myself, instead of being bullied by circumstances. I like it.