So how is Nano going for you?
For me, it's a slow go. I'm a pantster. I fly by the seat of my pants and let the words take me for a loop d' loop. I might start one way, then whoa! It's gone off on some tangent and I've got to rewrite the beginning so I can meet my story on the same path.
So here is where it was:
If I stand here, right on the edge where the gravel road to my house meets the beginning of my day, I can hear the rumble. Or more like feel it. It’s the vibrations we are curious about when we are little and can no longer feel as we grow up. I can hardly feel them now beneath my feet. They use to travel all the way up to my head. Now they don’t make it past my ankles. Dad says that the senses get dull with age. That’s why he adds Tabasco to his eggs and hot peppers to his hamburger helper. To remind his body to feel something.
I use to think I could see tiny pebbles move with the vibrations. I swear they jumped around like they were in a hot frying pan. But Dad says they don’t mine that close to the surface. It would be very dangerous if they did. And he uses his ‘that’s-not-possible’ voice when he says it -- the one that makes his eyebrows lift almost to the top of his head. He takes safety very seriously, and you don’t question his authority when it comes to safety. There’s not been one accident since he was put in as Mine Foreman Safety Manager five years ago. I was eight years old then.
Now I’m twelve but it still feels like I’m eight. People, well the women in town, are always coming up to me and saying things like, “Lucas, you’re becoming such a handsome young man,” and “Sweetie, tell your father I’m thinking about him.” Whatever that means. My dad is tall with blond hair that gets darker everyday. My hair is brown. But I guess we’ve got the same eyes. Mrs. Betty calls them puppy dog eyes. All I know is that they’re brown too and they see things just fine. Sometimes I wish they could see more. I’ve never been outside of Heilville. I was born in Heilville, and like everyone else around here, I’m either going to work in the coal mine or run one of the places that run’s the lives of the people who work in the coal mines. And in the end, I’ll be buried on Murray’s Hill when the coal kills me.
And here is where it's at:
They say the other senses get sharper when one of them is lost. Being blindfolded, my ears pick up the sounds around me. The engines winding down from the airplane we just spent four hours on wheeze to my right. Somewhere ahead of us is a cacophony of low rumbles. More engines, I assume. We weren’t allowed to open the shades on the plane, so we have no idea where we are. That’s their plan.
There’s a crunching sound whenever someone steps. I’m lead by the arm away from the wheezing sound toward the rumbling. We were told to dress warmly, and I’m wearing the new boots and down filled coat they’ve bought for me. I have a pair of gloves in one pocket and a cap in the other. I’m sweating in all these layers. The gravelly voice I’ve heard bark orders all along our trip yells, “Get their things moved to the truck!”
As you can see, It's different. The whole freakin' book is turning out different. After 10K, I had to go back and rewrite. It's a big time waster to be a pantster.
At this time last year, I had finished the first draft of my first novel. Well, it was actually my second novel, but the very first one was years ago and I never peddled it to publishers or agents. It still sits in a clear plastic envelope, waiting for a complete rewrite. I dread looking at it, because I know I'll find a terrible mess. It was a first attempt and I own up to that fact and count it as my first wobbly step. Everyone needs to take a few wobbly steps before they can walk with confidence.
That walk was last year. I remember the date I wrote 'The End' on my first real novel. It was November 6th, 2008 and I had the laptop on a bunched-up pillow atop my outstretched legs in bed. I threw my hands up and shouted "It is finished!" Then I did a little jig around the room. What a feeling. I walked around with confidence for a long time, but now I understand it's time to run.
Like thousands of others, I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. I still thinks it's a ridiculously uninspired name that no one seems to remember, but its heart is in the right place. And so many people's hearts have joined others with a particular goal to write everyday. That is inspiration for me alone -- to think of others at their computers and spiral notebooks, starting with nothing and then writing words that will create a new story no one has thought up before. We all use the same words -- a thousand "it's" and "but's" and "when's," But when it's all put on a page with creativity, it transports a reader to another place. You're in the writer's world on paper. It's an amazing place to be. It reminds me of the ending in The Neverending Story by Michael Ende.
At the end of the story, Fantastica has collapsed and everything is dark and empty. Bastian is in this dark place with Moon Child.
"Why is it so dark, Moon Child?" he asked
"The beginning is always dark, my Bastian."
I've come to the end and it is a dark place. One where my story has collapsed and like thousand of others, I must start again. But it's okay to be in a dark place, because the beginning is always dark and empty and ready for adventure.
"Fantastica will be born again from your wishes, my Bastian. Through me they will become reality."..."You know they call me the Commander of Wishes. What will you wish?"
Bastian thought a moment. Then he inquired cautiously: "How many wishes have I got?"
"As many as you want -- the more, the better, my Bastian. Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied."
How many more books are in me? As many as I want. And Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied.
That walk was last year. I remember the date I wrote 'The End' on my first real novel. It was November 6th, 2008 and I had the laptop on a bunched-up pillow atop my outstretched legs in bed. I threw my hands up and shouted "It is finished!" Then I did a little jig around the room. What a feeling. I walked around with confidence for a long time, but now I understand it's time to run.
Like thousands of others, I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. I still thinks it's a ridiculously uninspired name that no one seems to remember, but its heart is in the right place. And so many people's hearts have joined others with a particular goal to write everyday. That is inspiration for me alone -- to think of others at their computers and spiral notebooks, starting with nothing and then writing words that will create a new story no one has thought up before. We all use the same words -- a thousand "it's" and "but's" and "when's," But when it's all put on a page with creativity, it transports a reader to another place. You're in the writer's world on paper. It's an amazing place to be. It reminds me of the ending in The Neverending Story by Michael Ende.
At the end of the story, Fantastica has collapsed and everything is dark and empty. Bastian is in this dark place with Moon Child.
"Why is it so dark, Moon Child?" he asked
"The beginning is always dark, my Bastian."
I've come to the end and it is a dark place. One where my story has collapsed and like thousand of others, I must start again. But it's okay to be in a dark place, because the beginning is always dark and empty and ready for adventure.
"Fantastica will be born again from your wishes, my Bastian. Through me they will become reality."..."You know they call me the Commander of Wishes. What will you wish?"
Bastian thought a moment. Then he inquired cautiously: "How many wishes have I got?"
"As many as you want -- the more, the better, my Bastian. Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied."
How many more books are in me? As many as I want. And Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied.
When I sit down to write a new book, I usually just start with a main plot idea. All the details, all the conversation, and all the little experiences that tie everything together in a neat package come as I type. Sometimes I'll begin, excited to get moving on a project, then after a few pages or more, I decide I don't want to write this. It's either not going in the direction I hoped, or I want to write something entirely different.
So, I thought I'd share the beginning of a story I started, but probably won't finish. Right now I'm in the thick of a middle grade ghost story. So enjoy a piece of MIRACLE. It will be a miracle if I ever go back to it.
Chapter 1
It looks like the Toys R Us exploded on our front lawn. Bikes, balls, action figures, an assortment of play dishes, two plastic slides, a blue blow-up swimming pool filled with sand and who knows what else. And that’s not even half of it. Oh, there’s a Barbie head. Poor decapitated doll. Is that my lipbalm? I feel like going back in the house to show mom that the triplets have been in my stuff again, but that wouldn't do anything but make me miss the bus.
I force myself to look up from the battleground. I really hope more of my stuff isn't dying out there.
“Mira!”
No, my neighbor just didn’t say, “look” in Spanish. She’s calling me from the curb. My name is Miracle; not because my birth was a miracle or because my parents are famous and it’s pretty well known that famous people like to give their babies even more attention by bestowing them with outlandish names like Ramses or Vespa or Cookie. At least if I had famous parents, the name would make sense. Famous people are allowed more leeway when naming their kids because no one makes fun of you if your mother is Gwenyth Paltro. My mother is Hannah Beatty. I'm sure you've never heard of her.
Only two people are allowed to call me Miracle — my mom and my dad. Everyone else learns to drop those last three letters fast. It’s just Mira.
“Hey!” I yell, stepping over a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich with a shoeprint embedded in the bread. An army of ants are making their way to invade. At least it’s not going to waste.
So, I thought I'd share the beginning of a story I started, but probably won't finish. Right now I'm in the thick of a middle grade ghost story. So enjoy a piece of MIRACLE. It will be a miracle if I ever go back to it.
Chapter 1
It looks like the Toys R Us exploded on our front lawn. Bikes, balls, action figures, an assortment of play dishes, two plastic slides, a blue blow-up swimming pool filled with sand and who knows what else. And that’s not even half of it. Oh, there’s a Barbie head. Poor decapitated doll. Is that my lipbalm? I feel like going back in the house to show mom that the triplets have been in my stuff again, but that wouldn't do anything but make me miss the bus.
I force myself to look up from the battleground. I really hope more of my stuff isn't dying out there.
“Mira!”
No, my neighbor just didn’t say, “look” in Spanish. She’s calling me from the curb. My name is Miracle; not because my birth was a miracle or because my parents are famous and it’s pretty well known that famous people like to give their babies even more attention by bestowing them with outlandish names like Ramses or Vespa or Cookie. At least if I had famous parents, the name would make sense. Famous people are allowed more leeway when naming their kids because no one makes fun of you if your mother is Gwenyth Paltro. My mother is Hannah Beatty. I'm sure you've never heard of her.
Only two people are allowed to call me Miracle — my mom and my dad. Everyone else learns to drop those last three letters fast. It’s just Mira.
“Hey!” I yell, stepping over a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich with a shoeprint embedded in the bread. An army of ants are making their way to invade. At least it’s not going to waste.
Word has got out around that I am writing books. People are saying, "Hey, I'm thinking of writing a book," or "Will you take a look at my writing?" and "How do you get an agent?"
My answers are "Good for you!" (Oh, I feel for you already), "Sure, I'll look at it." (Cuz I just can't say no), and "You gotta send like 100 letters and wait for a year *uncomfortable cough* to the three agents who have my full and haven't responded.
and then write another book and pray and wait until you hair turns gray."
Let see what better advice I have for you...
1. Drop the thought. No! No! No! This is your dream, your baby (and it might not be a boy!), the thing you'll put off eating and drinking and trips to the potty. The thing you'll growl at your husband for interrupting and neglect cooking and cleaning and I dare say...shopping. That is NOT an option. Did I suggest that?
2. Keep writing. Write in the car (only at red lights and long waits for your kids), write in the early hours, write late at night, write when you're depressed, write when you are elated. write on paper, on the computer, or in your head. Sometimes I wake up from a dream and I'm formulating the words to it in my head. That's fun.
3. Take advice from my all-time favorite character, the oh so wise and noble Inigo Montoya. Hey, I even spelled his name right the first time! And it's not "You kill my father; prepare to die!" or I could say "You kill my manuscript; prepare to die!" Don't worry agents, I'm not coming after anyone...sheesh! "Go back to the beginning." Write a new book. Something totally different. Maybe a different genre or hit the so popular first person perspective market or the something other than faeries and vampires market.
My best piece of advice is to just be Melinda Mae.
Have you heard of tiny Melinda Mae,
Who ate a monstrous whale?
She thought she could,
She said she would,
So she started in right at the tail.
And everyone said,"You're much too small,"
But that didn't bother Melinda at all,
She took little bites and she shewed very slow,
Just like a little girl should...
...and eighty-nine years later she ate that whale
Because she said she would!!!
Written by Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)
My answers are "Good for you!" (Oh, I feel for you already), "Sure, I'll look at it." (Cuz I just can't say no), and "You gotta send like 100 letters and wait for a year *uncomfortable cough* to the three agents who have my full and haven't responded.
and then write another book and pray and wait until you hair turns gray."
Let see what better advice I have for you...
1. Drop the thought. No! No! No! This is your dream, your baby (and it might not be a boy!), the thing you'll put off eating and drinking and trips to the potty. The thing you'll growl at your husband for interrupting and neglect cooking and cleaning and I dare say...shopping. That is NOT an option. Did I suggest that?
2. Keep writing. Write in the car (only at red lights and long waits for your kids), write in the early hours, write late at night, write when you're depressed, write when you are elated. write on paper, on the computer, or in your head. Sometimes I wake up from a dream and I'm formulating the words to it in my head. That's fun.
3. Take advice from my all-time favorite character, the oh so wise and noble Inigo Montoya. Hey, I even spelled his name right the first time! And it's not "You kill my father; prepare to die!" or I could say "You kill my manuscript; prepare to die!" Don't worry agents, I'm not coming after anyone...sheesh! "Go back to the beginning." Write a new book. Something totally different. Maybe a different genre or hit the so popular first person perspective market or the something other than faeries and vampires market.
My best piece of advice is to just be Melinda Mae.
Have you heard of tiny Melinda Mae,
Who ate a monstrous whale?
She thought she could,
She said she would,
So she started in right at the tail.
And everyone said,"You're much too small,"
But that didn't bother Melinda at all,
She took little bites and she shewed very slow,
Just like a little girl should...
...and eighty-nine years later she ate that whale
Because she said she would!!!
Written by Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)
A few months ago I left Blogspot to pursue the bounties that Wordpress had to offer, namely the ability to make pages. But I discovered the horrors of spam on Wordpress. I couldn't get rid of them all without blocking all comments. So sadly, aliciajwalker.com is no more. In a mad tizzy I deleted it and am back to Blogspot. Oh Blogspot with your simplicity and recognizable icon, I missed you!
I may have lost all my posts since August and the followers over there, but I'm determined to catch up over here.
Thanks for keeping my little blog safe, Blogspot!
I may have lost all my posts since August and the followers over there, but I'm determined to catch up over here.
Thanks for keeping my little blog safe, Blogspot!
Once I gave my dad a birthday card. I made it myself. He said he was coming over in half an hour when I remembered I didn't have a card. Half an hour in my dad time means fifteen minutes. No card. What to do? What to do? I pulled out a piece of white cardstock and folded it in half. On the front I wrote in black ball point, "This is a card." On the inside I wrote, "What did you expect?" Granted, I also wrote, "Give me a list of your favorite songs and I'll load up your ipod," but the simplicity got a laugh. The honesty got a laugh. The, this isn't some bogus drivel filled with thoughts of soaring love and ends of the Earth cliches I think you want to hear got a laugh.
When you write honestly, not trying to be someone else or what you think someone else wants to hear, you'll find your voice. Your voice is unique and there is always someone out there who would like to hear it (and I'm sure someone other than your dad). I believe the same goes for writing a book. If you try to copy another writer's voice, their choice of adjectives, or their formula, your writing is going to end up stale.
If you give me a card, I want your words on it, not a copy of someone else's sentiments. Be honest with me and yourself. I want a piece of you. Write the first thing that pops into your clever little (or big) head. I want to know you care enough to send the very best. Forget I used that cliche.
So, my point is - as long as you have white cardstock, you'll never need to buy another Hallmark card again.
As I was contemplating what to blog about today, the phrase, "Just keep on (insert project here)" came to mind. This applies to anything you want to achieve. Just keep on working on your craft and eventually you'll get to where you want to be. Oversimplified, overbradyfied advice. But now I can put up this video and reminisce over the days of innocence and dreams.
Brady Bunch "Keep On"
Brady Bunch "Keep On"
