And if you wanna hear God laugh, tell Him your plans

So, unless I'm buried by an avalanche of registration forms over the next couple of days, the writing class is off. Apparently I managed to find the wrong combination of class format and timing, or maybe there just wasn't as much interest as I thought in the middle school. I'm a little disappointed, but not crushed. I'm glad I at least made the attempt, because if I hadn't I'd always wonder and feel a little guilty for not making the effort. Now I know, and I can move on. Failure is God's way of saying, "Nice try, I appreciate the effort, but that's not exactly what I had in mind for you."

I am also taking a hiatus from writing. I'm not sure yet if I'm just burned out and need a long rest or if I have also reached the "Nice try, I appreciate the effort, but this is not exactly what I had in mind for you" point with writing. "The effort" in this case netted me 15 published stories, and I can definitely live with that. Maybe I just need to stop thinking in dollar signs and listen to that little voice that keeps telling me I'm a short story writer, not a novelist. I quit writing for a couple of years previously, and that hiatus also came about after I pushed myself to write novel-length instead of short. I do not yet have enough mental or emotional distance to think about that objectively, however, so I will go back to just saying "I'm on hiatus."

Fear not, I have plenty of (long-neglected) household projects to occupy my time!

Think I have about sixty miles of gasoline left in my car

Research for the next group of scenes has been accomplished, and that should be the biggest part of the research overall, save for some inevitable smidges along the way. (Knock wood.) I have begun writing the next scene and am probably about halfway through it. But I stopped because there are a couple of fiddly details that are not sitting right with me. The right characters are in the scene. They are behaving as they should be (mostly) and the necessary relationships and setting details are being revealed. But these little fiddly details are bugging me. I think I have decided to push ahead and finish the scene anyhow, with the resolve to mull over what needs to change about the little fiddly details--because I know at this point that they need to be different, but I do not yet know what they need to be instead of what they currently are.

I also need to tweak the behavior of one of the characters, because I am not quite capturing who he is. And I do need to nail that before I go on, or I will be floundering in every scene after this one.

Any writing is good, as long as it's taking me somewhere. Right?

Same old line you used to use before

Whew.

I have spent almost every appreciable chunk of free time over the last couple of days... sleeping. Killer cold really knocked me for a loop, so I followed a pattern of take kids to school, set alarm and sleep until last possible second, get up for work, come home and nap until supper, go to bed as early as possible after supper, rinse lather repeat. So yeah, pretty much sucked for writing. But I seem to have broken the worst of the cold. (Serious, SERIOUS knocking of wood, here.) And I was clear-headed enough to crank out some word count tonight.

I might be back. I just hope I haven't slept so much that I won't be able to sleep tonight and will wind up sick again.

Tonight, I finished up the last scene of a sort of story within the story. I wrote said story within the story before starting on the main story because I needed to know what happens in that story in order to figure out some of the things that happen in the main story. Now I need to write up some backstory stuff in order to figure out some other things that happen in the main story.

And I'm just not thinking any further ahead than that right now. The outline is there, the story is there, so I'll just focus on this piece of the bigger picture and refuse to be overwhelmed.

I am not a ghost

Friday was something of a blur. By the end of the day, I had added fever and chills to the sore throat and OMGsinuses. I did fit in some more reading. And I am feeling re-energized about the Heimdal story--hopefully my body is back in some semblance of health next week so that I can actually do something about that.

Earlier this week I was talking with a (very dear and sweet and good) friend. I shared with him my feelings about my new job over at the school, which in a nutshell is that the kids are great and the fellow staff people are fine and nice. But I am reminded, once again, as I have been for most of my life, that I am not quite like those other normal people. Or maybe I am, and I simply don't see it. Whatever the case, I have spent most of my life in the "real world" feeling like a misfit, and now is no different than before.

And my (very dear and sweet and good) friend said to me (in paraphrase), "This is going to sound wrong. But I'm glad you don't fit in, because if you did, you wouldn't be the person we know and love. So... Thanks for being different."

I was moved to tears. It was exactly what I needed to hear, exactly when I needed to hear it, and I am grateful for the boost of courage his words have given me.

Go forth and be different.

I wear the scars that prove

We made it through week one of my new job as after-school caregiver for the kindergarten age group at the boys' school. It wasn't the smoothest ride ever, but most of the bumps were caused by adjustments related to my job and not to the boys and school. They rode it out like pros; I'm hoping that what I learned this week will help me handle next week a little better. We're all exhausted, but we survived. Now to make it through the rest of the school year...

Middle school electives were preempted for the first week, so I have yet to get my feet wet on the fiction writing class. I was approached by one seventh grader who asked me to tell her more about the class so she could decide if she wanted to take it. During the course of our conversation, her face lit up a couple of times. Hopefully this is a good sign.

Nothing related to my own writing has happened this week, again. But there's been some rustling around and exasperated sighs from my muse, so one of my tasks for the weekend is to assess my new schedule and pencil in my writing time, along with specific goals for the next couple of months.

Hang on, Muse. Organizer-lady will soon ride to your rescue.

Until then I'll have to find a way

Just in time to join forces with the emotional downswing mentioned in my previous blog entry, I received a rejection letter from Steeple Hill on my submission there. Oddly, it wasn't the devastating blow one might expect--the up side of submitting a lot is that you get rejected a lot is that you build up a thick skin. Would it have been nice to get an offer? Hell, yeah. But I've kept my options open. That one story isn't the only ball I have in play.

Still, I just felt so. Damned. Tired.

So, I took a little vacation from the writing gig. No whining, no guilt trip, just threw my hands in the air and said "I give up." Total surrender. I'm feeling a little less burned out, at this point. I have some vague ideas on new directions.

I'm still not forcing anything. School starts in a week and a half, and my two new "jobs" along with it. I have lesson plans I'm still finalizing, clothes and supplies to shop for, a deck that needs to be refinished, and a growing case of nerves over those two new jobs. I am giving myself permission to handle those things and get a grip on the new school year routine before I sit down with the muse and the super-organizer and try to hammer out details on our new game plan.

Not done yet. Just taking a few deep breaths.

You said you'd stand by me in the middle of chapter three

Two days ago, this was the most awesome story I've ever worked on. Yesterday, it was an overwhelming mess of half-baked ideas. Last night, I quit. Not just this story, but writing altogether. I mean, really, who needs this torture? Too hard, too much work, too much of pouring myself into something that may never happen.

This morning, I caught myself thinking about a possible scene, and an angle for that antagonist that I hadn't had before, and oh hey, I could do this cool thing, and...

We all know I'll never really quit. Sometimes I just need to pretend, I guess.

This town was meant for passing through

I tagged on the "angst" label to this post, but I don't really feel angsty. Mostly I just feel like I'm not sure what I should be doing with myself on the creative front. Not that I need more things to do to keep me busy, because I've been taking care of a lot of non-writing projects this summer. And I've been doing a lot of reading, which I count as writing-related work. And planning for the fiction writing class I'll be teaching in the fall. But I have gone a few weeks without actually writing, and I feel a little antsy and perhaps a little knee-jerk guilt about that. After all, writing is my life, right? I should be pouring my every bit of strength and free time into it if I hope to get anywhere with my career?

Except, of course, that writing is not my whole life. And these other projects give me a sense of satisfaction to work on, as well. And I'm really struggling to carve out any regularly scheduled writing time this summer. Well. Not entirely true, because the time is there. But it carries with it the knowledge that at any given moment I could be called away from the writing. And that's really just an excuse, because I know if I put my mind to it I could train myself to write under those circumstances--I have before. Remember back when the kids were little, Lori, how you used to carry around the shorthand notebook and pride yourself on writing stories in 5-minute increments, standing at the kitchen counter while the kids ate lunch? In my defense, I was writing much shorter fiction back then. But I have become spoiled by my school year routine.

My question to myself, then, is do I push to train myself to write on the spot, a few minutes at a time, again? Or do I let the writing slide for a few more weeks until the school year begins again and allow myself the luxury of using the would-be-writing time to continue catching up on reading and other non-writing projects?

I'm leaning toward the latter. It's not like summer lasts forever, anyhow. Right?

Mean girls make mean women

Dental work has been survived. Surprisingly, there has been very little pain. However, the novacaine (or something) left me dealing with headache and nausea. Headache is better today, nausea persists. I am feeling particularly grumpy and not particularly motivated. No writing has happened, still, but Michael wiped down the hallway walls and trim for me yesterday and I have begun taping the trim in preparation for painting. At the moment I cannot abide the thought of bending over or reaching above my head to do any more work on that project, but maybe once I've had something to eat my stomach will settle and I'll feel up to it.

If not, I have given myself permission to just take it easy today. I've been trying to catch up my WoW druid to Joe's hunter, and I recently renewed my old DAoC account just for kicks, so maybe I'll even indulge in some video games. Or finish transferring this handful of VHS tapes to the computer. Watching the home movies of Christmases and Easters and beach vacations past has been fun, but with that inevitable touch of bittersweet. It's mostly the same old motherly song and dance--I love my kids as they are now, but oh, look at those sweet little boys in the movies. And then there's remembering just how much I loved the house and the town in South Carolina. It's hard not to sing just a few choruses of the "what if" song.

In the meantime, it has been an hour since I took my thyroid meds. This means I can now eat some breakfast and suck down my morning Dt. Pepsi. Fingers crossed that food and caffeine fixes my mood a little.

And here is your verse

I am still on a writing hiatus, for the most part. I think tomorrow I will be ready to drag out the Heimdal novella and do some reassessing and regrouping. I spent most of the weekend in the depths of battling the usual various personal demons while holding it together enough to accomplish all the family stuff that needed accomplishing. I seem to be in the process of resurfacing again, which I must confess is a part of my mood cycle I much prefer to the down days. Ugh.

I read a book a couple of months ago, and today I came across the author's web site and some excerpts of possible interest to a couple of people out there: Party of One: The Loner's Manifesto, by Anneli Rufus. The author's tone sometimes seems more vehement toward "nonloners" than I usually am. (Although on my worst days, I can muster up quite a good dose of anger and bitterness toward those who would push me to "fit in" better, I should probably admit.) I found myself chuckling in recognition and nodding in agreement in a number of places. And you know, while it would likely be uncomfortable reading for nonloners, it might also be enlightening, for reasons summed pretty well in this quote from the book:

"They take offense. Feel hurt. Get angry. They do not blame owls for coming out at night, yet they blame us for being as we are. Because it involves them, or at least they believe it does..."

"They" being the nonloners who cannot understand a loner's desire to just be left alone and insist on pushing them to be more "normal." In short, the best thing to remember about loners is this: It's not about you. That loner who is avoiding your phone calls or your invitation to do lunch is not (necessarily) indicating that she doesn't like you. She just prefers--requires--more alone time than you do. Loners do not go around urging nonloners to stay in more or talk to fewer people. We just want the same courtesy returned to us.

Hello goodbye

Day two of cleaning out assorted closets. I thought today would be easier, since we are done with the stuffed animals and obviously "oh, my baby" items. Board games and assorted science kits seemed like pretty safe territory.

I should know better by now.

I strongly doubt I am the only mother who experiences this. I know that last night when I mentioned I'd had a rough day of cleaning out kid toys to give away, pretty much everyone assumed I meant it had been physically tiring--except the other mothers in the chat channel, who immediately understood that my distress was emotional.

Maybe there are moms out there who are way better at this than I am, but going through my children's belongings--toys, clothes, school papers, ANYTHING--is an emotionally stressful experience for me. Every item has a memory attached to it. Which seems like it would make for a happy journey down memory lane, and it does. Remember my post about how watching my children grow involves a great deal of some emotion that is an equal mix of joy and sorrow? I pick up the plastic dinosaur skeletons, and I hear two little boys at the table on the back deck, clanging merrily at the chunk of fake rock in search of "fossils," and I smell the summer air and the lazy hum of background traffic through the open door. I empty the ancient cardboard box of dried up markers into the trash, and I remember the smell of marker and crayon mingled with cinnamon and vanilla while I made French toast and they presented me with pictures peppered with scribbles and stickers. Even the damned Yu Gi Oh and Pokemon cards bring wistful memories, even though I cringed every time they insisted on spending their allowances on them.

It's not that I want to go back, so much. I love who my boys are now just as much as I loved who they were then. But every item I put in a bag or a box or the trash is a mindful goodbye to the babies I will never again rock and the little boys who will never again bring me a collection of crickets in their bug boxes or beg me to save the spider on the back porch from the Terminix guy. And I suppose we all know, at some level, that every day is a little bit of a goodbye and a little bit of a hello. It's just that most days I'm not fully aware of it, and so on days like yesterday and today, it all catches up and breaks my heart all at once.

I still have the toyboxes in the basement to get through. But oh, I think my heart has had enough for one day.

Big bears and little boys

On our spring cleaning project list for today: the boys' closets and desks, in search of stuff they've outgrown. The first thing Michael-Monster pulled out and added to the pile of stuff he's ready to give away? Big Bear, the over-sized grizzly who once knew so much love that he's nearly flat.

I am hiding at my computer desk, trying to regain emotional control so that I don't burst into tears when I go back up to help him with the rest of his room.

Seeing rain

The sunshine came through today, as forecasted, but it took a while to soak in and rid me of the blah's. I accomplished not very much on Crowmaker, aside from fumbling back and forth between scenes on my screen and making some half-hearted notes about things I already know. I finally gave up, fed myself a bowl of ice cream, and took the rest of the day off. I think part of my problem is that I'm at that stage where I keep stumbling around in the stuff I've already written, moving scenes around and trying to figure out if they really go where they do and see what's missing, but I'm doing it on screen (the lazy way) instead of printing it all out and hacking it up with the red pen. Because I did the red pen with the first five chapters, and it went swimmingly. But then I got all confident because it was going well and stopped. So tomorrow, more printing out and red pen.

Received my renewal card for SCBWI this afternoon. When I added it to my bibliography page, I noticed that, hey... I've had a fair chunk of stories published. I even look like, you know... a real writer. With a professional designation and everything. Cool.

Joey borrowed my computer to print out some homework this afternoon. I had Crowmaker open in the background. When I came in to check on him, he had Crowmaker open, reading the first couple of paragraphs. "Looks good so far, Mom. I fixed a typo for you."

God love him.

Here It Goes Again

After the high days comes the inevitable downswing. I've come to expect them, and I've learned to deal with them, but they're still not exactly my favorite days. Clouds and a light, misty rain rolled in yesterday afternoon and have yet to leave, too, so I'm sure that's exacerbating things. I'm listening to upbeat music and consoling myself by dealing with more administrative/technical writing tasks instead of trying to force a creative mood, since I know that would only end badly. I have most of my point of view issues fixed now. (I'd written one partial draft of Crowmaker in first person and a second in third person; I finally picked one and am working on making everything third person.) I sorted out some confusion I'd created for myself regarding some plot elements, and even though I couldn't whip up the energy to write the new scenes required to clarify things, I did make the small fixes necessary to existing scenes. There's also an old scene I can tweak and bring back in. So there is work being done, even if it's not entirely new stuff.

There is no deadline, Lori. There is no rush. You're putting in the hours, you're making progress, and there is sunshine due tomorrow.

And on the bright side, when I forced myself to walk today even in the mist, I discovered that the cool, moist air seemed to have a great effect on my breathing issues. A cool mist humidifier may be in my future.

YouTube linkages related to the day:

That OK Go video.
Some version of Sugarland's "April Showers" (Because I have seen rain before. Haven't we all?)

Tug-of-me

I've spent roughly two hours so far today trying to dissect the plot for Crowmaker and decide why it's threatening to fizzle on me. It's not that I don't know what to write next so much as what I should write next just doesn't jump up and dance on the page. So maybe it's not really a plotting issue so much as a butt-in-chair, just-DO-it issue. The "this isn't so bad" angel and the "are you kidding, you suck" devil are perched on opposing shoulders and making the whole thought process deal even more challenging. I should perhaps start with some pesticide and then move on to some meditation and deep breathing to clear my head so I can hear the Muse, should she decide to put in an appearance.

The leg is somewhat better. Being able to keep it more or less motionless today has helped immensely.