Last week I spent every day like this:

Wake up at 6am.
Go for walk in beautiful neighborhood while it's a perfect, sunny 67 degrees.
Make coffee.
Drink coffee and read newspaper.
Shower.
Scan internet, catch up with peeps online.
Write.
Make something for lunch.
Eat outside while I read a fun book.
Write.
Write.
Write.

... about 3k words every day.

Then dinner and a lovely martini bar. Almost every night, because it was a vacation. Sort of.

....now, I'm back at the day job.

*sigh*

I've wanted to write about this for a couple of months, but have also struggled with how. My tendency is to write about heavily emotional moments in a mythological, metaphorical sort of way that conveys the emotion, but not the facts.

But with this, I want to remember the details.

It was January 4th, of this year. A Sunday. I was walking my dog as the sun set, and I came up the hill through a neighborhood of split-level houses and rounded the corner. Grendel sat at the edge of the sidewalk and I paused to tell him he was good for not running into the street. I looked up, and I was totally alone at a crossroads. Down the hill was the park I'd just circled, behind me was the same sidewalk I've pounded over for two years now. To my left, an empty cul de sac, and before me, the path home.

I'd been doing a good job not thinking about the thing most prominent in my mind: Monday was the deadline the agent reading my wip had given for when she'd get back to me. I hadn't heard anything in two weeks, since she wrote acknowledging she'd received it and was going on vacation for Christmas.

Walking my dog and writing are two things I do that have become completely intertwined. There's nothing like tying up the sneakers and watching Grendel bounce and spaz out in anticipation while I get his leash and start up the iPod, and nothing like the cool twilit air, the press of shoes against concrete, the park, the wind, the rush of cars, for getting my imagination rolling. When I'm stuck, I go out and walk the dog. Most of the time, I come home with a solution.

When finishing up the wip, called then DEATHSAFE, there were a few days I took more than one walk because I was writing so hard. The whole book happened with mini-breaks, where I was alone with myself, my dog, my music, my book, and the world.

So I stood there on that corner, with Grendel craning his neck around to figure out why we weren't moving forward. I stood there and knew with this horrible certainty that I'd written the very best book I could possibly have written. I've written a bunch of novels. Adult, younger, fantasy, historical, contemporary... five complete that I can think of off the top of my head. Some were good, some blew (chunks, and not small ones*), but and probably they were all the best I could do at the time. I learned from them, pushed on, wrote another one, learned more.

But I knew, right then, that I hadn't been lazy. I hadn't cut corners. I'd been cruel and severe with myself and the story. I'd deleted funny lines that were out of character for my first person narrators. I'd ignored the desire to wax poetical when it wasn't necessary and I listened to my instincts instead of my ego.

The book was the best I could do.**

If I was ever going to sign with a Dream Agent, it was now.

But if she passed - she was passing on the best I could do.

It was this heady, awful, blissful place of being both free and more terrified than I'd ever been for myself. I knew I'd keep going if she said no. I'd send out queries to my top tier and hope for the best. I'd keep writing. I'd revise. I'd write a new novel, or ten new novels. I wasn't worried about not writing. I wasn't worried, exactly, about failure.

I was horrified because there was nothing I could do about it. I was with my dog, standing there, stupidly, on the corner of the sidewalk, and there was nothing. to. do. I'd done it already. I'd let go. And I hadn't even noticed doing so.

I almost sat down. I nearly let my knees buckle so I could sit there with my dog, watching the light become more grey, watching the shadows stretch across the street.

My lungs felt cold and empty, and waiting-ulcer-burn calmed down. Everything dropped out of my body, melting through the rubber soles of my shoes.

There was nothing to do. Except keep walking. So I did.



* nataliesee and I watched Bablyon A.D. on Saturday morning, and when the credits began we both stared for a moment. I finally said, "That blew." And Natalie nodded slowly, "Chunks." I sighed, unable to motivate myself past the awfulness, until Natalie continued, "and not small ones!" I laughed a LOT. I have a funny lady.

** I've made it better since then. Because the best I could do then should never be the best I can do now. The day my craft isn't improving is the day I walk away from the computer.

My monster is getting new teeth. And new intestines. New eyes, new fingernails. The heart is good, fortunately, because those are hard to find intact.

My monster is unwieldy in so many pieces. At least they're all sitting there on the worktable.

My monster, of course, is a novel. My novel. The Novel. Because the current novel is always The Novel.

When I'm drafting, it feels like climbing a giant, twisted tree and choosing a branch to hang on. Upside down, with wind in your face and your fingers grasping at the ground so far below. It's awful and exhilarating.

When I'm editing, I'm tearing apart and rebuilding my monster. Most of the new parts are my own.

I love metaphors. It's the main reason I write prefer to write stories instead of essays and nonfiction. I can have one point, one truth (my truth), one purpose, and craft an entire story around it. Usually, the point, the truth is buried in metaphor, buried in characters and plot that don't have anything to do, really, with the point I began with. Sometimes I lose it and find another. Sometimes it remains only in one little turn of phrase, and maybe some reader, sometime, will notice. Maybe not. It's the inspiration and the purpose of the story, but not always the outcome.

This week, I wrote a story that is pretty much the perfect expression of this. (It might not be a perfect, or even necessarily very good story, but it does what I wanted it to do.) It's called Ash-tree Spell to Break Your Heart, and it's up at merry_fates.

I rarely want to really talk about my fiction in an analytic sort of way, but this story is wigging me out this week, and making the real work of revising difficult. Usually a story drives me crazy before it's written. This one won't get out of my head now that it's done. I think I wrote something without understanding exactly why. And weirdly, amazingly, it's trying to tell me something.

( This is me trying to figure out what. )

There's this thing I do.

It makes me crazy, mean, forgetful, silly.

It makes my back ache and my eyeballs squishy and delicate. Makes my temper raw.

It makes me stare off into space when someone is talking to me, forget to turn left where I always, always turn left on the way to work, makes me suddenly jump up and scramble for paper. Or just turn blindly in circles like I've been dropped out of the sky into an alien world.

It makes me tired.

Sometimes it lasts for mere hours. Sometimes for days or weeks. The high depends on the substance, ya know? So does the crash.

It mixes well with alcohol and laughter and tragic movies. It does not always play well with the rest of the world. Or engage at all.

I occasionally run out of it. There are natural endings, natural lows, natural dips in the flow.

Yesterday I hit one. In itself, not a bad thing. I got to the inevitable moment where my story is gone. Flying away. There's nothing more I can do with it now. Nothing. It's horrible. And exciting. And lonely. And blissful.

I'm free. I could read. I could dick around. I could relax. Take a vacation. Take a pill. Whatever. For like, a whole two weeks.

But today I opened up a new document and started a new novel.

Hi, my name is Tessa, and I'm a writer.

I fully support this idea.

Lately, I've been writing so hard I haven't had time to feel guilty about anything except how much I'm neglecting the rest of my life. Today, I'm not going to feel bad about ignoring the world. The world doesn't need me.

The only rules of writing, from Ms. Elizabeth Bear:

You must write.
You must revise what you write.
You must finish what you write.
You must release what you write.

Everything else is negotiable.

Like the texture of re-animated flesh when it's exactly 7 days dead.

Really. Nobody cares, as long as it sounds gross and horrible. And babe, you can make anything sound gross and horrible. It's your special gift.

Trust me, the guy over there who *knows* the answer to that is not someone we're concerned with. Nor is he going to read your book in the first place. We hope.

Just put down the book and finish your freaking WIP. You don't need to read any more about embalming anyway. It isn't good for you. And stop tooling around on the internet realizing you can buy a pink and silver steel casket with pink velvet interior and matching pillow and throw, and a locking mechanism with quick release interior unlocking mechanism.

And yes, some day you can write a story about a vampire who sleeps in it. But not now. Now, finish this novel!

I had a crappy day yesterday, at work, with my writing, and in general.

So I went home, turned on VAST, and pounded it out on the treadmill. Then I immediately wrote 600 words of bloody, violent fiction that I will probably post at merry_fates on Wednesday.

I felt better.

Have you heard the phrase secret basketball?

I first learned of it in the pedagogy class I took as part of my MA program where they taught us to think about teaching through a feminist lens. Secret basketball is when you're playing a game, but you don't know the rules. (The point in the class was to have us make sure not to do this to our students - all the rules, on the table. Specifically - in the syllabus.)

Anyway. I feel like I'm playing secret basket ball with myself. I keep hitting these stupid walls in my WIP. Invisible walls, because I don't know why they're there or what they're made of. How can I take them down if I can't see them? Or feel them beyond a general writerly instinct that Something Is Not Right?

Bah.

*EDIT* Or, you can brainstorm with your crit partner and have her sister hand you your freaking problem so fast you decide to maybe get little sis on speed-dial. Thanks, Kate.

See, Mom? Sometimes whining does help.

Today I know exactly when I'm writing the wrong thing.

I write 200 words, realize it's the wrong scene, and delete it. I write the correct scene.

I start a new scene, get 150 words in and realize it's wrong, then delete it. I write the correct scene.

It's a little aggravating. And slow.

Sort of like that up-three-feet, slide-back-two, up-three-feet, slide-back-two way you climb out of a sand pit.

At least I'm learning to recognize on my own when I'm writing the wrong thing.

JUST WRITE, WOMAN!

Stop analyzing and changing and worrying about what's below or the branches you've already passed or the other trees you could be climbing. You picked THIS one and you know what that view up there is gonna be like: flying. Flat out, soul-tearing flight.

It doesn't matter what you think you might have to cut or add or rework. What matters is putting it all down. Write it all. Wring this sucker out of the wet rag that is your brain. You'll feel better after. That's the deal, remember? I should have made you write it down and sign it in blood or something.

Fucking writers.

The cutting continues!

Only 196 words this time... but that's everything I've written this morning.

SCORE!

I need, like, an icon for slashing all my hard-won words.

Over the past 24 hours I've deleted a little more than 3,000 words from Strange Maid.

It's frustrating. But I was having more trouble than I should have been, and realized that was because there wasn't a NEED for the scenes I was trying to write. They were informative... but not necessary.

There's a natural break in the narrative here, and I was trying to prolong it. But Hrafnling's childhood ENDS at 42,000 words. She makes a choice, a sacrifice if you will, and is reborn.

The next part of the story is also the next part of the novel. Sometimes a clean break is best.

What this really means, is that I have a Draft Zero for "Part One: Monster."

I'm not feeling like a literary mofo at the moment. More like a piece of driftwood.

But I know how "Part Two: Mother" begins.

Friday night, I'm in Books-A-Million at the Legends complex (aka middle-America outdoor consumerist temple). Fresh from a pitcher of bellini shared with nataliesee and wyckedgood, the three of us, plus the champagne-free lucifershalo, wandered the isles in search of fun books!

Turns out I'm the only one that found anything. (Well, Christine discovered we were in a secret Christian Bookstore and Natalie used the boy's bathroom, much to the dismay/horror/admiration of the women waiting in line.) But I'm the only one who bought anything.

I went up to the counter, where three teenagers were working registers, and there was only one person in line besides the three customers currently being served. No big deal. But the tallest teenager, with muppet-orange hair, said, "Ma'am, there's no one waiting at the cafe." He smiled. I wanted to say, "There's only one person in front of me," but the kid probably would have thought I was a crazy patient old person or something. (I realized in this moment that I was the oldest person in the vicinity - by about ten years.)

I make my way through stacks of non-book-like merchandise (jewelry! iPod covers! !?!?) to the cafe, where this is, in fact, no one waiting. However, the gangly kid working it was very slowly making a latte for a cute girl in a stretchy titty-shirt. I leaned on the counter and tried to be patient. I didn't want to put down his flirtation. I could wait at least as long as I would have at the regular checkout.

I wait.

And wait.

Latte's done. They're just chatting. I start playing with shit on the counter. A bowl of mints. I pick up some chocolate and rattle them around. To make sure he knows I'm there.

Finally, the hint lands. Titty-girl leans over and says, "Later." He comes over to me and I slide my book at him. He's more gangly up-close, with a giant Adam's apple and pretty green eyes. His lips curl at the book. "You don't want a drink?"

I shook my head. "Just the book please." Flash winning smile. I might be way old to him, but I know how to flirt a lot better than titty-girl. And I'm tipsy.

"I'm gonna have to talk to them about this. Again." He takes my book as if he is the longest suffering off-for-summer-doesn't-have-any-real-responsibilities-17-year-old in the history of EVER.

"Thanks." I say it through gritted teeth.

For some reason, he chooses this moment to turn on his customer service training. Smile! Banter about my evening! I can't remember what he I was saying when he put the book down. "It's good as yours, if you sign..." he indicates the electronic pad.

"Oh, you've..." I trail off, as I realize he did not say the book itself was good.

"Huh?"

As I scrawl my signature, "I thought you just said you'd read the book and thought it was good."

His eyebrows lower until he looks two steps closer to our monkey ancestors. "This?" If he had to touch it again, he would have lifted it in two fingers as though it might bite. "Isn't is a chick book?"

Blink. Blink. Ok, maybe THIS



could look like chick lit. I mean, pink font = girly, right? DUH. And a fully-dressed BOY staring out is a sure sign of chick lit. Not to mention the author Pansy McSnatch, I mean Scott Westerfeld.

I leaned forward and slid my glasses down my nose. (Yeah, I did. Tipsy, remember?) "In fact, there's blood, explosions, lots of RATS, and a whole bunch of anonymous screwing."*** I cocked my head in an exaggeration of thoughtfulness. "Huh, I guess that means a lot of chicks WILL like it. Probably guys, too." cocksucker, I add with my eyes.

I took my book and left.

It was all made better with a late second viewing of IRON MAN. I might not have gotten to sleep until after 1am, but when I did, the dreams were good. Tony Stark for the win.


*** I'm 3/4 through PEEPS, and while there are rats and blood and worse, so far there is no anonymous screwing and no explosions (unless one counts more rats in a rather explosive panic).

Senator Clinton,

Thank you for running for President of the United States. I will be able to tell my daughters and sons that I witnessed it, that I was here for your campaign. Words are thrown at it like historic, monumental, and epic. It is all of those things. But it is also over.

I want to be able to add, when I tell this story to my grandchildren, that I watched this great moment become only the next step in the life of one of the strongest, most popular, and influential women in the twenty-first century. I want to tell them that you fought with every molecule of your being, and that you received 18,000,000 votes, and that I admire you.

You have had every right to remain in this race through the final primaries. I do admire your tenacity and your will. But, Senator Clinton, you have said and done enough during this season that my admiration for you balances on the slimmest of threads. I have watched you lie, and cheat, and malign Senator Obama, and I realize that you do these things out of a sincere desire to win. Your behavior is a staple of politics, and those things I can forgive, so long as you turn now and let your actions speak louder than your words in striving toward a unified Democratic Party, toward defeating John McCain, and toward helping those hard-working Americans you rally so well.

I have supported Senator Obama since late January. But my heart breaks for the fact that you have lost. It was bliss to watch you succeed in state after state. You proved to me that America can, and will, have a woman for president some day. You, too, have given me hope. But my needs for America cannot be broken down into petty differences of gender or race, class, education, or accusations of elitism.

I beg you: concede.

Concede to prove that you care about us as much as you say you do.

There is no dishonor in concession. No one can say you haven't run an amazing, vicious race that will be remembered for a very long time. The only thing that can ruin it now is if you refuse to divest yourself of the rose-colored glassed and fight yourself into the ground, losing every remaining shred of dignity you still possess.

I want to remember you as strong, ferocious, determined. I want to say you lost yourself in the competition, that you manipulated and twisted and glamoured and charmed 18,000,000 Americans to your cause, but that your graceful concession proved that there was always a part of you that held the good of our country in the center of your heart.

I'm begging you, Senator Clinton, let me remember you well.

It's Friday, and what do I have to show for it?

3,000 plus really crappy words.

A post-drainage cough.

Muddled brain - thanks medication!

Did I mention the crappy words? God. I knew they were bad while I was writing, but pushed through because it HAS to be written. I can fix it later. But I might just have to rewrite the whole thing. There's no tension, no excitement, no beauty, no emotion. None of the characters are invested in what's going on - but they should be.

I'm trying to blame the drugs. I wrote most of it yesterday at the height of my sick. But sheez. It might be a fault of the plot. Can I go in an entirely different direction? I might have to map out some stuff. AGAIN. I'm thinking of axing yet another character. !!!!!

It's because I'm cranky. Nothing is worthwhile today. I've been starting to respond to several posts on my list, and end up discarding it all because I'm just being negative - and not constructively so.

I'm leaving right after work to head to Joplin, MO for the Joplin Renaissance Festival where I have these things called responsibilities. I'm hoping the enforced lack of computer + major distractions + outdoors will poke at my imagination enough to give me some perspective. It's the 30,000 word funk. I guess. I have to find my love and excitement in the project again. I keep losing the thread of what I'm writing ABOUT. It isn't enough for me to just write a story. It has to be important to me, otherwise why waste my time?

If I'm not loving what I'm writing, why should I expect anyone else to?

Gotta go back to the beginning, find the core. The word. The seed. What the fuck ever.

Odin says: Get drunk, have sex. Incite battle! Scream!

Fuck you, Odin.

2,068 words dragged kicking and screaming today. I swear some of my characters hate me. All I want is a simple conversation, and instead every other line is a freaking JOKE. And by joke I mean sarcasm and snark. I've deleted 600+ words, most of them because this asshole keeps saying obnoxious things. Argh. A little funny is good, but we need to serve the plot here, people! Get in line!

/*angst*

On the other hand, woo! 2,068 words! Bringing the total wordcount of the former Sunset Motel, currently Sunset Bites/Phases/In Need of Non-Horrid Title up to: 30,085.

Favorite line: Her jaw ached from clenching it and her fingers felt like frozen meat, but she sure as shit wasn’t about to ask Kerr to close his window.

Ok, that was a lie! My favorite is this one: “It’s like caring for a few generations of prize-winning bitches.” But the awesomeness of that line is only apparent in context. :D

I've been whining about my writing quite a bit lately. Having emo back and forths about what is meaningful and necessary. A bit of it stems from the great critique I've been getting from m_stiefvater and blindmouse. They've been good at pointing out things I know are problematic about Sunset Motel, as well as things I'm embarrassed not to have noticed on my own. Maggie has this delightful habit of telling me exactly what I do/n't want to hear exactly when I need to.

So, over the weekend I rewrote the first chapter of Sunset Motel, using a lot of the ideas I've had tumbling about in my brain. It's more lyrical (which I like), softer (though not any less bloody), and more character driven even in the first fifteen pages. But you know what? In order to keep that tone I'll have to rewrite every word of the novel. I can keep the first draft open (and have been), so that some of the conversations and thoughts are the same/similar, but you can't plug in voice like you're patching a shirt. You have to unravel it and reweave.

The question becomes - is that what I want to spend my time doing? Reweaving Sunset Motel from the ground up? The characters are THERE, and the plot is THERE - but I've realized I'm not in love with the novel. I love some of the characters and ideas. But not the novel. I know I can make it what it needs to be, I know I can create something I love. But do I want to do it NOW?

I've got quite a few other projects that I love - both in the partially written stage and early idea stage. The Strange Maid of Heorot, for the obvious example. It is the cause of my soul. Doesn't that mean, in the most overt and obvious manner, that I should be focusing on IT? Am I holding on to Sunset because in a way it's done and I've had such great response from readers and actual working agents? Am I holding on because I tend to write something and then let go of it? Or am I holding on because it really, truly is what I should work on the hardest?

I love Strange Maid. It thrills me, and it drives me to find the best words and most magical depths of my imagination.

I also have a great start on several lovely stories: Semper Fidelis, my faerie-Iraq-death short and White Hand, in which I'm exploring gender and sex and faerie magic. Then there's my Hades and Persephone vignettes. EmoHades and I had an epiphany yesterday about what we're trying to write about, so that is ripe for development.

And when it comes down to it, the best writing I've done for Sunset Motel is some of the background character work. Heir is begging, begging to be a short story, and so is The Death and Resurrection of Phinneas Kerr.

I have a great idea for a novel about Matthew Hopkins and a modern sign-language interpreter (trust me).

When I look at the body of my writing, including the Morgen Stuff, it all shares a kind of lyrical voice. There's magic. Except in Sunset Motel. I think this happened because of how I wrote it. It was a serial, and I wrote a little bit every day, trying to best myself in excitement and surprise. It was fun. A lot of fun. And I'm not saying it isn't a good novel. I think it is. I like it, and as I said, I love some of the characters, some of the ideas and moments. And I don't mean to suggest I won't keep up with the serial (oh, you patient fans waiting to know what havoc Edi is about to cause and whether or not Hugh and Blythe can/will actually kill her!!!). I'm merely allowing myself to acknowledge:

a) Sunset Motel needs to be totally rewritten in order for it to make me happy and,

b) I'm not sure that is what I should prioritize at the moment.

This is when having an agent would come in handy, because I could say, "Yo, what do you think, oh knower of the market and general brilliant person?"

Odin says... nothing. The bastard. Oh, wait! He says, "I'd like some cheese."

Helpful god-muse, that one.

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore.

Today, writing is work.

Every day, it takes work. It's never easy. There are always a million things going on that you have to keep in your head. Characters, ideas, themes, plot, setting... did I do this, or that... should I reinforce it, how's this arc going? Is this believable, does that last too long? Would he really say this, or her really do that? Will this word serve the sentence? How is this going to affect the climax? What the fuck is the climax? Do I have three? Is the narrative balanced? What was I thinking? Is that too many prepositions in this paragraph? Did I waste an entire scene? How is this illustrating her character, his motivation, its form? What was I thinking?!? Was I thinking at all?

Sometimes it flows, and all of those questions are unconscious, or set aside for some raw writing that will later be polished into a fit story. Sometimes it's bliss. The blood runs fast and swirls in all directions and you can hardly keep up with yourself.

But today, it simply sucks. Every word is like shoveling wet snow when the bottom layer is frozen solid.

If I were more emo, I'd be writing angsty poetry and song lyrics.

Instead, an insight from a conversation I was having with m_stiefvater: You have to love your characters.

If you don't, the readers will know.

I don't mean they have to be lovable. But you've got to have passion for them, and for their story. That doesn't mean don't kill them or torture them - give them faults, but love them for their faults.

Like Jesus.

No, really. I was taught that Jesus loves me, but that I make my own choices. (Yay for non-fire-and-brimstone Catholic school). So, you have to love your characters desperately, but let them make their own choices. Let them be their own people, and sometimes screw up and die. And sometimes you have to kill them regardless of their choices so that others can make different choices and serve the story.




I went into the kitchen to get something hot to drink, and while rooting through my various boxes of tea, found a silver pouch marked "Instant Cappuccino." Hmm, thought I. Interesting. There were no directions and so I dumped it all into my yellow and green mug, then added boiling water. Stir, steam... sip. And it tastes good. A bit sweet for my preference, but still.

Odin says: There's a lesson in the instant cappuccino. If you figure it out, write it down.

Today has been filled with not-quite-yelling, not-quite-art, not-quite-excitement, not-quite-resolution, not-quite-writing and other near misses. The adrenaline detox gave me a headache.

Teach me to try to impose a rational pattern onto a convoluted bureaucracy. Or to assume there's any more internal consistency at my place of work than there is in my imagination.

Ugh and bother.

In other news, I've written 0 words in Strange Maid today, despite the hope that I'd finish chapter three. It's because I gave myself a deadline.

Me: I will do this in a timely fashion, and here is my modest goal! Yay!

Odin: Hahahahahahaha! It's funnier for me when you're hanging upside down. Here's a healthy dose of extremely entertaining work drama, in which you are both the hero and entirely to blame. I like ambiguity.

Me: Poo.

Odin: Feel the blood rushing to your head? Oooohhh, yeah. (here he sounds like the guy in the old Twix commercials.)

For your entertainment (and so I can easily find it again), I present author Kristopher Reisz on the cycle of self-doubt he goes through as a writer.

It's charming, funny, and oh-so-true.

This quote reminded me of gamera_spinning: "(American Gladiators, BTW, is amazingly good at triggering deep existential dread. I defy anyone to watch one hour of that and tell me man is indeed not adrift in a cold and meaningless universe.)"