The Only Cure for the Mean Reds

So it has been a while...
I'd like to say that I've been madly revising my manuscript, or working on something new, or even just being a good literary citizen and helping other writers...but no. I have not.

I had a party this past weekend and it was loads of fun. Two separate circles of friends met and interacted for the first time, and all was good. But it was exhausting. I'm an introvert by nature, so although I love people, they exhaust me. I came out of the weekend feeling deflated, like a party balloon someone let all the air out of. And then I encountered one of my many mood swings, and came down with what Holly Golightly dubbed the mean reds.

 "Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of."

And that's how I felt all of Sunday...and Monday...and Tuesday...and then some time around 8:30 last night I plopped myself down on the couch and started reading The Dog Year.
Full disclosure: I know the author. She is a kind and funny lady, and a very talented writer. Her humor is what drew me to the book. I thought to myself, She's funny, her book will cheer me up. And despite the fact that it's about a woman who loses her husband and unborn child in a single accident, and then in the wreckage of her life, attempts to fill the void by stealing things she doesn't need, it has done just that. I am loving every moment of it. The humor and candidness with which Garvin explores her protagonist's world is just perfect.
I plan on doing a more in-depth review of it and posting it here in a week. I still have a few more chapters to go, and the only thing keeping me from plowing though it in one go is the five month old currently kicking me in the shins.
When Holly Golightly comes down with a case of the mean reds, she finds herself at Tiffany's, eating her breakfast, sipping her coffee, and imagining a world in which all things are new and shiny and carelessly elegant. When I come down with the mean reds, I find a book. I imagine a world, not unlike our own, but filled with different people, different problems. I tell myself a story, or I find someone else to. A world with books can't be all that bad.

Endless Edits

I need to finish my book.

I mean, there is a finished draft of my book. It was good enough to earn a passing grade for my MFA. But I need to really finish my book. 

I keep staring at the blinking cursor, like I'm the movie-version of a writer with writer's block. Now that I have a completed draft, that isn't it too bad of shape, the task of fully editing, doing rewrites, and nailing down that second half so it's as good as the first half, is all that much more daunting.

I crave for the beginning of projects. My mind starts buzzing, and all I can think about is digging my heels in and getting started. In the beginning, everything is fresh, and new, and exciting. Now, I'm tired. I'm weary. I'm ready to finish this damn thing.

I'm setting myself a deadline. August 1st, I'll have the next completed draft of this thing ready for beta readers. After that, another draft, another round of readers. January 1st, I'll be querying agents with a completed manuscript.

In the immortal words of a friend and fellow writer, I've got this.

OITNB: Everyone Has Mommy Issues

I recently binge-watched all of season two of OITNB. This season was spectacular, and I was lucky enough to be able to write up a review & synopsis for my pals over at The Cubic Lane.

Read my full article here: http://www.cubiclane.com/2014/06/orange-is-the-new-black-everyones-got-mommy-issues

I Finally Did It...

After two years of blood, ink and tears (boy, were there tears), I finally completed my MFA in Fiction from Southern New Hampshire University.

I am so proud of myself. I'm thrilled. I'm ecstatic. But I'm also a little sad.

The MFA program was a safe place. And no, it's not nearly as cheesy as it sounds. There were peers, going through the same struggles. There were mentors and faculty, filled with wisdom and advice. There were craft workshops. There were peer workshops. There were critiques. And now? Nothing.

It doesn't mean that I will live in a writing desert. In fact, there are plenty of writer's groups in the area. I have friends that I can set up manuscript exchanges with. And there are great resources for alum. But now, the onus is on me. I fully own every word that I write, and that safety net (you know, the one where your mentor can pull you aside and say, 'What the hell are you doing?') doesn't exist anymore.

Speaking as a White, Straight Girl...

Speaking as a white, straight girl, who has authority over your story?

There's been some big minds doing some great thinking on the subject for a while now. As a write of no color, there is often a question of whether or not it is appropriate to tell the story belonging to a person (or character) of color. When I think way back to the time of the Imperialism, and the treatment of "native peoples" by white imperialists, as well as the "documentation of natives" by white explorers, I start to cringe. That being said, there is a big difference between that sort of writing and a well-written novel or short story with a POC protagonist. But still, does a white person have authority over a narrative of that nature? Can a white person adequately and honestly portray a person of color? I think this is an important question, that I don't necessarily have the answer to.

The same sort of questioning could be applied to straight writers writing about characters with differing sexual orientations.

It isn't just a question of being respectful of the subject matter. It's more of a question of how do you write the character authentically?

Granted, these questions rarely get raised if a female author is writing from a male POV, or a male author is writing from a female POV. I wonder, do the author's intentions matter here, or should authors always avoid writing characters of different backgrounds to avoid in-authenticity? What are your thoughts?

A Thesis & a Baby

This has been a pretty busy year for me so far. I had a baby in January, my husband and I are buying a house, and I just turned in my final copy of my thesis for my MFA. Since I've accomplished so much in just these past four months, I'm inclined to give myself a nice little pat on the back. Instead, I'm spending my evenings trying to figure out what's next (while packing, bedding down the munchkin, and trying to keep some order in the house).

I could continue on with school. I have, in fact, put in an application to Drexel University for an MS in Library Sciences. I'm very keen on continuing my education, both from a practical viewpoint (this degree could easily qualify me for a whole slew of other jobs, as well as defer my student loan payments and put me on a track for a pretty neat career), and from a philosophical viewpoint (I love learning new things). That being said, I'm not sure it's a good idea right now. Motherhood has sort of warped my world-view, and not necessarily in a bad way. I'm thinking about munchkin now, too, and how I want to spend time with her. School might inhibit my ability to focus on all of the milestones ahead, and before I make a commitment to another degree, I want to make sure it's the right thing for me (and for us).

I'm also trying my hand at adjuncting. I've put out a few applications, and I know I'd really love to teach again. I haven't taught on a professional level yet, just a few seminars and workshops, but I'd love a regular gig where I get to engage others on the topics of literature and language.

And of course, there's trying to get published. My novel is still a ways away from being shopable for agents. I'm waiting for the final word from my readers that I've passed, but I know I'll get some great feedback that I'll likely want to incorporate into another draft. Heck, I may even want to shelf it for a few months and give myself some distance. I'm at the point now where every time I read it I feel like I'm going blind. I have started submitting to smaller publications and more online venues as well. I just got the word that an essay I penned will be published on Scary Mommy later this month. I'm writing shorter pieces, essays and fiction, and I'm hoping to get my stuff out there.

I still have a ton going on, but with school winding down, and this new chapter of my life beginning, I can't help but feel a little scared by my lack of commitments. It's been a while since I didn't have a looming deadline, and I'm not sure if I can get used to the feeling.

I Wrote a Book

It's official. I wrote my first novel. As of right now, it's still a steaming pile of poop (I'm a parent now...I have to watch my language), but there's potential there. I'm supposed to have a final draft done within the next month to complete my MFA, so here's to spending every waking moment editing, revising and rereading this thing. I may want to kill my protagonist by the end of it.

The experience has taught me a lot, like to plan ahead, dammit. I spent the first 1.5 years of my masters writing the first half of the book and hating every second of it. The past six months have been spent revising that half, and figuring out what the hell was next (and wishing I had figured it out sooner). I always fancied myself as the sort of person who has to write it in order to know what I'm writing about. I still think that's true, but now I know how to harness that power. I can't stop writing until the draft is done, otherwise I get bogged down in the details of scenes that I'll likely delete later anyways.

I've also learned to kill your darlings. I know, I know, the phrase is cliche nowadays. But it's true. I deleted over 40,000 words. That's half a novel gone. And my manuscript is so much better served for it. I'm not going to lie, I cried with each stroke of the backspace key, but it was so worth it.

Finally, I learned that I can do this. Fuck yeah! (the little one is asleep...I can swear sometimes). I WROTE A FUCKING NOVEL. Now I need to actually make it a good novel. That's a whole different post...

Fighting the Block

The past two weeks have been tortuous. I haven’t written a damn word. Instead, I have sat in front of my computer, letting the cursor blink on the screen, and staring until the pixels started to dance. In lieu of writing, I have also watched television, read “junk” books, cooked extravagant meals, played with the cats, visited family, and napped…a lot.

Normally, when I get into one of these ruts, writing just a sentence can help kick me out of it. Even if that sentence is junk. Or sometimes, just thinking deeply about the next scene, or taking long walks, or meditating can help. But these past few weeks, none of these old tricks have worked.

In fact, I've been so caught up on my own life, and my own feelings, that I can’t seem to focus on my characters. Recently, something rather odd happened to me—the details of which I won’t get into. In the moment of that thing happening, I wasn't exactly sure what to do, how to act, what things I should say, or even if I liked what was happening. Even now, I don’t know my feelings on the whole thing. I have played and replayed this event over in my head, trying to determine what I wanted out of the situation, and how I should have responded to the stimuli around me.

I tried to write about it in essay form, but I kept stopping, rewriting, erasing. What I was putting down wasn't helping me to understand the situation, and thus, wasn't helping me to move past it and refocus on my novel.

Today, I got an idea. What if my protagonist had been in my situation? What would he have done, said, felt? Would he have acted braver, weaker, or bolder, than I had? I took to my computer and threw him in. And boy, did he know what he wanted to do.

I still don’t know what I should have done. But I know what my protagonist things about the whole thing, and that’s good enough for me.

Two Glasses of Cheap Wine

I don’t often get drunk. In fact, I’ve only been drunk twice in my life. Some might consider that an impressive fact for a twenty-something of independent means. I honestly just don’t see the point. I do, however, appreciate being tipsy, giggly and giddy. All of which can be achieved with a reasonable amount of cheap wine.

The first time I was ever truly drunk was at a company Christmas party. I used to work in retail. Of course, that usually means that you drink more, but being a store manager meant long hours and little energy. Hardly an atmosphere which is ideal to drunkenness, although it is one in which most prefer it.

The second time I was in the safety of my home, drunk off of cheap wine. This, I believe, is the best kind of drunk.

Tonight I’m not drunk at all, but I have had a few glasses of wine. The bad thing about alcohol? It lowers inhibitions, makes you more vulnerable. The good thing about alcohol? The same damned things. Honestly, at home, with a pen in my hand (or a keyboard beneath my fingertips as it were), alcohol is the great creative lubricator. It makes me stop judging the words, which is the most important part of writing a first draft. 

Ernest Hemingway once said, “Write drunk, edit sober.” Obviously Hemingway may have overdone it from time to time, but the idea is sound. Loosen up; let yourself write when you write. Edit when you edit. For me, two glasses of wine are usually enough to silence the diamond polisher within me and give the vomit drafter the vocal chords of Etta James. Do what you need to, but let yourself write.

Eat Life.