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Walking the Double Edged Sword
I got an email yesterday from the lovely blogger Kristin. She resides here, and you should check out what she has to say. Her question regarded how I juggle a full-time job (which often sends me into overtime) with writing fiction. Which made me think and ponder and consider, because it used to happen that I worked and didn’t write. And there was much gnashing of teeth.
I want this sword.
The way I look at it, when you’re not paying your bills by writing but have that insatiable chicken pox itch to commit words to paper (or screen), you step out onto a double edged sword.
On one side is a precipitous fall into financial ruin and despair, where your only good phone calls happen when it’s not a creditor who wants your soul in a jar, and where the old adage, “You can’t bleed a stone” becomes something you rattle off without thinking the second someone says the word money. Which can make things a little awkward. The other side of this sword may seem like less of a spiral into despair and ruination, and may even seem cushy and full of candy canes at first. But then you realize your soul is being sucked into a jar anyway because at the end of the day, you are so exhausted that you curl up with Ben and Jerry and double fist Red Velvet Cake and Cinnamon Buns whilst gorging on reality TV as your laptop gathers dust.
I love eating 4,000 calories in one sitting because it doesn't count when your soul's in a jar!
(The pic on the left is actually Clusterfluff ice cream, but pretend it’s Cinnamon Buns. PRETEND, I SAY!)
So what does one do when faced with this conundrum? You could go buy some more ice cream and glue your ass into a cubicle forever until your dreams turn to quarts of flaky dust, or you could quit your job and become the new poster child for starving artist-dom, but I think there can be a better way.
Jar O'Souls Has Yours!
Jobs are hard. They’re especially hard when you hate them. Such was the case for me a couple years ago. I thought teaching was what I should do, because everyone told me I should do it with my history degree. So I tried teaching special ed through a very selective alternative licensure program and didn’t write for a year. I loved my kids, but working 80 hours a week just didn’t do it for me. It’s also really hard to be a good teacher when your biological clock won’t let you sleep before 3 and when getting up early/your job/life causes massive amounts of anxiety that turn 3 into 6 and you have to just go to work and say screw sleep for another day.
Yeah, that didn’t work for me.
Then some crazy lady decided to T-bone my car, bust open the ligaments in my neck, and slam me into bed for six weeks. After some interesting physical therapy and some huge doctor bills and a lawyer (and a few instances of my left arm going numb and tingling), I decided going back to teach for another year plus grad school would be ill-advised. So I quit.
Now I use my $125,000 history degree to better serve people cocktails and beer. This has been a very, very good decision for me. I make enough money to pay my bills and go to my conference in January. And I write every day. Yep. Every day. My soul flits about my apartment and sometimes perches on my shoulder.
The point of all this is to say this: if you need a day job to pay the bills, find one that fulfills you and that you enjoy, or one that you can simply perform and then leave at work. That was what I needed. I needed a job that left me alone when I went home and didn’t come sneaking up behind me while I tried to sleep, whispering in my ear that nothing I could do would really make a difference to my kids.
So if you must work (which you probably must), it is possible to walk that sword. To pay your bills without losing your soul, and to write without collectors coming to steal it. It might take some time (took me four years) to find a way to do this, but it is possible. I don’t plan to work in the service industry forever, but for now it suits me, and sometimes it even gives me ideas. I see familiar faces every day at work, and that is something that rejuvenates me — our regulars are very kind and friendly, and they don’t really try to steal my soul. Well, Kevin might, but he’d probably give it back after playing with it for a while. He’s also the sort of valiant person who offered to fart on my tables if they gave me lip. So all in all, my work environment is pretty pleasant. And when I come home, I write.
Like this:
Don’t Bore Anybody
Sentence structure. At first when I saw this tip in the list of The 25, my first impulse was to snore. It seems so mundane — something to take for granted.
I think that somewhere between middle school and high school, every student gets (or should get) a lecture on different kinds of sentences. You have the declarative sentence. Subject, predicate. Ta-da! You have the compound sentence, and you learn the little gaggle of conjunctions that join it together. (See what I did there?) Beyond the simpler sentences, you have the complex sentence in all its varying forms. (I did it again!) If you’re really looking to perform verbal pyrotechnics, you can use a compound-complex sentence, but you should always make sure it doesn’t coil around you and choke you with its length. (Not that long ones are always bad, but I’ve seen some that take up a whole paragraph. I mean, really.) Once you learn all that, you get the talk on using them. Writing goes from elementary to textured. Example:
See Spot run. See Jane run. Spot chases Jane. Spot slobbers. Spot growls. Jane screams. Spot bites Jane. Jane falls down. Jane shoots Spot. Spot bites more. Jane becomes a zombie. See Jane shamble. Hear John scream.
Only one of those sentences is more than three words long. The rest are two or three. Simple. Subject, predicate. A little action happens, but for the most part, the rhythm is choppy, stilted, and…somehow still a little charming. (I can’t help being pleased with this little example.)
The point is, there is no variation in sentence structure. Example #2:
Jane panted like the dog that chased her. Spot. Her puppy. The slavering beast hounding her footsteps bore little resemblance to the furball she and John had brought home for their first wedding anniversary. One backward glance showed Spot too close, his jaws frothing with spittle, snapping at every other paw’s impact with the green, green grass. One backward glance was too much. Jane’s feet slammed into a concrete pile-on, sending her sprawling on rough sidewalk. The burn of the scrapes was lost in the fire of Spot’s fangs sinking into her leg. Jane screamed. Spot pulled back and lunged at her throat. Hot breath on her face. Blood poured from her neck. Darkness.
The first example is something that would be expected from a (deranged) first grader or second grader. The second would be expected from someone who had gone through some more advanced grammar. The difference between them is sentence structure. Here’s what they have to say about that in The 25.
8. Sentence Structure
Well. I don’t know that any writer in the 21st century worries about subjects and predicates. Or believes that one shouldn’t begin a sentence with and or but or or. Or thinks contractions are slang. So I don’t have much to say on this matter.But this is important.
Generally, I don’t like rules for writers. The First Amendment doesn’t, either. But the English language is democracy in action. It responds to its users. If it didn’t, we’d still be saying “prithee” and calling taxis “hacks.” Hence, my 30-minute recommendation is to sit down and write whatever moves you, following only one rule:
Don’t bore anybody.
—Spikol
I like what he says here. It leaves a lot of wiggle room. I adore wiggle room. It’s like handing a four-year-old a coloring page and some fingerpaint and telling her to have at it. Permission to get messy and go outside the lines.
The interesting thing about those two examples is that I don’t think either is really boring. The first one was supposed to be, and granted it is choppy and stilted, but it somehow still works. A really gruesome picture book. Sentence structure should vary and respond to what you’re writing. If you are writing a Tarantino-esque kiddie book, go for the short ones. Fun, fun, fun.
If your scenes are dragging, try chopping up your sentences. Throw in some short ones. Maybe even a well-timed fragment. Writing is art — you should know the rules, but you should also be able to sense when to give those rules the finger. Sometimes it’s more effective that way. I think we can all agree that creativity is a sledgehammer that bashes through walls and opens up new worlds. Maybe it’s like Thor’s hammer, powers of destruction and creation in one compact design.
The biggest piece of advice I take from this tip is not to bore anybody. When reading the concluding chapters from my book, I was bored. Ten seconds from Snoresville. My response was to bust out the sledgehammer. It’s helping. Not done yet, but that’s what a work in progress is all about. Even if your work isn’t boring you, it might bore someone else. That’s another reason your networks of readers are so vital to the craft. If they’re bored, hopefully they’ll tell you so. When my husband is bored, he’ll groan a loud, obnoxious “Snoooore!!!” I mean he says the word; he doesn’t fake a snore. I look forward to him reading my book if nothing else for that. I’ll dive-bomb the room and slash whatever page he’s on with red pen.
In conclusion, choosing how to structure your sentences ties in with a lot of the other tips on pacing, precision, and a holistic way of looking at writing. Be true to your story, your characters, and how everything unfolds, and you should be able to handle this tip without having to agonize over it. If you’re in the polishing or revision stages, it’s a great buffing pad to shine things up. Even if something works, sometimes you can still make it better by amending some sentences and making them more fluid, choppier, simpler, more complex, or just clearer. That’s the beauty of writing. Works of writing are evolving things. They respond to you as you mold them. Have fun with them and they’ll reward you in kind. I wish you all happy trails! (Hopefully devoid of Spot and other zombie-dogs.)
Like this:
“I Like Your Waist”
One might wonder why I decided to title this blog the way I did. Very well; I’ll explain.
Today I went to the post office to mail the thank-you notes from my bridal shower, return some books from the Science Fiction Book Club that were mistakenly sent to me, and get my Netflix rolling again. While buying my stamps, the woman helping me suddenly said, “I like your waist.”
My first impulse was to say, “I beg your pardon?” I didn’t think I’d heard her right. My waist? What does that have to do with…anything? She repeated herself, and I discovered that yes, she was indeed complimenting me on my waist. I don’t think anyone has ever specifically done such a thing before, at least in regards to me. I was torn between my fascination with the compliment and a slew of thoughts that flooded me right on its heels. What intrigued me so about her little declarative statement was that it was very specific, and that it’s not a body part many people would single out. Sort of like saying, “You have lovely kneecaps” or “I admire your shoulder blades.”
It also brought up something that was sparked a few days ago when I read an article regarding how we as a society talk to little girls. How often are the first words out of our mouths something about a little girl being pretty, cute, or beautiful? How often do we comment on her adorable little dress or her shiny shoes? Her perfect hair? How often would we say most of that to a little boy? I realized that it doesn’t really change. If a stranger speaks to me, nine times out of ten it’s to remark on my looks. I can’t remember the last time I was approached with a legitimate question about the time or directions or hell, to sign a petition.
I currently work as a cocktail server. Yes, server, not waitress. I serve drinks. I am a server. It’s gender-neutral, and I prefer it that way. I know I’m expected to look put together when I work, and though I find it a little degrading (especially because I have to dress up like a Pauli girl in two weeks), I’m more or less okay with it, because I recognize that my job right now is a means to an end. It’s a way to pay the bills while I concentrate my mental faculties on getting my novel published until the time comes that I can make my living that way. The way people treat me, however, is constantly a point to ponder. There are those who don’t even use basic niceties like “please” or “thank you.” There are plenty who ask me personal questions that they would never ask someone who they didn’t perceive to be a lower social status. I’ve been grabbed, harassed, and even bullied.
I rarely get questions about my life beyond work, even from tables who try to engage me in active conversation. Even then, it can feel very condescending. To an extent, the men I work with get it too, but the women have to put up with that and much, much more.
It all sort of ties in to how women are still viewed. I’m a writer. I’m an intellectual. I love to think, to analyze, to evaluate. Very few people bother to find out what is going on in my brain, or the brains of many women, if not most. I could read when I started kindergarten. If I can manage it, my children will too. I will make sure that male or female, my kids are intellectually stimulated at home and in the world. It saddens me that women are still viewed as being something pretty to look at. Women are beautiful; I’m not denying that or demeaning it. What I’m saying is that we’re even more beautiful on the inside. What’s in our minds, our personalities. How we try and how we learn.
My challenge to you is this, gentle viewers. Next time you meet a young girl, hold your tongue on the compliments. What’s on her head or those dimpled cheeks are just the wrapping. Instead, ask her questions. Does she like books? Which one is her favorite? Why? What makes those characters special? If nothing else, what’s her favorite movie? Why? Why is the bad guy bad? How are the good characters smart? Ask her if she wants to know what makes a rainbow. Most adults can tell a child that much science. Ask her if she noticed that her puppy grows up like she does. Ask her what she likes and why. Ask her what she likes to do, what sports she plays, what her favorite games are. She might be shy at first, but keep trying. Show her an adult who expects little girls to think, to use their insides as well as their outs.
It’s what’s inside that matters. Just like a good, well-written character has faults as well as strengths, the value of humanity isn’t in what we look like. It’s the whole picture.
I write urban fantasy. Many of my characters are vampires, shapeshifters, seers, witches. I purposely did not describe them all as inhumanly beautiful. They sometimes have big noses or awkward brow lines. Most of them age, even if it’s more slowly than those of the human persuasion. They’re not perfectly good or perfectly evil. Sometimes the good guys act awfully shitty. Sometimes the bad guys surprise you. All the ones in between act like people going through life and making choices. I wanted it gritty. I wanted it real. And I don’t want to flood the market with more perfect-looking characters none of us can really relate to.
Here’s to vampires after the glitter has worn off.
(Progress note: I am almost at the halfway mark of draft two. I will write a post about that tomorrow, I hope.)
In Which Ms. Mears Has an Encounter With a Gorse Bush
In a manner of speaking.
Today on the way home from work, my fiance got on a now semi-weekly rant at me about needing to get my book out there. You know, the one that I’ve been sitting on long enough to have the first chapter embedded in my arse?
It was akin to Pooh trundling along the Hundred Acre Wood only to somehow land bum-side down in a gorse bush. In which I am Pooh, and his words are the gorse bush. They stung. Much like the embedded chapter.
To tell the truth, I have been feeling very itchy lately. Prickly about the state of my novel. A wee bit at a loss to understand how nearly three years have gone by since I finished the first draft and I’m no closer to having it on a shelf than I was upon its conclusion. I’ve made plenty of excuses. I’m moving, getting married, working weird hours, tired, hungry, ooh, shiny!!! Perhaps what I need is a gorse bush under my bum in order for me to just bloody get a move on already.
At the end of the day, after as many fits and starts as I’ve had in the last year (just read this blog to know the lot of it), the responsibility falls to me. I got a great deal of inspiration from reading Michael Larsen’s advice on the world of literary agents, and more than a bit of intimidation from the same. My end goal is not to wallpaper our study with rejection letters, nor is it to fling my manuscript to the wind and see where it lands. I want to feel like I’m putting my best foot forward with the world of publishing.
When I send out my first query letters, I want nothing more than to feel like they are honed, heat-seeking missiles destined for the hottest agents around. I want those agents to receive something that explodes into something big for them. Not explodes literally, of course, unless they reject it. (Kidding.) I want to package myself as a career writer. This is what I want to do with my life. I have a plan for publicizing my work. I have the ambition and the drive necessary to make this my life’s work. I have a voice worth committing to paper and many stories worth the telling that I believe are salable and relevant. I don’t think I can succeed, I know I can. I am committed to this path.
The uncertainty comes from wanting to always put my best foot forward. I don’t want to flail around willy-nilly and then wonder why it didn’t work. I want to be decisive and comprehensive, sure-footed and confident. That’s what will make me a successful author. I’m already a successful writer — I’ve found a story and committed it to paper. Whether or not this becomes my career depends wholly on me and where I go from here.
Back to the gorse bush. I need to stand up and start moving. I need to leave those prickles in my bum as a reminder that if I fail at this, it’s no one’s fault but mine. I may never be a multi-millionaire, but I can guarantee I’ll never make my living at this if I don’t get my momentum back.
And I’m glad someone is there to hold me accountable for it. For that, I have to thank my fiance. Though he’s never read my novels, he believes in me. When he pushed me bum-first into that gorse bush today, at first all I felt were the prickles, but now looking back, he’s absolutely right. Accountability. He’s pushing me.
If anyone stops by to read this, feel free to push my bum into the gorse bush as well. I think I need it.
Like this:
MIA
Not the princess of Genovia. (Why on earth would you make up a country, anyway? Much as I love Anne Hathaway, The Princess Diaries would have been so much better if they threw in a badass swordfight or had Princess Mia saving the world from an invasion of bodysnatching robots. But then again, what wouldn’t be improved by those things?)
I have been doing that thing where I get sucked into life junque. Memorial Day was lovely. I participated in the annual ritual sacrifice of gnawing on pig rib cages, driving long stakes through the hearts of various vegetables, and indulging in large amounts of salads that contain neither vegetables nor anything resembling health. It was lovely. However, upon my return to reality (and thus, work — ugh), I had an encounter with my scale which left me rather scarred and frightened, although it did give me an explanation for those size 13 shorts I had to buy.
I’m not one to fuss too much about weight. As long as I feel good, I’m fine. But that’s the thing — lately I’m sluggish, lazy, and sleep-deprived. So I’ve decided to do something about it, which has left me a bit behind in the writing world.
Fear not, gentle viewers. More writing is afoot. I’ve spent a whopping 266 minutes this week on the elliptical exercising and shaking my booty (why treadmill those pounds when you can dance them off? I mean, really) just to ensure that my booty doesn’t end up causing shaking when it passes. That would be bad. And not nearly as cool as a boobquake. Although according to my boyfriend, his coworkers regularly comment on my bootyliciosity. I’m a bit perplexed by that and ever-so-slightly unnerved. I don’t know if I want to be known for my rear endy parts. At least it’s a term of approval.
Okay, my bum aside. I really will get back to writing and away from these meandering digressions. Do you see what the imminent onset of summer break does to me? Look at me, I’m molting. (Not really.)
New Project
I started this new project several months ago, sort of as an exercise. It’s an autobiographical piece with a rather lyrical turn of phrase, poetic in parts, somewhat experimental. It’s pretty special, because it’s going to be a gift. I’m copying it into a leather journal I bought, which is painstaking but will be worth it in the end.
It’s a joyous project that I’m very excited about. It’s going to take a while, which is why I finally got going on it now. I had something happen today that sort of spurred it on and lit a fire under my bum. I can’t wait.
More than anything though, I can’t wait for the next month to go by. Or rather, the next 3.5 weeks. There is a lot in those weeks that I am looking forward to, but mostly just the sheer joy of being finished with this job. And this weekend is a long weekend, so hurrah for that!
In Pursuit of Happiness
According to the preamble to the Constitution of the good old U.S. of A., this is one of those little inalienable rights that we are endowed with as human beens. And it’s this particular right that I am in the process of taking out for a spin.
I know that it doesn’t guarantee happiness, but if the right to pursue it is there, that’s good enough for me. (Random thought: how is it possible to guarantee this?)
What this means for me is that I am going to chase this little fledgling (actually full-fledged) dream of writing for a living. I don’t say “being a writer” because I am one of those — I just don’t get paid for it. Unless I am a horrible person and write at work when I should be doing other things…ahem.
Today I was thinking about my story. And the stories of others. There is a quote that says a story is life with the dull parts taken out. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, seeing as how plenty of stories have dull bits in them — and the idea of what is dull is subjective. However, I will say that I think a story has to be told as though it’s unfolding in front of you. Some authors manage to make it work in other ways, like telling it through letters or through dialogue — I’ve seen that work effectively in the past — but most of the time it needs to just play.
Even though 99% of novels are written in past tense, when they’re written well, it’s like you’re in the same room with the characters. You can smell their sweat and feel the shivers. If it’s told like you would tell a friend what you did yesterday, it won’t keep my attention. It lacks the flow, the tide that sucks you in. Such a flow is not something that is easy to accomplish, especially in a vomit draft.
A lot of times, when we write, we have a concept in our head and we write it down the way it makes sense to us. It’s in the editing process where we go in with a scalpel and cut into it until it makes sense to others. The best writing makes readers forget they’re reading — and this holds true with non-fiction as well as fiction.
This post is really not cohesive. For that, gentle viewers, I apologize.
Here’s a brief update on my writing progress before I attempt to cajole my body into sleeping:
(Ooh! “Sleeping” put me at exactly 500 words so far! How exciting.)
Today one of my characters got blown up. I kind of think she deserved it. She’s been in a snit this entire book. Regardless, I feel bad for her. She has a lot going on in her noggin. I just wish she’d stop acting like a 12-year-old hormone bomb and more like the badass lion she is. Seriously.
I am making some good progress. Elemental looks like it will wind up being about 100,000-120,000 words, which is right where I want/expect it to be. Primeval will probably get trimmed a bit, but its successor might be able to get away with being a bit longer. Right now I’m at roughly 85,000. I did the math on Primeval yesterday and found that as is, it’s about 440 book pages if you count it out assuming around 250 per page. That’s the length I’m going for. I’m not Jo Rowling…yet.
To round out this meandering sort of post, I just stumbled across a rather perfect metaphor thanks to a friend who posted a picture of a little dark cloud against an overcast sky. It reminded me very much of Winnie-the-Pooh, who decided one day to disguise himself as a little black rain cloud in his pursuit of honey, which happened to be at the top of a tall tree. He did so by rolling in some very black mud and holding tight to a balloon, hoping that the bees would not think he was threatening their livelihood.
Whilst floating above the earth, Pooh sang, “Oh, I’m just a little black rain cloud!” (The full lyrics to which can be found here) Needless to say, the bees were not fooled by this endeavor, and Pooh swiftly found himself plunging rear-end first into a gorse bush.
The moral of this story is this: We have the freedom to pursue our honey by whatever means we see fit. It may be at the top of a very tall tree, but if we’re not afraid of falling a few times and getting some gorse in our bums, we just might get there one day.
*In case you’re wondering which books these are, they are, respectively: David Eddings’ Belgariad and Malloreon series, which are phenomenal; and Daughters of Darkness, by LJ Smith, who was the woman responsible for hooking me on vampires about 15 years ago. The characters to which I’m referring here are Ce’Nedra and Mary-Lynnette.
Alba gu brath…
Hello, world!
No, I mean it. In a shocking feat of bravery, this American is venturing beyond her borders this summer, proving that there are a chosen few of us who do have a passport and do realize that there is something else out there. Whoa. Yeah, I know, I probably just blew your mind.
In all seriousness and without any attempt at disguising my native cynicism, my country wouldn’t have such a bad name when it came to their approach to other countries if it weren’t based in reality. Less than 18% of us even own a passport. How sad. There’s a big wide world out there, and it’s really quite lovely.
So, where am I headed, you ask? Well, it’s back to the motherland for me! Scotland, to be specific. I’m taking a much needed (though ill-afforded) 10 day adventure to clear my head and refocus on following my bliss. It couldn’t come at a better time. I found a relatively cheap flight — I say relatively because dear lord, when did airfare taxes start doubling the cost of a ticket? It wasn’t quite double, but close. The taxes were a full 60-70% of my ticket cost. That’s pretty outrageous.
Anyway, it’s been almost three and a half years since I’ve been back to bonnie Scotland, and it’s high time that got fixed. So I’m off while I have a wee bit of free time. It’ll also give me a chance to fine-tune some of the Scotland descriptions in my novels. I don’t think they’re bad now, but refreshing my own memory can’t hurt. maybe I’ll even find some new ones. I do have a sneaking suspicion that I know where all of the big plot to-do’s are going to come to a head, and this trip will give me a chance to explore it and record the necessary impressions I get of the place. I have two options for it, so we’ll see which one wins out, shall we? I cannot wait.
Not Much News
I didn’t get any real fiction written today. Not a particularly good day in any way, shape, or form. Is it June 22 yet? I am yearning for summer, for the chance to set my life right.
I knew when I moved here what I should do, and yet I didn’t do it. I took the tempting teaching job because frankly, it paid more than I ever have made before. I knew the hours would be brutal for a nocturnal critter like myself. I knew the sheer hours per week expected of me would frequently be almost double a “normal” full time schedule. I had spent years adamantly telling people who inquired that no, for pity’s sake, I did not want to teach, damn it. And yet I did it anyway. The kids are the only thing that have made it worth it this year. I honestly cannot justify my decision in any way besides that. The stress and the things I have put up with are beyond belief. The fact that my body has nearly given up on me is something that I hope will be forgiven in time. (Please, body? I <3 you. Don’t hurt me.)
I knew when I moved here that I ought to find a job working in a bookstore, just being around books, concentrate on my writing, and keep being poor. That was by far the better idea. Instead, I got greedy. And the irony of it is that my expenses went up drastically enough that I really don’t have that much extra money. Har-de-har-har. Joke’s on me. I think the universe is pointedly telling me to follow my bliss already.
On that philosophical note, I’m going to rest my poor tender head for the evening and then go face the Inquisition tomorrow. Literally. My department at school is being audited, which is awesome, because I’ve been there so much in the past month. Sigh. Stupid lady who hit me with her car. The good news is, I can beg out and leave early because my neck is so screwed it might never be the same.
Ah, la vie. Qui peut comprender? (I don’t even know if that was French. I don’t speak French, but I pretend. Alors, le singe est sur le branch. Mais, non. Le singe est…disparu.)
Progress?
I seem to be developing the propensity to title my blogs with questions. Oh well. For now, it can’t be helped. I’m okay with it.
I wrote about five pages of Elemental today, which was exciting. I got through a plot point I have been itching toward for a while — it’s something that will really prove important by book 3, and I feel good about having really introduced it. I touched on it briefly already in Primeval and have hinted a bit more in Elemental, but the pages I wrote today should really hook the reader on this tidbit of info and make them really ponder what it could mean. Because it does have meaning. And a cool one at that.
That’s about all the news on the writing front. Words cannot describe how good it feels to have produced something after this long hiatus. Maybe it’s because this horrible job is winding to a close — maybe it’s because I’m beginning to make some serious decisions about how to move my life forward, in spite of my current plight of feeling totally and completely directionless and a bit lost. Writing has been one of the few constants in my life, whether I was stealing my mother’s expensive day planners to scribble my childish stories or filling journals with teenage angst. It’s always been there, and I think that accomplishing what I did today was a relief in that it reminded me that I can still do it. My goal is to write at least a thousand pages a day, or at least average out to 7,000 a week or so. Preferably more, but I’m going to ease myself back into it.
I met up with a writing group last night, which was great. It’s a group of speculative fiction lovers, whether fantasy, sci-fi, supernatural, alternative history, etc. It looks like it will be a good thing for me to get involved with other writers again.
In other news, my beloved city of Nashville, Tennessee is under water. If you haven’t heard about it, the Cumberland and Harpeth rivers that both run through and around Nashville gained about 26+ feet over the weekend, causing catastrophic flooding and billions of dollars of damage to homes and businesses. I-24 became a raging river, and the water was forceful and deep enough to detach homes from foundations and even sent a modular school building floating down the interstate.
One of my closest friends had to be emergency evacuated from her apartment — she’s very lucky, and it turns out the water only got ankle deep and her car even still works, but thousands of others were not so lucky. My old boss had to sit and watch from his home as a man was stranded up a tree in his Forest Hills neighborhood — Tom couldn’t get to him as there was fast moving water that was far too dangerous to move through, and I’m told the man was stranded there for at least 20 hours in the pouring rain. There are thousands of other stories like these. I’m dismayed and disappointed that the national media is paying only cursory attention to this disaster. Almost 30 people have died so far, and countless others are without power, clean water, and homes. If you are at all able, please text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10 to the relief efforts.
I only lived in Nashville for a year, but it is a truly lovely city full of warm and inviting people. To see loved ones and colleagues entrapped in this disaster and also being nationally ignored is heartbreaking, and I wish I could do more to help. I don’t get a ton of views on this blog, but hopefully enough people will read this and be moved enough to spare $10. If enough people do it, it really does make a difference.
Please help.
<3 Emmie
