« November 2006 | Main | January 2007 »
It's time to bid adieu to 2006.
I consider this the finest year of my acquaintance.
I will miss it.
Here is hoping 2007 kicks ass.
Chant it with me folks: bestseller lists, bestseller lists, bestseller lists.
May your New Year shine bright and happy (and healthy for those of you afflicted with nasty colds)!
Okay, so remember how enamored I was of my freedom?
I have a confession.
I have no idea what to do with myself for hours if not write.
Yup.
A little over 36 hours into my freedom from writing binge and I find myself thinking about book #3.
I have to remind myself that in less than a week I'll have to polish and scrub book #2.
It's not asif I don't have a day job.
When did I become so utterly incapable of slacking?
It's finished! I completed the down and dirty draft of book #2 just before I visited family for the holidays. In celebration, I am giving myself until January 1st to relax and not write a single word if I feel so inclined toward that brand of laziness.
This reprieve allows me to indulge in all manner of things I've not had the time or inclination to do, such as:
Reading. I just finished Laura Lipmann's Every Secret Thing and quite enjoyed it. I have a stack of books by the bed awaiting my now-able-to-read eyes.
Cooking. Oh the sad food products I consume at the height of busy writing. Best left unsaid, really. I just got an Ina Garten cookbook and man, oh man, I'm already putting it to use. I made roasted potato and fennel soup and hoo-damn! It rocked! So yummy.
Baking. I have my eyes on the coconut cupcake recipe in the same cookbook. I'll have to wait until later this week though, when the roommates return. Otherwise I'll have to consume all 18 cupcakes.
Movies. I used to watch a lot more movies, both in the theaters and at home, but my viewing fell off since my free time per night was averaging 45 minutes on a good night. I plan to watch The Thomas Crown Affair tonight (the Brosnan/Russo version). I really dig that movie. Clever thieves turn me on.
Contacting friends. I have been absolutely crap about keeping in touch lately. I must and will amend this.
Sometimes you don't quite realize how crazy-busy things have become until they stop.
If you'll excuse me, I have a date with an art thief and a bowl of popcorn with melted chocolate chips (don't make that face--it's delicious!)
I'm nearing the end of book two. At about this time friends will ask, "How long until you finish?" and I always say, "I don't know," because, in truth, I don't know. It could be fifteen pages or thirty. The ending has to happen naturally, so it grows into itself. Oh man, that sounds hippie-dippy, but it's true. I can't just slam the words "The End" after any given paragraph.
Though in this instance, as with My Summer of Southern Discomfort, I find the end happens more quickly than I anticipate. That is, once I get near it I realize I can speed the action considerably and resolve things faster than originally planned. Good thing too. I'm on page 519 now. I'd like this thing to weigh less than two tons when I print it out.
Recently I had the opportunity to edit my page proofs and correct an error of fact I had learned of recently through my friend Mandy. Mandy is a lawyer, just like my character Natalie is a lawyer. In the context of a conversation she let drop that opposing counsel do not sit next to each other during depositions.
"Really?" I asked.
Really, really, she assured me.
I panicked because I had sat opposing counsel next to each other during the deposition scene in my novel.
Oh the horror! The wrongness of it all! I would be derided by all lawyers, laughed at by critics for this basest of law culture mistakes.
So when the proofs came I was happy to be able to fix this error. I read the scene, looking for the part where my lawyers sit down. I looked and then I looked some more. You know what? It wasn't there. Yes, they depose a witness. Yes, they are seated. But nowhere on the page does it mention where they are sitting.
That, my friends, was all in my head. It got me to wondering just how many other such scenes and situations exist in the novel that I could describe with perfect clarity, but which, in fact, exist not on the page. I know that as a reader I have committed the same action: settling characters where I like in a room where the author has not done so explicitly. If I get too far into a book without a character's description I make one up and if the later author's description conflicts with my own, too bad. Mine, having come first, usually lives on.
A funny thing happens when people learn you're a writer. They approach you with ideas they have for books. Great ideas, only they don't want to/can't write them as a book, so would you, the writer, like to work the idea into a book?
Um, no, no, and no.
As a writer my problem is not generating ideas for stories. I think few writers have this problem. The problems I have are finding time to complete my novels, making sure my characters remain true to form, not losing track of my narrative thread, and creating an engaging world readers want to visit.
Besides, some of the ideas I have had launched at me are just awful. Even when they are good, they are often not compelling enough to me to write about. I need to feel passion for my subject, and the very fact that it's someone else's dims my interest.
The only exception to this rule is my mother. She once told me of an idea she had for a screenplay, and, typically, I said, "Yeah, yeah, Mom. Great idea. I don't think so." About a year later, I did develop her idea into a screenplay (that needs final revisions--that time crunch thing again). Her idea was great. But she's my Mom. So she gets special treatment.
Many months ago a little publication called 400 Words sent out a call for true stories of personal compulsions (all of 400 words or less). Oh boy, I thought. I have compulsions! And then I settled on submitting the one I was fairly certain they had not gotten before: my panda cam viewing compulsion.
During his early months at the National Zoo, I watched Butterstick (Tai Shan) the baby panda every day on panda cam. Often I would check the site more than once an hour, every day. His fuzzy face captivated me. It also had a soothing effect unlike anything else I can compare it to, except strong prescription pain drugs. Butterstick lowers my blood pressure. They should prescribe him to people with rage issues. No one can be angry while watching him tumble about.
So the Compulsions issue of 400 Words came to print and I got my issue. Since then the 'stick has gained about 70 pounds and he now subsists largely on bamboo, not mother's milk. I don't watch him on panda cam as often, but when I do I still get the same rush of endorphins. Butterstick makes me happy. As compulsions go, it's pretty tame, and a damn sight better than smoking.
I was wailing about my need to complete the first draft of Book #2 by December 31st when the very handsome boyfriend interrupted to say "But that's YOUR deadline, right?"
Yes, I explained. My deadline. All my writing deadlines are my deadlines because I have not become so famous as to have editors saying, "When's the next book coming out and how many bags of money can we give you for it?"
I got his point, which was: the deadline is not carved upon stone. My point is: only because I don't have a chisel.
Deadlines are goals. Some go unmet. But without one I would have less to motivate me to get on with it. And towards the end, when you can see the goal and you're running toward it, it feels rather good. Sort of like an actual race, only without the muscle cramps and shortness of breath that follows.