How I Spent my Summer Vacation

This summer, I went to China. I saw the Great Wall, and the Forbidden City, and Summer Palace. It was awesome. We ate strange foods. I saw my family. The people were nice. Someday I hope I can go again.

(That would be my expository paragraph if I was a third grader. Except the spelling would probably be worse.)

Wow. Summer is officially over, at least according to Arizona school schedules, and I am still wondering where those sweat-filled days went. I did go to China, but it was in April, so technically it doesn't count. From May through July I spent most of my time trying to a) watch my daughter and keep her entertained, b) keep the house moderately clean, and c) unsuccessfully look for a job. My requirements aren't that high, I just want a job that allows me to work part-time, not have to pay for childcare, do something that I enjoy, preferably from the house. It shouldn't be that hard, right?*

As far as writing is concerned ... Let me spare you, or rather myself, the details. Just one word: ug. This blog is definitely helping me push myself back in to writing, but it is a struggle. I find that I can be very productive when Aubrey is napping! I need a place to get away every day to write, but even that has taken a second place to my guilt over needing to find a job. Still, every little bit of writing matters.

*I'm interested in this tutoring position, and have the application all ready to go, but am still waiting for the letters of recommendation from my old employers. I even went to the school for face-to-face motivation. I know that it's the beginning of the school year, but it's been over three weeks now. Urg. The positions will be gone by the time I can apply.

and again and again ...

In honor of my last post, here are the beginnings of (some of) the projects that I am working on currently. Respectively, they are my first novel, a short story that is on its first draft, and a short story I am hoping to someday publish.


Through the Woods

As soon as her carriage entered the forest, Caetlyn could feel the thin veil of awareness settling around her body, a feeling of being watched from afar. Words too soft to be heard, bodies too indistinct to be seen among the trees. She vaguely remembered these woods, but not the feeling. Leaning forward, peering into the night, Caetlyn searched out the darkness. She thought she saw a flicker of a cape, but it was just a leaf; a slender arm, but it was just a bare tree branch. Sighing, she leaned back in her rough seat and stared straight ahead.


(Untitled)

Shadows danced along the wooden fence of the backyard, awkward balls of arms and legs, bodies arching into a curve, followed by an explosion of raindrops that resulted in dark stains splattering against the wooden slates before quickly drying in the hot night. Shouts of laughter from young children drifted past the water stains and carried in the desert night air up to the clean stars, shining in a sky that was the undecided blue color of somewhere between night and day.


We Once Believed in Fairy Tales

Abbie made an attempt to descend the bus steps with dignity. She struggled with her huge suitcase and the tote bag that she knew the bus driver had smirked at when she first got on. Lemon scented skin and frosted hair may mark her out as a city girl, but that bright tote read country bumpkin all over it. Not that the driver had any right to judge, not smelling like raw earth as he did. A farmer’s smell. Abbie had worked hard to rid herself of the stench. Even after several months in Newark she had imagined the smell creeping back after the shower, until she asked the advice of a colleague and began using lemon soap. She wished she could banish her current awkwardness just as easily. Stumbling down the last step, she muttered curses at the driver under her breath. He was tearing down the road before she regained her balance. Six years in the city, and the moment she returns to the countryside she’s as gawky and self-conscious as when she left.

Begin again and again and again ...

I love starting new stories. The clean paper has so much potential: characters and dialogue hanging on the rim of my mind, settings that are hazy and beautiful, all perfect in their incompletion. Like fragments of a dream that are illogical but perfectly comprehensible to the sleeping mind. The problem begins as soon as I try to drag those lovely ideas unto the paper and force them to fit my words. No finished story is ever complete; it always lacks the wonder of my half-formed ideas.

What happens in my writing process, then, as I become disillusioned with the cold, black words that are trying to encompass my images? Typically, I start strong, with powerful evocative descriptions and glimpses of the story to come, and generally a sense of wonder and excitement. As I continue on, however, my writing starts to lose force. I slog through the bits that don't feel as natural and then suddenly stumble on a new scene that feels fresh, a new start. At the end, I have a story with a great hook and some later lovely passages, but one that doesn't quite hold together, and doesn't fulfill the promise of its first pages.

Enter revisions.

When I was little, of course, there was no persevering. I started, and when the shine began to wear off, I stopped. I got bored. I have an abundance of ghosts from my childhood, stories that were started and then abandoned, lost.

(I also like beginning new books. These I always finish, but when the temptation is on me I'm liable to pick up another novel, which leaves me reading an awful amount at the same time. I can easily hit six or seven works in progress at once.)

What's the Point?

My husband and I already have a blog, which is mostly about our lovely daughter, Aubrey, who is just over a year old. We started it when she was born, and at first I was more diligent in updating it, but lately the posts have slowed down to one or two a month, if you're lucky. Or not, I suppose. I've just never been good at maintaining diaries and journals, and our blog is basically an online version. So why in the world am I starting a brand new blog, when I can't even keep up with the first?

I've been in a real writing slump lately. I'm revising a novel, and revising is just about as much fun as giving a cat a bath; revising a novel can be positively maddening. It's the first one that I have ever written, and so many details have to be maintained, story strands and character developments and themes and consistency. At times I begin to hate that book - which actually happens with all my work, but that's an entry for another time.

Also, I've been sending out my work and receiving rejection letters. I know, I know, that is the gauntlet that all would-be writers must run: the steady inflow of "Thank you for considering us, but while your work shows merit, I'm afraid it is not right for us at this time." Sigh. Even if you know that they're coming, that doesn't make it any easier. I've only received 9 rejections so far and my courage is flagging.

So, I started a blog, in an effort to encourage myself to write more and have thicker skin. After all, narcissism is a powerful tool. On this page I will detail my current writing adventures, reminisce about past experiences, and revel in my reading. Hopefully, I will go straight from here to working on my current projects (baby permitting). Hey, maybe I will even keep this page updated regularly. Forget nature - online inspiration, darling, is the new muse.

A Cabin and a Wolf

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I also wanted to live in a cabin in the woods, with a wolf for companion-protector, where I could compose my bestselling books in peace. The funny thing is that I didn't really write that much when I was younger, but I read and read and read. I loved books.

I really liked wolves, too.

I wanted to be a person that contributed to that wonderful world of literature, but all of my ideas were young and unformed. I started a lot of stories that I didn't finish, and I wrote a lot of stories that sounded suspiciously like books that I had recently read, and I even began fantasy novels that were horrendous. I know. I kept some of them, and sometimes I look over all those old manuscripts for a good laugh.

Now I've hit the big 3-0 mark, and I still want to be a writer. I have my ups and downs, good weeks and bad, good years and bad, but I keep slogging away, convincing myself that I really can do this. I generally finish my stories these days, and I am even finishing an actual novel. I've tried submitting my work to a few journals and agents, but haven't had any takers yet. So how different am I from that little girl twenty years ago? I still read way more than I write, I still have huge dreams of joining that ghostly world of ideas and dreams spun into words, and I still don't know if anyone but close family members and friends are ever going to read my attempts. The only real difference is that I have traded in my naive confidence for skill and persistence. Sure, I've trained and matured in my writing, but I miss that little girl in me, the one who knew with certainty that someday she would live in a cabin in the woods with a wolf and write bestsellers. I want to have the same belief in myself that she had. Someday. Someday.