stirlingbennett

Dear NaNo Novel,

I've decided to keep track of what I'm doing every day to help you live. You are merely a slim, shiny idea right now, but soon you will be a mess of words and characters and wounds and

Sorry. Started that a while ago and never finished.

Dear NaNo Novel,

Don't you love that epiphany I had about the plot, about why Pops needs Joss to stay underwater? Doesn't it make so much more sense this way? And didn't you love how I just came right back to you after reading BALLAD, after reading it and thinking with every amazing phrase like that one about her thumb leaving behind invisible promises and oh freaking hell and I can't remember the rest but they are there, and how they sort of devastated me and the plot was so tight and tricksy I was sort of bereft of hope and love for my own dear you, and then I finished it, let it blow my mind for a few minutes, took a little nap, and then right back to writing you, all unblocked?

Yeah me too.

Love,
Your Symbiotic Creator-Type Person

Sometimes I get mildly irritated when people complain about rainy days and call them 'dreary.' And then I think, that's probably how people feel about me always making faces at the sun and wishing audibly for some clouds. Some saturated clouds.

Plus, I'm about to initiate the attack on Book I, otherwise known as The First Time I Have Ever Attempted A Book-Length Revision. I feel like this is what will happen: I will fool around with Scrivener and get my tens of thousands of words of plotting, backstory, character musings, Really Good Questions That Need to be Answered and Exciting Revelations That Need to be Worked Into the Story Somehow all in order and cohesive and making a kind of sense (even if it's the kind that only I understand)...and then, without even looking at the first draft, I'll just rewrite the whole thing in one fell swoop. In like three weeks.

That's what I feel is going to happen.

Does that seem wise?

As I was lying back in the lying-back chair at my orthodontist this morning, I thought out a blog post. For this, my blog. I'm sure it was brilliant, or at least marginally interesting, but now, with the weirdness of wearing braces for the first time in my thirty-four years, all I can think of is Wow, I really wish I didn't have Puddle of Mudd stuck in my head.

Okay, so I've been reading this book on procrastination, and how to stop it. I love reading books on how to do things way more than I like actually doing things (which just feeds into my natural procrastinatory bent). Part of the reason I'm reading this book is to figure out how much of my procrastination has to do with me being lazy (I'm guessing it's a big part–I am REALLY lazy and complacent about a lot of things, and it's not working out so well for me lately) and how much is maybe some other pinpointable cause that can be specifically and mercilessly dealt with. And this is what I've gathered so far (I'm only halfway through the book):

I am afraid of both success AND failure. I kind of knew this already. Or at least suspected. Also I am a perfectionist. I never ever knew or even suspected that I could be a perfectionist on account of I never do anything perfectly and don't ever even try and perfectionists are usually people way different from me...way different than I...I hate the word different sometimes.

But apparently part of the reason I don't try to do things I'd like to do is because I have no hope of doing them right/perfectly, and I don't want to waste my time on hopeless pursuits. Which makes sense (who does?), but maybe I'm looking at said pursuits wrong, or expecting the wrong things from them, and that thought is one you all can figure out for yourself and it's kind of obvious and boring so I'll move on.

( trying to do a cut... )

So tonight I'm wondering about My Brain vs. Myself. Sometimes I (Myself) intend (or don't) to do things but My Brain has other plans and I find out afterwards that I've been hijacked. This happens in small ways, like I will get up and be ten steps into the next room before I realize what I'm doing. Suddenly I will be like, oh, I guess I'm getting a glass of water. My Brain had it all underway before *I* knew what I was about.

And then I am writing and something happens, in the scene, that I (Myself) never saw coming. My Brain just does it and then I just write it and I sort of look on in surprise. Usually and for the most part this is my favorite thing about writing. But something keeps happening in these stories I'm working on that makes me pause the tiniest bit...I'm not really worried, since anything can be fixed, but I just wonder if My Brain really does know best.

I keep trying to write really...how do I say this? Really *not* big stories. I'm writing (possibly historical) fantasy, and there *is* an element of saving society from a great evil, but I'm not trying to write a LOTR epic. Because I'm not genius-face like Tolkien. And plus, I just want to write this girl's story. Just one girl, and what she goes through when her wicked stepmother tries to kill her.

But My Brain keeps making it bigger–bigger stakes, bigger threats, bigger cast...and the fairies! I truly do not want to write another fairy book, because there are so many and they are all so amazing and I just wanted to do something different and not feel like I'm grasping at some trend...I do love fairies and fairy stories, no doubt, but I wanted this to be more of a fairy tale (which don't always, or even usually, have fairies in them) than a tale about fairies.

So who do I trust? Myself, who controls all the thoughts I'm aware of but maybe doesn't have full access to ALL the workings of my inner brain-place, or My Brain, who...*is* myself, maybe more truly than Myself is...which sounds silly and convoluted, now that I'm trying to write it out, but probably you get what I'm saying. I don't know. After reading Blink, I'm thinking maybe My Brain knows what's the what more than Myself, but then that's where the hidden prejudices came out, too, and that's no good...

Thoughts? Brain vs. Self? Instinct vs. Intent? Who do I trust?

Okay, so I am terrible at blogging. Obviously. I am still not convinced that I have anything to say, in blog form, that anyone else needs to read. So I don't do it. But since I am obsessed with books and reading and writing and talking about books and reading and writing, I read everyone else's blogs, and...I kind of just want to be part of the party. And I think maybe that practice makes better, so if I start blogging more, even if they are mostly terrible and I continue to have a readership of zero (no, wait–robinellen reads and sometimes comments. And we talk about books. She is my friend!)––ahem, a readership of *mostly* zero, maybe by the time I have a contract I will have figured this whole thing out and will be writing interesting stuff.

But until then, sorry. This is what you get.

So I keep having these dreams about this book that hasn't even come out yet. You may have heard of it; it's all kinds of talked about and the anticipation's pretty intense...SHIVER? Maggie Stiefvater? Anyone?

Anyway, both times I've dreamed about this book it's actually been a movie. In the first dream I was freaking out because I was about to watch the movie but hadn't yet read the book (because it hadn't come out yet, just like in real life) and I was like, how am I going to deal with this ticket situation? Will they let me leave now and come back to watch it after I've read the book, or will I have to buy a new ticket, and I can't just go off and leave my mom and all my friends, but no way am I watching it before I read it, and does Grace really have blonde hair or did the movie people just make that up...? And finally I was walking outside of the theater, breathing huge breaths of relief that I hadn't spoiled the book.

All I can remember from the second dream is that I wanted to watch it by myself (this stems, I think, from taking my television and movie watching very seriously and having no patience for people interrupting it with questions and comments) and then I was getting my snack ready when Maggie herself came into the room where I was smearing guacamole on something–toast, maybe–and I didn't want her to see what I was doing. Maybe because I thought she hates guacamole, or maybe I didn't want to share...not really sure, although the not-sharing scenario seems more likely as I can be quite greedy when it comes to food, but the best part of the whole thing was that Maggie was wearing a sheep costume.

*shrug* this kind of thing happens sometimes, in dreams.

And the reason I'm telling you all of this is that I'm trying to win an ARC of said SHIVER, even though it's coming out real soon. ARCs are awesome. So watch this sweet papercut-filled trailer and I can enter myself to win.



...did that work? Ha! It totally worked!

And sorry if this is long, but I, for some reason, some LAME reason, can't do jump-cut-things anymore. Plus, the whole point of this pst is the trailer, and I'm not hiding that. Plus, no one reads this anyway, so...no one should be bothered, right?

One of my favorite memories of being alive happened when I was fourteen and spending the summer in Florida where it is so hot and sticky that you can’t fall asleep at night and when it rains you run outside hoping for relief but you only end up stickier. My mother was painting my grandmother’s house and needed to run to the store for something and asked me for a shirt so she didn’t have to wear her paint-splattered one.

I’m not sure what expression I was wearing at that point, but my brain was making Nefarious face, twirling its mustache and rubbing its hands in glee.

I gave her “the only shirt I have!”

It was a Def Leppard t-shirt. You know the one; busty robot woman on the back, comic book man on the front. Joe Elliot wore it in the Pour Some Sugar On Me & Armageddon videos (of the concert in Colorado; how I wished I had been there!), all torn and sleeveless (and sideless).

My mother was too rushed, I think, to really pay attention and make me find a less offensive cover up, and so she Went. Out. In. Public.

Wearing a Def Leppard t-shirt!

I love that memory.

This weekend was in no way as awesome as that special time in my life, but it’s sort of related and it was pretty funny.

I discovered a new channel on her cable (we were about to watch a girly movie) that was playing something called Metal Mania. I used to be quite the hessian in high school (not that I knew what a real hessian was or why kids who listened to Slayer and Anthrax called themselves that [Ed. Note: turns out I was not a “real” hessian as my obsessions tended towards the hair band end of the spectrum and not so much with the Slayer (although I do love that that one song about frozen eyes staring deep into his mind as he dies); however, I was *attracted* to real hessians. The longer/greasier/dirtier the hair the better.] <-ew) and so I checked it out and it was playing the soundtrack to my high school experience.

First was Motley Crue’s Dr. Feelgood. Not my favorite song; not even my favorite Motley Crue song (that would be Girl, Don’t Go Away Mad), but I wanted to distract her enough to keep her from remembering she hates this stuff and changing the channel in case they were about to play my favorite video. “Look, Mom, it’s Motley Crue, remember when they played on the season finale of Bones this is the same song it’s about some drug dealer and see those are the crooked cops who are getting paid off and what exactly *is* Shangri-La is it in Asia I always thinks it’s in Asia but I don’t know why and lots of heavy metal songs mention it that’s the only real reference I have of it look how much skinnier they all are and how many fewer tattoos Tommy Lee has…” And then it was time for the next video: Mother by Danzig.

!

“Remember how I loved Danzig in high school even though I was also slightly creeped out by them and also remember how I named my rifle* Lucifuge after their album called Lucifuge and everyone called him Lucy** and also see how he’s*** all buff and kind of not tall with dark hair that’s kind of how the Buffalo**** looks but he doesn’t like it when you say that because he is kind of buff totally naturally and without trying at all and he’d rather not be but there’s nothing he can really do about it it’s just how he is kind of like our friend the Robot***** who only gains weight in his pecs and his biceps so he looks all buff but he’s only just a little bit fatter and plus he’s graduating from UCLB in a few weeks and I should go because he came to my graduation and I haven’t seen him in a while and oh look new video.”

It’s Youth Gone Wild by Skid Row and the first thing my mom says: “Isn’t he in Lane’s band?”

My mother. Always plussed (if that’s the opposite of nonplussed).

I let her stop watching after that, although I did check back later and show her Queensryche (the thinking man’s metal band) and she observed that Geoff Tate looked like he was utilizing a Bump. Of “Bump it Up” fame. My mom wins!





*I was on Colorguard. Don't laugh.
**he was a boy rifle
***and now I'm talking about Glenn Danzig, not Lucy my rifle
****officemate who is also a buffalo
*****just a friend who's also a robot


ETA: I've tried a hundred times to put most of this behind a cut and I have failed and I have a train to catch so–sorry. Truly. So obnoxious of me!

I do sometimes win contests. I won a copy of PENELOPE once, before the movie came out, and was then surprised at the differences between them, but LOVED Christina Ricci's wardrobe in it, and then robinellen sent me a copy of THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH before it came out, so that was rad.

And now I've heard such great things about sarahcross's debut DULL BOY that I want to win it. Diana Peterfreund is having a contest, so I made my own contest-qualifying superhero, and I'm kinda okay with my results:





I'm rather surprised that she's bald–or that I'm bald, I guess–since I like hair. I don't want to be bald. But The Mysterious Swashbuckling Nine Tails (I really feel like it needs a hyphen in there, in between Nine and Tails) doesn't need hair. She has a whip like the Balrog's. Hair would just get in the way.

That's all.

Sometimes people go to writing retreats where they learn stuff and also write a little, and sometimes they go to other writing retreats where they only write (and if this happens in a castle in the middle of Scotland, so much the better), and sometimes you commandeer a friend's place while they go out of town and you and your other friend spend the weekend painting and writing with way fewer distractions than if you were home. Also in this scenario I am not painting. Just so we're clear. I cannot paint in any way that is pleasing to people who can see.

So this is what I'm doing this weekend, because May is the month I start writing at least a thousand words a day NO MATTER WHAT as well as the month I get (most of) the first draft of Book II done. And so far, it's...going. I have 1344 words and they don't all suck. Here are some I like:

The sun bled through her eyelids and turned the world bright as fire. This was her favorite time of day, her favorite place. The Mirror stood tall behind her, reflecting the rising sun so that she felt it on her back, curving around her like a mantle of warmth.

She waited until it seeped all through her, saturating muscle and tissue and bone, before turning and facing the Mirror. Except when it was Seeing, there was always a fog, a mist, that clouded its face and blurred her reflection. Seirian waited for it to clear, to show her something, anything. She stepped closer, her hands pressed lightly against the smooth glass. If there were anything to see, she'd feel it first, like a boiling just beneath the surface.

***

Considering the awkward and uncongenial relationship I've been having with my writing lately, I'm kind of stoked that I am approaching being pleased with this. For a first draft, it'll do. Plus I think I'm going to go buy Sovay (has anyone read this?) because it seems pretty sweet, although I will then not read it until I finish this draft...but knowing it's there, waiting for me, will be a good incentive to just *finish* it already. Geesh.

So today is my birthday and here's what happened yesterday:

I went to the DMV to renew my license before my birthday, which is, again, today, and I almost didn't pass the vision test because I got hit in the eye with a flagpole when I was seventeen (I was on Colorguard) and I have a blind spot but I can TOTALLY see well enough to drive, I have peripheral vision and everything and thank God I passed. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might not pass until the lady led me over to the special machine for people with real bad vision. So embarrassing.

Anyway, before all of that happened I was standing in line listening to the guy behind me pray into his cellphone (it was actually a pretty sweet prayer––I wanted to amen it) when I looked up and saw this actor who (whom?) I adore and am always saying things like I'm totally going to marry him. Just sitting there, all track-suited and annoyed (it was CROWDED), with an empty chair next to him.

My stomach immediately went crazy, all dipping and fluttering and my heart was flipping out, it was so ridiculous, because I totally knew that I was going to go sit in that chair next to him and say hi. Some old man approached him, paused next to the empty chair––my empty chair––and caused me to think very uncharitable thoughts towards him, but then passed by and I made my (shaky) way over to him. heee!

( oh man, it's about to get *so good* )

It's up to me.

How good my writing is, how well-plotted, compelling and satisfactorily concluded my story ends up, whether or not I get to the stage where I am ready to be published–it's all up to me.

I can sit around and daydream about having written several books, of being interviewed and congratulated (ego!) and not recognized at the grocery store because I'm using a pen name...or I can write. I can rewrite. I can look for inconsistencies and plot holes and dropped threads and terrible dialogue and fix them. I can read great books and figure out why they work. I can write more. I can write every day, write with the goal of furthering my story and bettering my writing and not just to meet a quota set by me.

( The Tiger Woods connection under the cut )

Plus, enchantedinkpot is live as of today! It's full of people who love and write YA and MG fantastical awesomeness. People like cindy_pon, whose book comes out on my birthday (April 28th) and is getting nothing but praise, and kikhamilton, whose books are talked about on her website but not yet published which makes me VERY sad since I really want to read THE FAERIE RING, and tons more whose books I also want to read. There's already discussion about everyone's five favorite fantasy novels and lots of good stuff to come. I mean, just look at who's participating:

devarae
dawn_metcalf
ellen_oh
jenny_moss
megancrewe
merewald

See? Awesomeness. I don't lie about awesomeness.</lj>

1. First, I wish I knew how to link to stuff...that's why I haven't posted, because I couldn't link to that sweet picture of Beck when I talked about Beck.

1 (for real this time). You can weave in backstory anywhere you want, any time you want, if you're good. THG starts pretty much at the beginning of the action, but she sets up the when, who, how & why-and where-all through the first few chapters, with one little thing in the present triggering an important or telling event from the past, and you just go back & forth until everyone's caught up and we're all in the story and there's nothing distracting or infodump-y about it; it's totally seamless and oh my word it's such a good book. Totally lives up to the hype (which makes me so glad after having just read another way-hyped book that I was so psyched to read and ended up mostly disappointed). I recommend it to anyone who likes books that are awesome.

2. You can leave your readers hanging at the end of the story-as long as they're hanging on a new branch and not the one they've been teetering on the whole time. Suzanne Collins does an excellent job of making the conclusion of the story be the very thing that brings up new questions, ushering in the next part of the story, without leaving the reader feeling cheated (which is how I felt at the end of aforementioned disappointing hyped book), while also absolutely ensuring they will be a little bit going crazy waiting for the sequel (someone really should have warned me about this. I could have waited until I had both to read this one. I wouldn't have known what I was missing.)

This was actually a HUGE help to me-I just got back from a novel-revision retreat and one of the main critiques I got was that I didn't answer enough questions. The reason, of course, is that I was trying to leave enough mystery to be explained in Book II (oh yes-and there's going to be a Book III as well. I have lofty aspirations.). But the second I finished THG I realized that the questions/mystery I leave open cannot be what Book I is all about. I can raise questions and hint all I want, but I HAVE to resolve the main issue/quest/goals/problems of Book I IN Book I. Seems pretty obvious, all typed out like that...wonder how I didn't get that until now.

3. I'm not sure I actually learned this so much as observed and admired SC's ability to kept me turning the pages. The tension almost never lessened, except for a few small beats/pauses that kept me from actually choking on the suspense, and she never stopped throwing things at her mc. And every time the mc overcame, it did not feel like cheating, ever. She earned her little victories, and the ending was satisfying and believable and didn't feel contrived or forced in any way. And the tension actually lasted until the last page (part of that whole sweet conclusion/sequel setup aspect). So, again, not sure I've learned anything concrete, no formula or anything, but I'm pretty sure the best way to write well is to read good writing, so probably I'm smarter/a better writer just for having read it. I can't wait to read it again. SO GOOD.

And we were instantly attracted to each other. How often does that happen? And I was covered in fake mud at the time (I was an extra for a tv commercial, playing a cavewoman). My hair was dirty and messy and teased, I had on no makeup (because I was a cavewoman, and they wore dirt on their faces and no makeup)...maybe it was the tiny piece of leather tied on me with strings that passed as my costume. Huh. Never really considered that possibility.

But the point of this is that I have Jackass by Beck in my head, and have all morning. I love Beck. He's one of my Top Three Eternal Favorites (including Beastie Boys and Havalina Rail Company). Although I made that TTEF list years ago, and have not updated it since...I probably should–I mean, come on, Coldplay has to have a place in there somewhere. Yellow is the most perfect video there ever was.

I haven't listened to Odelay in ages. Wonder how that happened to come up in the queue.

Okay, it's now almost four and an hour ago I had the violet burning again–same song as yesterday. It's so haunting and makes me think of cute boys like Cian who are kind of heartbroken and impossibly alluring.

And now it's that Sublime song that mentions Ron Jeremy, who I saw once at a gas station and I'm afraid I laughed and I'm pretty sure he saw me...and how do I know who he is, anyway? Was he on some reality show? He was on the Surreal lIfe, yeah? Because ew, I don't want anyone to think I've ever seen him...being Ron Jeremy. Ew. I learned about him from that Sublime song, by the way, and then my best friend (who likes to shock me because I am sometimes easily shocked and/or ignorant/naive) told me who he was. So we're clear.

And I am now to the point where all I have left to write is the final battle scene and the denouement. Easy, right? Considering this was due a week ago for the retreat I'm attending in two weeks...I suck at deadlines. Or rather, I would never get anything done if it weren't for deadlines. I've written more in the last two weeks (of actual text; words that are part of the book itself and not just wondering/plotting/questioning/etc) than I have in months, maybe. Like, the last half of the book. It's a retelling of Snow White and I started, two weeks ago, with her entering the Forest. Which is only just after the story actually starts, which makes me wonder what I've been doing for the past two years.

But now I'm almost there–and by almost there I mean I almost have a first draft that has severe lacks: dropped threads, hinted-at-but-never-explained subplots, a bunch of missing scenes that are now just one paragraph of exposition...but still. It's a start. A great place to start, rather.

Weird. I have almost written a book. It's about bloody time.

(in my head) That 'do you hear what I hear' Christmas song. Is it called Little Drummer Boy or something? And how to show I'm referring to a song title? All caps? Quotes? Underlined? Italicized? Plus I don't know how to do those last two. Is that even possible on livejournal?

And now it's (beside being two hours later–I don't want to be posting every fifteen minutes. That's just silly.) The Violet Burning, but I can't remember which song (the one that goes 'here am I [more like 'I-hi'] and 'we are trying to regain control') because I haven't heard that song–that tape–in at least ten years. I used to listen to it in–I want to say Ponyboy, my Mustang ('68, not fastback, just awesome and man I LOVED that car and mourned the day we had to shoot him after he broke his leg. And then, miraculously, his leg got unbroke and he was unshot and my dad sold him to my little brother's friend and so every morning I woke up to the sound of MY Ponyboy galloping up to my house to pick up my brother for school...that SUCKED. I've never really loved a car since.), but I think I probably played that particular tape in the Buick. Or Pastor Turtle, as I called him, for reasons that aren't even reasons.

That tape was awesome, though. Their cover of Cinnamon Girl (which I though was City Girl for years) is pretty sweet. Here. http://www.thevioletburning.com/

I hope that works, to make the linky thing. I see people do it in other blogs; maybe I should do it here. Even though this isn't a real blog and no one reads it.

Ha! Just found the lyrics, and the song is Crush. By the Violet Burning. Of my youth.

I would Twitter about what song is currently running through my head. That's the only update I would ever give.

But I don't twitter. Mostly because I don't understand it and have no idea how to go about it and also don't really want to. But I do think it would be interesting to keep track of what songs filter through my head throughout the day. Interesting to me, I mean. Like, today so far I had that 'bang bang, shoo de wop-she-wop' song from Grease in my head and I could not stop humming. For a while I was safe because both my officemates had their headphones on, but then the buffalo (one of my officemates is a buffalo) didn't have his on and I realized a little later that this was so and that he had totally heard me. He said he didn't mind, though, and I believe him because buffalo are not ones for polite lying. They pretty much say what they think, all the time.

I'm trying this under-the-cut thing that m_stiefvater told me how to do, and if I don't stop linking to her like this she will think I am a stalker, which I am not, even though I may be a little bit crazy because I am always in love with fictional characters (beginning with Ponyboy Curtis in 8th grade). ( and )

Kay, so I have eight minutes before the boards come in and I have to go build. That sounds carpenter-y, but it's not. I work in animation.

Um, super sweet awesomeness: I just won a book over at robinellen (if that shows up all fancy with the lj little head, it's all thanks to m_stiefvater [did it again!], who gave me very detailed instructions once upon a time. Because she's nice like that.)

So, yeah, winning a book = pretty much one of the best things to do on a Friday.

And I haven't, for all none of you following this blog, posted in an age and half an age on account of I have this weekend to finish draft one of my ms for to send it off in time for the retreat I'm going to, and writing a book takes a long time, so for a long time I've just been writing (or pulling teeth–how sometimes it feels like you're pulling teeth and it is all very terrible until one little line breaks through and you're like, oh, *that's* what this torture was all about. Sweet.) and I am still writing but I don't like to start for just ten minutes and then have to go work, which is maybe the wrong approach, so maybe I should just go write...

Anyway, what I wanted to say was this: I just finished 13 LITTLE BLUE ENVELOPES by Maureen Johnson and besides reminding me that it's been almost five years since I left the country (grrr), I noticed that the way she writes third person close feels a lot like first person. Every time I picked it up again and saw the mc's name (Ginny), I sort of jumped, and my first blink-length thought was 'why is she suddenly referring to herself in the third person?' Because I felt like I was in her head the whole time, but I wasn't. It was all third person POV. It was kind of jarring, in a way, when I would realize/remember it wasn't first. But in a good way–this is all meant as a compliment. Is that how close third is supposed to read? Like first, only not? It was something I'd never noticed before, either because I haven't been paying attention or because I haven't read it. And again, I was totally into the story–I'm just wondering if that's what I should be striving for in my close third story.

Anyway, I thought it was noteworthy. Any other books out there in third affect people thusly? Oh wait. No one reads this. Except my cloud-loving friend, cheshire_kords. (waves)

Okay so this post is long overdue, although no one reads this, so no one will ever know, so...whatever, even though this is actually one of those times I want other people to read it.

Anyway. So the day before Thanksgiving I was on a mission–to get all my Christmas shopping done by Sunday, which began with a stop in as many used bookstores as I could find. Near my work. Out of the nine addresses I jotted down, only one was an actual used bookstore. At least, the kind I needed. The rest were either closed or comic book/horror/I don't know what else.

So I, very off-handed-y, made a quick stop at this bookstore that has been closing down/going out of business for years, literally, and the last time I went in they seemed to be selling sort of 2nd rate books, with weird covers and a sense that these were the books real bookstores wouldn't sell. I don't know, it just kind of weirded me out, so I hadn't been there in a couple of years.

But that day, that glorious day, I went inside and found it to be exactly what a used bookstore should be: full of books from my childhood (Blubber! Nothing's Fair in Fifth Grade! The Great Brain! Trixie Belden's Mystery Quiz Book #1!) AND newer books I've been too cheap to purchase at full price because I'm not sure they're worth it and/or I'm poor (Peter and the Starcatchers! Something by Laurie Halse Anderson, who everyone seems to revere but I've never read!). I spent over three hours (and sixty dollars...all-books-one-dollar-only is a VERY effective ploy) in there, ON MY LUNCH BREAK (I love where I work!), and this is the best part, the actual reason I'm even writing this whole long post:

It rained. Hard. It was dark too early and it poured down and they kept the door open and played the soundtrack to The Breakfast Club. The entire thing. Twice.

It was so surreal and awesome and I was actually in the moment, thrilling to the weirdness and awesomeness as it happened, rejoicing in the masses of water falling from the sky (which fills me with awe for two reasons: first, water is just falling from the sky. That is hilarious. Whose idea was that? God is so weird [and I mean that in the best way; I mean it as a compliment!]. And second, I live in Southern California and the weather is BORING. I LOVE rain and clouds and weather and we almost never get that here because it is BORING.) and the actual, real-live thunder (!).

And now I have a question: I am way new to this whole blogging thing and am still all wary and hesitant about it, which is why I haven't told anyone about it and so no one reads it, but also apparently there's that whole long list-feed thing where your friends' blogs show up as they're posted (so far as I understand), and my blogs tend to be long, so maybe I should put stuff after, or under, the cut or jump or something...obviously I'm real confused about the whole thing, so if anyone actually reads this, which seems unlikely but I think may be within the realm of possibility seeing as how Maggie Stiefvater (who is awesome and funny and loves Wonderfalls so I like her even more) is the only lj friend I have and I *think* my blogs show up on her little feed-list thing, so I was wanting them to not be so long, and maybe if anyone ever did read this and were so above-and-beyond inclined, they could maybe give me a quick little jump-putting lesson, so as to reduce the amount of run-on sentences cluttering up other peoples' list-feed things? Maybe? And for the love of all that is greasy and deep-fried, how do you make people's names show up like their little lj icons so you can just click on them and go to their site? Like this? m_stiefvater

Okay, so I'm doing picture research–trolling the internet for images that match what's going on in my head, that give me a feeling for what my mc experiences while she goes through what I put her through. So basically, pictures of awesome. Of where I want to be. Pictures of what I think the place where my dreams live looks like.

And I've discovered something funny, although not very surprising, I guess, considering it's me, but I wanted to share it, cause I think it's kind of telling and awesome, and this sentence has become too long so I'll start a new one.

I work in an office with two other people, one of whom is one of my favorite ['favorite' without 'most' in front of it always feels naked and ineffectual to me, even though I think favorite is, by itself, technically enough–it doesn't need a modifier (is that the right word?)–but it doesn't *feel* like enough. So, although I am a huge proponent of correct grammar, I have learned these little tics of improper grammar that are funny to me (and the aforementioned favorite) and actually now make more sense than what's actually right. Thanks a lot, favorite! (an aside within an aside: we both have trouble not speaking incorrectly when in mixed (ie, not grammar snobs/laceraters) company, and we are sometimes embarrassed by our own mouths)].

And now I have to start all over again.

So anyway, the point of all this is that I wanted to share something about the way I write, but I looked up and saw no one who would really get it/care. You know? It's almost like we're speaking different languages–although I feel somewhat the same when they talk about music/their processes. I don't really get it–but I am glad for them, and I go to their shows and support their musicality. And they, in turn, say things like, um, aren't you done with your book yet? You've been writing it for AGES.

(By the bye, they're totes right. Problem is, I've never done this before, so I have no idea if this is just how I work and it will work, or if forcing a different/faster way of getting it done will actually get it done. Hmmm.)

And now, back to the heading: clouds. I've discovered that, as I search for images of cottages and trees and lush vegetation that is rampant in Great Britain-y parts of the world, all old and gloomy and awesome, I find that I only respond to pictures taken on cloudy days. Full, bright, glaring sunlight is a total turnoff. Even if it's the perfect setting, I'm just like, bleh. Sunlight makes me tired. Where clouds...clouds give me hope. I feel like I'm in a movie when it's cloudy, like anything could happen. I live in southern California which is BORING. Sunshine, heat, bla bla bla. [In an attempt to be fair (and to keep words from ever being thrown back in my face), this is all I've ever known. Desert. Southwest. Boring. I've never lived in a place with real weather. With actual seasons. Maybe I'd hate it. Maybe I wouldn't love snow, sleet, wind and rain. I mean, I get cold *here*; maybe I'd break in half if I went someplace actually cold. Maybe. I'd love the chance to find out.]

So this, Book I, is set in A Time of Clouds. Sunshine happens only when something unsavoury is going down. And that is the revelation that I didn't want to bore my officemates with, that I knew pretty much only writers would care about. And even though no one reads this, that's okay. Just writing it down makes me feel better, like...well, I'm not sure why, but now this thought exists outside my head and maybe someday someone will read this and know exactly how I feel. And it only takes one, right? One person to understand, one person on your side, and you can do anything. A least, that's how I am.

So it would appear that I immediately forgot i was going to blog as soon as I started. Which is lame, but also fine, as no one reads this. And I think I'm okay with that, since I'm still not convinced I need to be doing this. Especially since I'm not really doing it.

Sometimes I think about posting, and then I never do. And sometimes those posts maybe would have been worth reading. Like how I was ll geared up for NaNoWriMo–I got all my notes in order (well, sort of in order), I planned out my schedule, stocked up on determination and grit, even bought an Alphasmart–and then, literally the instant I sat down to start, November first, in a coffee shop, with my new Alphasmart, I froze. I got way stuck and wrote the crappiest crap of ever. It was so weird. I was sure I was going to do this and it would end brilliantly, and I fell on my face the second I began.

I was way not sure what to make of it. How did that happen? Was I actually going to quit? So soon? Not even give it a fighting chance? The thing about this whole so-awesome-I-want-to-cry writing endeavor is that I've never done it before, so I have no idea what works and what stifles. Do I push through the miles-thick wall of CRAPPY writing, no story, no movement, only stupid words that lead nowhere, and maybe get to something worthwhile, that makes up for all that torture? Or do I not push it, because this is a creative endeavor, and it needs to be handled–not delicately, with kid gloves, but differently? Do I have a muse? I certainly have times when the writing flows and is awesome and I can hardly keep up, and then times where everything is of the suck. I've heard writers speak eloquently for both paths–Melissa Marr certainly does not write every day, and her books are, how you call it, awesome. And then others swear by BIC. If only there were some way to find out which way (or combination thereof) works best with my particular brand of brain-think.

I do have a way I work, that I've developed over the last year and a half. I sort of jump around, and I'd say maybe 57% of what I write is plot theory (theory because I just ask 'what if' questions and have 'maybe' sentences: Maybe the reason this happens is because she did this, and what if he finds out where that came from, and maybe...). I'm figuring it out as I go, and often what I'm figuring out has nothing to do with the scene I'm writing. (And by the bye, I think this is my favorite part–I LOVE figuring why things are the way they have to be. I love discovering who these people are and why and what they'll do next). So I could write 2000 words in a sitting and maybe 700 of them will be actual text.

So does that work within NaNo parameters? Plus I started with a story I've been working on for a real long time, in the hopes that I'd blast out a first draft real quick. The idea of actually finishing this book, writing down all the words that make this story complete, is super daunting. It seems so far away, like I can keep just plodding along, no worry, no rush, because the day I finish it is way off...only, I *have* to finish it. I've already paid for a novel revision retreat, and I have to be ready to submit the finished, polished novel-length novel by mid-January. That's money, kids! Plane tickets! No turning back!

So then...I guess I'm not doing NaNo. I just have to figure out how to get this written in the next nine-ish weeks. (Holy crap!!) Maybe the point is that only I can decide/figure out how I work best; strictures and guidelines and plans of action that work wonders for others may cut me off at the knees. And I guess I'll only get to the right answer by doing, by trying this and that method until I hit upon the one that gets me to a completed ms.

Aw crap.

If you were my friend Ginger and you read that subject line, you would know that I am singing that in my head in an excellent Perry Farrell impersonation. Plus, remember Farrell's ice cream parlor? Is that what it was called? Man, that place seemed so magical to me as a kid in Tucson. I think it was the stripes.

But that is not why I'm writing here now...I opened this account a while ago for the explicit purpose of commenting on, I think, Maggie Stiefvater's blog (m-stiefvater...how do you insert the icon thing for livejournal accounts? This is all so very new and strange to me) and the secret purpose of blogging. Which is not recognized as a word by livejournal's little red dotted underline. Nor is livejournal. That's kind of hilarious.

I've been way leery of the whole blogosphere experience ever since I heard of it–it seemed so arrogant and narcissistic and exhibitionistic, but now I'm convinced it's only that way if you're like me. Probably most people are way less self-conscious than I and so therefore are all about sharing and entertaining and being part of the give-and-take. I'm trying to be that way, but this is an experiment–I may well find that it is not healthy to be putting my words/thoughts/attempted-ly clever observations out there. I may get to little or too much attention and become the me I hate. But I love everyone else's blogs so much now that I want to be a part of it all–which, again, is risky, since I fee like I come off as stalker-y and annoying when really I'm trying to get people to like me. Especially people I like.

I became infatuated with Jackson Pearce (jacksonpearce.com)'s blog/writing (I cannot wait for her SISTERS RED trio of stories to come out so I can read them because her snippets are awesome to the point that I won't even read them anymore because I don't want any of it ruined for me and as far as I know the first one isn't even sold yet which means I have to wait THAT MUCH LONGER to read them–grrr) and so I posted a bunch one time, and we had this back-and-forth for a few minutes and it was real fun–I felt like I was talking to a celebrity (authors are totally my heroes–I met Caroline B Cooney a few years ago and I was totally starstruck–she writes the BEST cheesy teenage romance [cheesy–except awesome] stories ever–I grew up on Holly In Love and The Party's Over and Nice Girls Don't and An April Love Story and He Loves Me, He loves Me Not and they are hilarious and satisfying and the heroines are always smart and self-depracating and awesome. She has this one line...'I hurt like stabbing.' Love that!)...Look at that. I hijacked my own paragraph.

Anyway, Jackson was super gracious, but I still feel like maybe I came off as stalker-y, and now I'm afraid to post on her blog anymore...I don't want people to be afraid of me. I just want to hang out with awesome.

So, the ostensible purpose of this blog (must have an acceptable purpose, otherwise I feel just totally self-aggrandizing) is to talk about writing. I read writing blogs and I love them, plus writing is almost the most exciting thing to think about or talk about or do, so...I don't know how much I have to offer (I'm kind of new at this, still working on my first YA novel, a retelling of Snow White, which is ridiculous amounts of fun), but I want to try. I don't know who will read this, since I have just the one friend (m-stiefvater, who was kind enough to not only respond to my comment about James [from her YA novel LAMENT and the forthcoming BALLAD, and who I am a little bit in love with because he is awesome and awesome] but to add me as a friend. And I still really don't know what that means, or how to do it.).

And suddenly I'm not sure about this..Do I have anything worth sharing? I actually sat down to this because I wanted to talk about something interesting I just realized about my process, about how I get to know my characters, and then instead I did not talk about that at all, so...sorry? I'll do better next time? Unless this gets me so self-conscious (not in an awkward, shy way [although that's usually an unintended but inevitable result], but in a thinking-about-myself-too-much-and-was-I-clever-and-interesting-and-will-anyone-read-this-and-what-if-no-one-does-and-I'm-talking-to-myself-and-I'm-the-only-one-who-thinks-I'm-clever-and-wow-if-I'd-known-I-was-going-to-talk-this-long-I'd-have-brought-some-water [Buffy quote! Improvised Buffy quote! And I wasn't even trying]). Anyway, too much about me! This is making me uncomfortable. Is this the kind of thing you eventually get used to?