Overcoming Writer's Block...Or Not

I've definitely been struggling with writer's block, with finding the time to write, and with making writing a priority.  And so the last nine chapters of my current WIP have been uncommitted to paper, trapped in my mind. 

Yesterday, I decided to just do it, to get the last chapters down on paper even if they are really rough.  I think a big part of my problem is that one of the characters that I really like needs to die.  There's no working around it.  His death and the exact manner of his death is the thing the story is about.  I can't save him.  I like writing dark comedies, which is what this one was meant to be, but it's not funny.  The story turned out being tragic. 

The next novel or two or maybe a series I want to write is historical fiction set in the Appalachian Mountains in the 1800's, maybe later.  I'm compelled to write these stories after doing some research and hearing some stories about my ancestors.  Some of them are Cherokee Indians that escaped the removal of Native Americans.  More about that another day - the bottom line is these stories have no chance of being comedies either.

When I write sad stuff, it tends to bring me down.  The best I can do is make the rest of everything around me as positive as possible.  Not a bad thing to do when writing comedies too, now that I think about it. 

So I redecorated my blog with a ridiculously upbeat background.  I came up with a schedule for housework and yard work.  I got my vegetables planted so I'd have the rest of the day to write.  I decided to not allow my medical issues to get me down.  Attitude is everything, right?

And then, with perfect comedic timing, I slipped on the brick path near my outside water faucet, went airborne, and somehow landed face down in the grass after bouncing on my bad leg first.  I screamed like a little girl. 

Later I asked my preschooler if I looked cool flying through the air like a karate person or just awkward.  He considered it for a moment and said, "Just awkward."

I was OK at first, and then muscle spasms attacked me viciously.  So I spent the rest of the day on muscle relaxants and pain meds.  And I woke up this morning too groggy to write a decent sentence. 

Coffee, more coffee....  I am not giving up.

*   *    *    *    * 

OK, actually I am giving up.  Husband didn't go into the office until 10:00.  The house looks like a tornado hit.  Whatever.

Thank You

I was raised to be independent at a young age.  I'd like to think that was by design, but it was more likely because my mom couldn't afford a babysitter and was too tired to do laundry.  My sister did a lot for me when I was younger, but when I was older I was on my own - by older, I mean ten.  The things that were important to me I took care of by myself.  It kind of sucked at the time, but it taught me that I always need to depend on myself for things that matter.

Later in my life, when anyone offered help of any kind - personal advice or help with something at work - I took it as an insult.  Did they think I couldn't figure it out on my own? 

Now, at this stage in my life in the place I am now, here alone with you, I sincerely appreciate your kind words and advice this week.  Left to myself, I may have given up.  Here with all of you I won't.  So thank you.

This morning, I opened up a new smallish spiral-bound journal I found on sale at Barnes and Noble last week.  I grabbed a pen, and I wrote.  I don't normally write in journals.  But several of you suggested doing that - switching things up a bit and writing something new. 

I wrote during an extra long Dora the Explorer episode.  At the end of the show, Dora always asks the viewers what was their favorite part of the show followed by several quiet seconds to give small people a chance to scream their answer.  My son turned around and asked me what was my favorite part.  I gave him a blank stare and said, "I don't know." 

I had been completely tuned out while writing a short story, a story I never expected to write today or ever. 

My little guy looked a little disappointed in me, but I did not feel the tiniest twinge of guilt.  It was what I needed, and he wasn't the slightest bit neglected while I found my happy place and he chilled with Dora.

It doesn't matter if I ever get the story published or if anyone reads it.  Writing it made me feel like myself again, like I'm not lost anymore.

So thank you.

IWSG - Where Did My Confidence Go?

It's the first Wednesday of the month, time for Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support group.


In a normal workplace, you need to know how to do your job.  If you're an accountant, you need to know the rules of accounting; if you're a programmer, you should be able to write programs; if you're a police officer, hopefully you know some laws.  In all of these jobs, you have skills or you don't.  There's some art to the job, some talent that distinguishes the excellent employees from the mediocre, but usually success is a matter of how hard the employee is willing to work to gain competence at their job. 

Fiction writing is the same in some ways.  There's learnable skill involved.  We need to know where to put that period and when to use a semicolon.  There are endless books out there to tell us how to write well.  Determination and persistent hard work separate the excellent writers from the mediocre, just like in any other job.

The difference, as we all know, is this - the muse, the talent, the artistic factor.  My lingering question, besides Does my writing suck? is this:  Will I be able to write with the same quality today as I did three months ago? 

Yesterday morning, as far as fiction writing goes, I couldn't string three words together.  It may be in part from sleep deprivation, but I think it's really because I took too long of a break from writing over the last few weeks. 

I lost my writing mojo, and I really miss it.  I know no one can find it for me.  I'm worried it will be like that lost remote control that shows itself only after I declare it lost forever. 

I miss the confidence I had in October when I finished a novel I had been working on all year.  I miss that day my writing made a room full of people laugh out loud.  I have felt bursts of confidence over the last couple of months, but they have been very short-lived, gone in a second. 

Last night I met with my writing partner.  She shared her critique of the middle part of my novel.  I felt much more confident when I saw how few marks there were in the manuscript and how positive she was about it.  I remembered how much I loved it.  I found my confidence (for now) if only about that novel, and I hope to be back to writing something new today.  Even if it hurts, I'm going to keep writing until I feel like myself again.

No more breaks for me.  This inept feeling really sucks.

Rewrote the Chapter That's Killing Me

Just now I rewrote the chapter that's been killing me - the one in the middle that needed to be added but just isn't working.  I think it works.  I hope it works.  At least it's better than the last version.  I feel like I can write the next chapter today, the chapter that reconnects with the ending chapters that are basically done. 
I've very excited.  I don't care (mostly) if I don't sell a million copies of this story - or others - it is super fun to write stories.  Few things in life make me happier.

I'll be back when it's completely done.  Mostly done.  More done.

Whirlpool of Discontent

Now I know the other day I said I would decide to be more positive.  That's a lot like saying you will definitely go on a diet today while someone is making you chocolate chip cookies.  I guess I just need to let the negative, if that's what it is, flow through me.

There's a Buddhist principle that we are each a water drop flowing in a current, often trapped in a whirlpool that's not of our choice.  If you struggle against the whirlpool, it's useless.  If you struggle against the current that takes you away from your very familiar whirlpool, that energy is wasted too. 

It is better to feel what you feel and live in the moment even if the moment sucks.  That's part of the human experience and is what God has given us.  So today I will marinate in my bad attitude and hope something comes of it.  I suspect an awesome story line is right under the surface of my mind and will pop out soon if I give it some quiet time.

Do not join me in my little whirlpool of discontent.  I think I'll be out of it soon. 

Maybe I'll write my way out of it.  Maybe I will only write again when it passes.  At least I got my desk clean and am ready to go when I feel like it....

A Lethal Dose of Writer's Block

I have been having fun writing the alphabetical posts this month, but seriously am struggling with my new novel.  I over-designed it.  I wrote down details of characters, timelines, opening lines for all the chapters, and even drew a map and a family tree.  I know exactly how my characters think, what they will do, and how they will do it. 

Now I am paralyzed.  I can see the whole story all the way through from beginning to end in my mind.  But my mind is fighting writing it down on paper. 

So I cleaned.

And I cleaned some more. 

I think polishing my kitchen cabinets this afternoon may be what I need to suddenly feel like I have control of my life and somehow have control of the words that are locked inside of me. 

I wonder if men clean when they are stuck.

My plan for tonight is to vacate my home and go to the coffee shop.  I will sit at my lucky table with a too large cup of very expensive coffee.  I will write two chapters.  I may end up throwing them away later, but I think the only way to get over this is to clean and to write.

I used to design and develop software and web applications. When I did this kind of detailed design for applications, I immediately handed the design off to someone else to do the coding - to write the words that made it work.  Design is a very creative process, but is sort of antithetical to writing. Design is logical. It is creative, but it builds a very firm structure. Structure and boundaries inhibit further creativity. 

I wish I had just jotted down my ideas and character names.  That is what I normally do, then I dive right in.  I think I really came up with a good story, but may have sucked the fun right out of it for myself. 

I must be positive.  I must believe all the forethought I put into the story will make a better in the end.  I must fight the urge to give it to someone else to write.  I think being positive is the thing to do.  I will be positive until I convince myself I can write it today.

Defeated the Writers Block

After writing here this morning, I wrote two chapters in less than three hours.  There's something to be said for forcing yourself to write the way a marathon runner would force herself to train even if she isn't in the mood.

The second chapter was way the heck better than the first, and I was back in business and happily writing again.  I finished just in time to pick up my small person at his small school, have lunch, and rock him to sleep - he was so tired.  He was too tired for books and only wanted to hear stories about his older siblings. An hour later, just before I started doing something for me, anything for me - like exercising, napping, or just chilling out with a snack, he screamed, "I pooped!" 

Naptime was over.  He really needed a three or four hour nap but only got one.  The rest of the day was not pretty.  He was overtired and so was I.  I didn't get a chance to decompress from the extreme effort it took to put him to bed the first time.  I have no idea what I did with the hour I wasted before he needed a diaper change.  Not a clue.  It evaporated - I never saw it, not a minute of it.

As if time were fast-forwarded, big kids started coming home from school.  I was going to make soup for dinner but hadn't started it yet.  I quickly threw the chicken in the over to bake and put the vegetables and broth in the crock pot to expedite things.  By the time it should have been ready to serve and, honestly, needed to be served since it was almost time for one child's soccer practice, it was not done at all. 

No rushing the soup. 

So we had really bad lunch meat sandwiches and almost-expired Sun Chips.  Before you start thinking I am a super bad mom, we also had enriched juice that is supposed to double as a fruit and a vegetable serving or two. 

Just as I herded the boys (dad, baby, and soccer kid) out the door to soccer, we heard the thunder.  Eerie bad evil thunder.  Soccer usually waits thirty minutes after the last thunder clap or lightning sighting I thought.  I spent a lot of time looking it up on the internet without any luck.  So my son and I sat on our covered porch reading and listening for thunder, checking the time, and waiting some more. We debated more than once whether to keep waiting or give it up.  Eventually the skies cleared, and soccer practice was a go.  I drove him there and sat in the car, half watching him practice and half reading William Faulkner.

I'm betting I was the only mommy in the parking lot enjoying Faulkner.  I love him.  I want to write like him - I love the way he uses point of view and captures the characters in a community in a socio-political statement sort of way, layers generations of characters, and exposes the effect of one generation on the next, but mostly the way he makes the characters and places seem so real.  I think he tells a good story.  My husband hates Faulkner.  I think he's wrong. 

That said, I was definitely wrong to eat the lunch meat, sun chips, and juice combo.  I feel horrible, like I gained five pounds since dinner.  Back to veggies tomorrow.  Several hours later, the soup smells delicious.  At least tomorrow's dinner is ready.  And I'm excited to have three more hours to write tomorrow.

A Little Bit of Writer's Block

This is one of my writing mornings.  I have three hours to write until I need to pick up my little guy from his little school.  He didn't sleep well last night, so I'm going to have my hands full this afternoon.  My little guy when overtired never gets to sleep easily.  Maybe a drive to grandma's will do the trick after lunch.  I normally don't like to take extreme measures, but am feeling desperate even now, several hours before naptime.

I told my middle son I wasn't sure what I would write about today.  I have a huge list of ideas for new stories, all of them already well-formed enough in my mind to write them easily.  I don't have any particular urge to write any of them and may just edit the last chapters of the novel I just finished writing.  He told me I should write about pie, his favorite topic.  A rhyming story about pie did come to me while I lazily got my breakfast ready.  And it then it left.  But that's OK, pie is his favorite thing to write about, so I will leave the pie stories to the 4th grade crowd. 

All of my writing friends and fellow bloggers who write about writing seem happiest when they write.  I feel the same.  And all of us have moments when an invisible wall of doubt comes between us and this happy work.  Today is that day for me.  Better to just break through it and write anything than let the wall get thicker until it is impenetrable.

No, I still don't much feel like writing after this little pep talk to myself.  I have no idea which story I will decide to begin to write in the next two minutes, but I will write something.  Maybe I will randomly pick a numbered idea off one of my lists of ideas and just do it.  Number two sounds good....

New Project Panic

Instead of working only two hours on Sunday, I worked most of the day revising my novel again.  My husband was very sweet to quietly do something (I'm not sure what) with the baby while my middle son went to visit his dad and my daughter worked all day and evening on a project for school. 

On Sunday evening, my husband finally read the first ten chapters - the ones I revised.  I nervously came upstairs to check on him to see if he liked it.  I nearly snatched the manuscript from him - I thought he was asleep, but he was actually mesmerized by it, totally into it, and I surprised him when I started to take it from him.  He marked a few little things that I spelled wrong because I am kind of uncool.  I spelled You-Tube, U-Tube, for example.  Seriously, it's YOU-Tube??  He said he loved it.  I love it too when I'm reading it, but self-doubt creeps in when I'm not. 

Yesterday, I gave myself a guilt-free break.  My husband took my babes to his little morning school and I went back to sleep.  I slept until eleven.  I didn't even have a cup of coffee.  I had a relaxing afternoon and intentionally did nothing around the house.  (I am normally in perpetual clean-up mode.)  Suddenly, before I realized what happened, at 7:00 PM I found myself in a state of complete anxiety surrounded in the chaos that I allowed to accumulate around me all day.  So I cleaned and polished and cleaned some more.  I feel much better now.

The thing is - and I realize it's taking me a long while to get to it - I need to start a new writing project.  It's time to write something new.  On Sunday I made a list of short story ideas.  I have 25.  Ironically, my daughter was doing the same thing at the same time.  Hers were much more thought out - mine where just opening lines and a little phrase to remind me where I was going with it. 

With twenty-five ideas in front of me, I am filled with panic, not sure what I will write today or if I will be able to write another word.  So I write this instead.  Every part of me wants to do anything but write today, but I know that if I don't just jump into it right now, I will have a harder time of it tomorrow. 

Cheerleaders

When my daughter was in third grade, she went against what I thought was her true nature and joined cheerleading.  Let me tell you she was cute as a button in her little outfit with her hair fixed just so.  The other girls told her she had the look - and she did, but that was it.  There was no cartwheel in my sweetie pie - and it just wasn't for her.  She was the only one that opted out of cheer competition.  Quickly after that she signed up for softball - much more suitable for my little girl. 

Before I go on to why the word "Cheerleaders" popped in my mind this morning and before I get busy writing the stuff I really meant to write today (most assuredly not about cheerleaders), I have to say how much I didn't fit in with the other cheer mothers.  They mouthed the cheers with the girls and did the little routines with their hands - very small as if to hide it - full grown women doing tiny cheers.  All but one other mother joined in this ritual every practice.  The other mother and I stood separately so whatever was affecting them wouldn't affect us.  It was horrifying.  I apologize to any cheer moms out there if I'm being offensive - but please stop.  They can do it without you.  Join a dance class or something if you need something for yourself. 

That said, I read two blogs this morning and left a very cheerleaderish comment on one.  You can do it!  Don't give up! I said with complete sincerity.  As I started to submit the thing, I realized I needed those words said to myself.  So I take my own advice this morning and trudge on.  If anyone is reading this, struggling writers in particular, I say to you what I wish someone would say to me - You are awesome!  You are meant to be a writer or it wouldn't matter if you get stuck. Writing makes you happy so write.

(And, no, my husband and daughter still have not read my perfected chapters - oh, well.)

Motivation to Write

I took two weeks off from writing so I could get ready for Christmas, spend more time with my family, and rest up to recover from my over-share of recent illnesses.  Two weeks has somehow turned into four.  Except for writing here most days, I'm not writing at all.  And it makes me feel a little irritable.

To stop writing entirely after working so hard for ten weeks non-stop is kind of like hiring a personal trainer for ten weeks and then resting for four - most of the effect is undone and you have to start over again to build yourself up to the point where you were.  Mostly, I'm not in the mood to sit and write for hours - or even one.  I am very disappointed in myself that I let myself go when I was on such a roll.

So I signed up for another two sessions of my writing class.  The class is funny - it's not instruction at all and you don't write there.  It's worth the money for me because it motivates me.  I want to come to class with a prepared piece that I'm proud of.  My insane perfectionistic ego cannot walk into class with something half-done.  And it's great to have someone to read it to - people who are there to hear what other people write. 

The writing class is gratifying but amazingly difficult at the same time.  I don't know if there was one class last term where I didn't shed a few tears - either because what I wrote was difficult to read or because the heartfelt words of others were so sad and emotional.

Last term, I was determined to complete a children's story.  For the next two terms, I want to polish one adult story and finish writing a second in addition to finalizing the edits to my children's story.  Something about the writing class brings out the poet in me.  I don't plan to write poems, but they just bubble up like the froth when you make oatmeal or brown rice that always seems to seep over the edges no matter how much I stir.  I will be interested to see what bubbles up next.

This morning, I wanted to write while my baby slept late.  The silence was unbearable so I texted my husband instead while I tidied the house and put in a load of laundry.  My baby just woke up and is patiently unrolling a container of dental floss until I write my last words.

The bottom line is I need to just start doing the daily writing again.  If I can't get started with a new story, I need to edit a chapter of a finished story or dig out my notes and drafts from the two I want to work on.  I need to get out a journal and just fill it with whatever like I used to do every day.  I'm not sure at this point the value of the Natalie Goldberg style of writing practice when I'm already confident about my writing, have several works in progress, and have this forum to write regularly - motivation to write more is it, so I will dust off my journal and get busy - maybe today, maybe tomorrow.

Resolutions

This New Year's Eve, my children and husband are happy to hear that my resolution is to calm down: to live in the moment, to enjoy life, to laugh every day, and to relax.

I am a compulsive goal-setter.  Just this week, I decided to attack the GRE word list, and with the same over-do-it-ness that I apply to everything in my life, I learned 100 words in a week - not 10 or 20 - but 100.  Instead of making my exercise goal a simple 20 minutes of exercise a day, I am compelled to do it large:  a virtual bike trip to Seattle.  Instead of losing ten pounds and going from there, my weight loss goal is a seemingly impossible 30 pounds. 

I also set a book-reading goal for myself that may be impossible for me to accomplish - but setting the goal set me back on a path to reading books I love.  I have finally made it to the scene in The Hobbit where they found the secret door - I can't wait to finish it.

In my heart, I think these goals are good.  Without goals, I feel like I'm not myself.  I think I need them, so I will keep up my voyage to Seattle and hope to finish it this year, but will definitely add my kids' miles to the mix.  I will work on the thirty pounds but will be happy when I lose even five.  I will keep reading and hopefully will make it to the point where I set aside time everyday for reading like I do for writing - because I love it.

I feel a little lost this week because I haven't written (except here) in two weeks.  I am terrified the children's book I am working on may well be the last good idea I will ever have.  I know a lot of writers feel that way and freeze in their tracks. 

One thing that keeps me going is this blog, and I appreciate everyone that has read my entries.  Writing daily here is one thing I don't have to set as a goal for myself, although working on my other writing projects probably should be.  Being too tough on myself with my writing goals is the surest way to stifle my creativity and make the writer in me pop into my shell like a turtle attacked by three year old boys.  I set a too-rigid goal for myself for getting my story done and have frozen.  I need to back off of it, take a rest, take my tired body to the bookstore and hope that my creativity will be revived if I give it a chance to breathe.

Vacation from Writing is Over

I have intentionally taken a break from working on my children's story over the last week.  I love writing, particularly this story.  I feel very driven to write today, the way I feel the need to have a cup of coffee in the morning.  I think this compulsion to write this morning is a sign I am doing the right thing with my life (as opposed to traditional work). 

I promised myself I will exercise before I do anything today then I will spend the afternoon writing today until my kids return from their dad's house.  It feels like a gift to myself - like a spa day.  Maybe I can convince my husband to cook a wonderful low fat lunch for me (to not undo the exercise).

I always wanted to write and remember a writing assignment in 6th grade.  Our wonderful teacher, Mrs. Pennington, who replaced our horrible troll-like teacher, Mr. Wells, gave us a creative writing assignment.  I choked.  I remember wanting there to be a Christmas mouse in the story.  All I had was the character, a picture I drew, and absolutely no plot.  I was eleven and exactly the same perfectionist I am today - in my entire K through 6 experience, only the toll-like Mr. Wells had given me a grade less than an A. The perfectionism paralyzed me and my Christmas mouse story.  I wanted to write a story so much and couldn't write the first word - I knew in my heart I was a failure. 

I think that's funny how that day that I couldn't write the story has stayed with me - as has the C on the social studies homework graded by the troll.  Maybe I can write a Christmas mouse story today and convince my inner 6th grader that I just needed some time and confidence.

An Anticlimactic Ending

I spent several hours at the coffee shop yesterday and injested too many calories in the form of cookies, lattes, and mango smoothies.  The extra calories were worth it - I finished writing the ending chapters of a twenty chapter children's book.
While I worked on the last chapter, my children went Christmas shopping, walking from store to store in the strip mall that housed the coffee shop.  I thought it would take me an hour to finish the last chapter.  It only took 30 minutes.  I texted my daughter with a happy message that I was finally done with the first typed draft of the last chapter.  She responded with a "Yeah!"

And that was it.  That was all the hoop-lah I got for finishing my book.  I expected more, not necessarily from others.  My husband did comment, "So you finished your book," during dinner.  "Yep," was my response.  It was all very disappointing and very anticlimactic. 

It was like graduating from college without a job and saying, "Now what?"  It was like getting married to someone you already lived with and returning after the honeymoon to see that nothing had really changed.  It was like getting a promotion in name only, with no extra pay or responsibility, just a title. 

I was, however, filled with a happy and confindent certainty that I now am undeniably a writer.  In fact, I was a writer last week too - and the weeks before that.  Nothing really changed when I typed that last word except I met my goal, which feels good but is not as life changing as I expected.

The funny thing is that the idea of being a writer and completing a piece has always been anxiety-provoking for me.  What if I won't get it published?  What if it's not good enough?  What if no one likes it?  What if I run out of ideas mid-stream?  What if I'm not capable of tying it all together to finish it well enough? What if I suck?

None of those worries were valid at all.  Finishing a story is separate from all of those things except being able to come up with a good ending.  The fact is only worry can really keep you from running out of ideas and finishing a story well.  Once you are in the zone of writing, the plot seems to write its way through you as you write if you let it.
I will write today with confidence as I dive back into this story, editing the story chapter by chapter until it is ready to send to a publisher.

I am thinking there's not going to be fireworks and excitement when/if I get it published either - just money and another story to write.

Writer's Block Returns

I have the ending of the story I have been working on finishing since the beginning of October.  I have the outline, the plot, the smallest details about the characters in the final chapter, and even a happy ending.  It is so done that I can tell the story to my kids out loud and in great detail.  They like it.  But I haven't written it yet on paper.

I had the whole week to work on it, but it was interrupted by an appointment with my foot doctor, who diligently squeezed the sore spot on my foot to make sure it was still hurt (it is) and made it too sore to walk on.

The other unintended complication is that my husband keeps urging me on to write.  Something about my character makes me halt in my tracks when someone else tells me what to do and when to do it - even if it's what I was planning on doing anyway.  I know it's immature, but that's how I'm wired.

Thanksgiving was also mid-week.  My whole family spent a lot of time baking and cooking (which also ended up inflaming my foot even more despite all of my efforts to stay off of it in the kitchen), which took time away from writing. 

I have it stuck in my mind that I can edit this particular manuscript at home but need to write it at the coffee shop.  This sort of feels like a superstition, like having to have a figurine in my pocket or a certain pair of lucky socks on my feet to pass a test.  But it's not exactly superstition.  I like to write there and feel like my mind is clear of my stuff when I go out to write this particular story.  When I'm at the coffee shop, I don't think about the laundry pile behind my desk and can't hear the kids arguing or the baby crying.

At home this week, I have moved forward on the story a little. I have gone as far as to create Word documents for the remaining chapters with headers and titles and a synopsis at the start of the page (so I won't forget what the new chapter is about as if I would).  At least I have the plot and the documents laid out.  I have four more chapters to go and two days (including today, which I am willfully wasting right now). 
I know these are excuses.  I spent plenty of time waiting for the mixer to open up (we had a mixer schedule since each of us were planning on using it).  I had plenty of time in front of the television that I could have spent writing.  Nothing about my hurting foot prevents me from writing words down on paper or electronically.

I have to admit that something about me has been resisting finishing this book.  If I finish it, it will be rejection time.  For today, I am going to tell myself repeatedly, as many times as it takes, that I am just writing the drafts of two chapters today and two more tomorrow.  I will tell myself I have plenty more work to do. I have to reformat the last several chapters, add pagination between documents, edit them repeatedly (one at a time then all of them combined), get feedback from readers, edit them again, work a little more on the timeline and add details regarding the timeline to each of the chapters.  I need to edit and edit and edit and edit again until the last ultimate final version where there's no question in my mind that it's publisher-worthy. 

None of that will happen today, so today I will just write.  Off to the bookstore for a scone and two chapters.

Defeated the Writer's Block!

I am happy to say that yesterday's cleaning of my desk did the trick.  I finally found the copy of the third chapter of my children's book with the edits I had penned in several weeks ago.  I updated the chapter and let my husband read it. 

I told him I was stuck on one issue, and he agreed.  I didn't like how I described the children in the chapter.  They need to be described in more detail and with some kind of identifying characteristic so that later in the story the reader will know these are the same kids from Chapter 3.  I wasn't able to work through this, but put it on an issue list in my mind like I would if I were developing software and had a problem that wasn't urgent enough to hold up the whole project and could wait to be resolved.

I normally only work on one chapter in a day (or even a week) but decided to add formatting to the first draft of the next several chapters.  The initial version of the story is hand-written in a small pink journal with funny aliens all over it.  I keep it in my purse and have reserved it for this story only, a story I wrote over a year mostly while sitting on my front porch resting my broken foot.  The poured out of me like it had a life of its own.

This past summer, I spent several evenings at the coffee shop at the local bookstore.  I brought my laptop, my hot pink alien journal, at least one child (but never the baby), and some dollars for treats.  The kids read and munched while I typed the story somewhat from the journal, but mostly not word for word.  It ended up a very rough draft, single spaced with block type without much editing.  My goal was to smooth out the story and get it all into the computer as good as I could the first time (sort of like a pre-test version of software before it's even near ready for users to look at it).  I was very happy with version 1 and had no expectation it was perfect; I was pleased it was functional and funny - and not terrible at all. 

By the time I got to chapter 8, school started for my kids, so I took a break and didn't revisit it.  I lost all of my momentum and had no time to run out to the coffee shop.  Last month I decided to sign up for a writing class with the goal to finish the story by the end of class.  My deadline is coming up quickly - there are only two or three classes remaining with an extra week in the middle for Thanksgiving. 

For my first two classes, I polished the first two chapters and reformatted them so they read like a book.  It sounds like a silly thing, but the formatting matters and is tedious to apply to multiple documents.  It would have been more efficient to start with a template, but I didn't think that far ahead.  Instead, I copied my coffee shop version, added headers and footers with titles and page numbers.  I double spaced the body and added indentation for the paragraphs.  I added white space so it's easier on my old eyes.  In my first writing class, I read the entire first chapter out loud, which was a huge milestone.  I'm not sure if the other women in class particularly loved it, but for me that wasn't the point - I shared it with people outside my home and read it out loud lovingly.

In the week after the first class, I applied the same formatting for the second chapter and edited it to perfection.  The third chapter was a little tricky.  While I was working on it, I got distracted by poetry and became immersed in dark poems that really didn't gel with this happy children's story.  So I put the sweet story aside and spent several weeks in poetry mode instead.

Last night after I found Chapter 3 in the stack of papers on my bedroom floor, I edited it some more and let my husband read it.  With a sudden burst of energy no doubt from the unusual silence in my house (the kids weren't home), I formatted chapters 4 through 7 and printed them off.  I edited them with a pen one chapter at a time.  I typed up the edits, and repeated the process until I was happy with each chapter.  The more I worked on the remaining chapters, the more I realized I needed to rework the flow of it.  I edited and rewrote, split chapters, inserted chapter 4 in the middle of chapter 5, and ended up with an eight chapter, 34 page story that is lovely and is exactly what I wanted it to be.  Except for those boys in chapter 3 - that I still need to work on just a little. 

I went to bed last night so happy and proud I could hardly sleep.  When I look back to the children's stories I wrote when I was in my twenties, I am amazed at how far I have come. 

Today I can say I am sort of happy I had a foot injury that has kept me home to work on this.  If I were working, this wouldn't have happened.  If I had gone to graduate school, I would be working on something entirely different.  The seed of the story would no doubt be in my mind, but I am certain it never would have been executed. 

I cannot wait until I have the time to read the last few chapters handwritten in my hot pink alien journal and type them up.  Right now my kids are making a big ruckus in the background and need my help.  I think all I want from my family for Christmas is time at the coffee shop.

Obstacles to Writing

There is no worse obstacle to writing for me than distraction.  And no worse distraction than a dirty desk.  My desk has become a magnet for clutter.  When I sat down this morning to try to write this is what I found:

• several pictures my kids drew over the years that I intended to frame
• my e-Reader, totally dead and without its charger
• a Print Shop CD that I never installed and probably never will
• a box of GRE vocabulary cards that were mocking me
• a stack of used and new Franklin planner pages - do I really need that when I have Outlook?
• a Franklin planner filled with unused pages from September
• a really cool Christmas card from last year with a gingerbread man that morphs into a snowman cookie if you move it
• The Iliad
• a bookmark that I quickly inserted into The Iliad
• headphones for the Rosetta Stone French course that I've been meaning to install
• several pens
• a stack of journals from the last two years that I have intended to look through to pull out story ideas but haven't
• a piece of paper with my ex-husband's email address on it
• "Tuning Zone-Based Policy Firewall Denial-Of-Service Protection" printout - obviously not mine
• the warranty info for my tv
• a tv, which I regret I chose to put on my desk
• scissors, two screwdrivers, and a half-dozen power cords (still not the one for my dead e-Reader)
• two large pen holders filled but with no pens
• a stapler
• the reading glasses I have been searching for
• a pad of graph paper
• three drawing books for children and a pad of drawing paper
• two coasters
• a dirty coffee cup
• a lot of loose poems
• printouts from the printer, mostly garbage
• random receipts
• a remote control
• a notebook just for poetry drafts
• a stack of papers I need to look through
• the power cord for my digital camera
• an empty plastic report cover
• my current writing journal
• laptop and laptop accessories
• lamp
• two black mesh dividers for bills with no bills

I removed everything from my desk, polished it, and put back the things that actually belong there.  The rest I left on the floor, my bed, or my dresser (yes, spreading out the mess).  Now my desk is too clean.  I still can't seem to focus on what I wanted to write about and can't find the chapter I wanted to work on (my guess is it's in the stack on the floor).