gNat's Notes -- 2005 posts

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2005 gNat's Notes:

December 19, 2005

You Mean I Can Choose??

So I started to blog about this the other day, but then my post came out sounding mean, when in reality I was mostly just confounded right along with guiltily entertained. Given that the incident still entertains/disturbs me, I suppose I'll have to take another whack at an appropriate description.

Okay, so it's the middle of the week, late morning, which means I'm alone in the house and upstairs in my office. The doorbell rings. Nobody rings my doorbell during the day except, occasionally, the UPS man, who dumps a package and leaves before I answer, or some misguided salesperson. So I don't exactly leap to my feet and run to see who my visitor might be.

As I tromp, tromp, tromp down the stairs, I realize I have two well-dressed elderly women on my porch, so I tromp a little faster, with guilt over my bad manners nipping at my heels. I answer the door and they're both smiling and panting just a little -- testament to the incline of my driveway (i.e., more guilt). The woman nearest me wishes me a good morning. As I nod and smile back, she opens her very large purse and pulls out a stack of brochures. Then, in a wavering and uncertain voice, she asks me:

"Would you like to hear about homelessness . . . " she flips through the brochures, reading the titles ". . . or Armageddon?" She glances up expectantly, eyes wide and peering at me over the lenses of her glasses.

Uuuuhhhh . . . ?

Is there an appropriate response to this question?

"Thanks, Alex. I'll take Armageddon for $200, please."
"How about sloth? Can you tell me something about sloth? Or one of the other deadly six. I'm not picky."
"Hmm. I think I'll have . . . homelessness. Yeah, that's a good one. And can I get fries with that?" (Okay, that was just ugly. Bad gNat.)

I was at such a loss. Like a cartoon character with a big fat question mark hovering over my head. It hung out there for most of the day, too.

December 14, 2005

Another Book Binge

It's so very sad, really. I pick up a brand new book by an author I love and I'll sit down with it and not look up until I've read it cover to cover. My husband calls it book rape. Very disrespectful.

So sue me.

Which books have I been raping lately? Wait, I don't like that word. We'll just go with the binge word. So which books have I been binging on lately? (Humor me while I play with color and bullets. Formatting can be so enthralling.)

Red Lilly by Nora Roberts. Hey, how can I not mention that one? Sure, Nora's basically a given, but I'm a sucker for her trilogies and this was a particularly good one -- good enough that I went back to the first book, Blue Dahlia, with the intent of reading them one right after the other . . .
Undead and Unappreciated by MaryJanice Davidson. Her Undead books crack me up. And, honestly, it takes so much skill to make a character as vain, seemingly shallow, and of average intelligence so darned likeable. I'll read every one of these I can get my hands on.
Blue Moon and Hunter's Moon by Lori Handeland. Okay, this woman can tear your heart out and stomp all over it -- and have you coming back for more. Satisfactory butt-kicking at the end of these books.
Night Game by Christine Feehan. The Ghost Walker series is, quite possibly, even better than her Carpathians. I'm addicted to both.

Okay, there are more, but my congested brain is drawing a blank now. I highly recommend all of the above -- and, sure, you'll notice they're all paranormals. This is obviously not a passing trend for me.

November 23, 2005

Pre-Turkey Day Thankfulness

I'm thankful for, among many other things:

1. A husband and kids I love who also understand not to speak when my fingers type frantically at . . .

2. A computer with a reasonably crash-free existence, despite my addiction to . . .

3. The internet, which gives me access to . . .

4. My writer friends who preserve my sanity, which is threatened by . . .

5. The urge to write, which gives my brain something entertaining to do, like create . . .

6. Stories and characters that move and speak just when I've pathetically convinced myself they have abandoned me.

And this leads me to the synopsis check-in I promised before . . . Yes, I did in fact rough out a skeleton of a story. I have seven pages of substance that can become beautiful and more complex when I next visit it. Life is good. (Even on days filled with otherwise numbskull moments on which I refuse to elaborate.) I shall ponder other, more personal blessings in private.

Happy (day before) Thanksgiving!

November 18, 2005

It's My Mother's Fault

No, really, I swear. It's all my mom's fault that I've been gone from bloggerland. Okay, Dad's, too. They were visiting us this week, and in preparation for their visit, dh and I had to perform what I like to call archeological cleaning of the house. Let's just say it involves considerably more than a vacuum cleaner and Windex. Scary stuff.

You'll notice, however, that my parents ended their visit long before it was time for me to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I'm thinking it was intentional, but I can't exactly prove it. Honestly, my cooking has yet to kill anyone outright.

Meanwhile, I've been brainstorming a new project. Yes, at last, one of those rebellious ideas has chosen to stick around and let me examine it a little more closely. Definitely some potential. Ideas are always at their brightest when I'm working on other projects or preparing for an enforced absence from writing. I wonder if I could rough out a synopsis by Wednesday afternoon . . . Ooooh, that would be a . . . challenge? Hmm. I'll check back in by Wednesday.

November 09, 2005

The Vile Vacuum . . . Horrifying Hoover . . . Bedeviling Dirt Devil

Very little forces a writer to question her talent, her identity, even her worth as a space-occupying, air-sucking human being, as does that time in between projects. Sure, rejection can hurt. It can make you angry and temporarily rob you of confidence. But, as unpleasant as the big R is, it's nothing compared to that soul-deep emptiness that comes from a brand-new and terrifying vacuum.

(Dum, dum, duuuuummmm.)

It's a vacuum in the area of the brain that the muse used to populate for our entertainment, but which now is empty of words, of voices, of story people. This is terrifying for any writer. Until now, the words and ideas have been flowing, vying with each other to make it to the page (okay, they do this on a good day, anyway). Then, suddenly, it's time to wrap up the proposal and send it off.

So. Now what? This is a question too scary to voice aloud. Because . . . what if there is no what? Is it over now, or--

Well (the writer hurriedly interrupts), how about all those ideas that were begging for attention when I had to focus on another character's words and story instead . . . what about them? Where did those ideas go? And, um (writer scratches head), when did the remaining ones get so ugly?

Sometimes those new ideas vying for our attention while we're trying to focus on a work in progress are really just noise -- a subconscious way of distracting our naturally procrastinatory selves. Fiction writers are idea factories; when they make mental noise for their own distracting pleasure, it's bound to take the form of a barrage of seductive little ideas. Once we give those ideas our full attention, however -- allowing each to reveal itself fully and be evaluated for its own worth -- they're not so lovely after all.

Well, no kidding. Hello? After polishing those chapters and that synopsis, we're used to seeing a story nearly fully developed on the page, with complex characters expressing fully developed personalities, speech patterns and story arcs. Next to that complex story, no raw idea can possibly measure up.

It's easy to see the potential of the raw idea in peripheral vision, so to speak, when we're focusing intently on another story. Set the story aside, though, to focus exclusively on that undeveloped idea . . . yeah, it needs work. A lot of work. Peripheral vision doesn't require or notice detail. Focused vision does and a raw idea lacks the detail. Until the writer provides it.

Does that mean every distracting idea has the potential to be a great story? No. But a writer needs perspective and time away from the last project to declutter and refresh before she can make that kind of judgment.

Hence, the value of the vacuum. Not that it's any less scary.

And I hate vacuuming. Have I mentioned that part? That's why it makes such a good metaphor for such a sucky step in the writing process (sucky -- get it? Yeah, lame.) and . . .

November 01, 2005

The Beginning of the End to End all Ends at the Beginning?

I know. I shouldn't blog after a certain hour, should I? Especially while high on filched Halloween candy (shhhhhh). Still, a thought came to me and I rarely let those go unshared, so . . .

A while back, I heard a writer enthusiastically crow that she had finished her manuscript that very day and joyfully typed The End. Literally. She finished the story and typed the words The End a few lines below the last paragraph on the last page of her very first manuscript. The experience of typing those two words, apparently, transcended every other milestone in her journey as a writer.

For some reason, this completely threw me. I never, ever type those words at the end of my stories. Never. Have I been missing out on one of those highs every fiction writer should treasure? The joy of a new idea, the joy of a 30-page writing day, the joy of drafting a pivotal scene . . . what about those two words? I never typed them at the bottom of the first manuscript I ever finished. Or any subsequent manuscript, for that matter. It's like I missed out on baby's first word or first step (yeah, even if it was an ugly baby). I should feel bad about that, right? Still, there was never a time when it felt natural to literally type those words.

For newspaper and magazine articles, I always typed the requisite -30- at the end of the article, but that's more on par with numbering pages. Just a copyediting symbol. There's no emotional closure to the device.

So why wouldn't I type those words? Habit? Forgetfulness? Yes. And no.

Really, I have to wonder . . . have I ever felt truly finished with a story? I don't think so. Sure, there's that point where manuscript meets publication and plops itself on a bookshelf. That's pretty darned finished. But those two little words never did get typed. Not even in the published version of my stories.

I guess I just always considered a written work (at least, my written work) more fluid than set in stone. There's always a different way to say something, a twist that can be punched or tilted a different way. So, unlike a math equation, there's really no one right answer.

So what exactly is the end? Is it--

Okay, sure, I'll lay off the candy. I had no idea Kit-Kats made me sloppy and philosophical.

October 28, 2005

Shaking Things Up

My husband was out of town earlier this week, so I had to change my routine a little to accommodate my family -- which meant I had to go running later than the miserable crack of dawn. Glacial morning temps might have contributed to this decision, too.

I know, fascinating, right? Just setting the scene . . .

I still woke up early, but instead of heading out the door to sweat, I spent the time working -- and I actually got a lot done. I theorized to my husband that maybe I was a morning person who needed to jump on the writing before the exercise. He suggested -- yes, the point, finally -- that maybe my catalyst wasn't the morning part of this equation but rather, the shakeup in my routine. I needed a change -- any change. Ooooooooh. See that lightbulb flash overhead?

Hey, I've mentioned before that my work ethic is as fickle as a toddler. It only makes sense that, once I grew used to a routine, my inner toddler would succumb to boredom and laziness. So I'm humoring my toddler. Whatever works.

October 21, 2005

Re-Surfacing . . .

Okay, I've been gone, but it's a good gone. (Can you tell I fried the brain again?) I've been working my tail off on this single title I started and dropped last spring. I felt the call to go back to it a month or so ago, really rolled through some chapters and decided to make a go of it this time. Still, that nasty synopsis was kicking my butt until brainstorming with a friend convinced me to let the story go where it wanted to go.

Then my RWA chapter (Virginia Romance Writers) had an excellent workshop on -- yes, how well-timed! -- synopsis writing. The speaker was author Mary Buckham, and she was really good at cutting right through the fluff we all try to squeeze into the synopsis, and going for the main points. Sure, after a while, we've all heard how to write these things, but sometimes seeing it all from a different perspective clarifies something that was a little too murky before.

So, yes, this involved starting over again on my synopsis. But this is all good. Really. Even if I did have to slash so many pages from the thing that I'm bleeding from various cuts all over my body. (There's a visual -- my apologies.) But I have a story. A solid story that feels organic and logical and fun -- and it's a paranormal, too, so this is completely terrifying. All new territory for me.

I feel streeeeeeettttccchhhhed. This is supposed to be good for me, right?

October 07, 2005

Pantzing

It's such an evil pleasure.

I detest writing synopses, as I've mentioned in past posts, and this synopsis had been driving me freaking nuts. My secondary character keeps trying to steal the show (and no wonder -- I love this character), but really only in the synopsis. So, I pulled up the manuscript instead and started playing, wrote blindly (i.e., 'by the seat of my pants') through an ah-ha moment. Just a twist I didn't see coming, but once it was there, well, of course it was supposed to be there.

There's nothing quite so dazzling as having your fingers take over the storytelling. You don't quite know what they're going to type until the words are on the page -- as though the words and concept originated in some mysterious place, bypassed your brain completely, to emerge from your fingers as they tap blindly away at the keyboard. And then there it is. On the screen. Very cool. Moments like that, you really feel like you're channeling your muse. And, yes, that's way too New Agey weird for someone like me to express in public, but I swear it's true. Days like this are why I continue to write. Very satisfying.

And, if you couldn't tell by the seriously lazy prose, my brain is fried. It's time for Friday.

September 27, 2005

The Writer's POV

The value of distance = perspective. (And they say a liberal arts major can't write a decent equation. Silly techies.)

Seriously, I picked up that paranormal story I was working on in May and June and surprise, surprise, it really doesn't suck as badly as I thought it did. We did discuss already the writer's warped perspective, yes? Any work in progress, when picked up on a bad day, is generally presumed to be drek. The only way to objectively judge the work is to set it aside and pick it up after some time has passed. That doesn't mean drek can suddenly turn shiny and beautiful after months of gathering dust, but a little dust-gathering allows the writer to remove herself from the story and read it as a reader instead of as a neurotic writer standing in the middle and looking at the words piled up around her. From a distance, I'm thinking this story has promise. Especially since I had a lovely, related brainstorm this morning. (It's always reassuring to know the idea factory is still working.)

So what happened to last week's 'seductive' idea? It's still there. Just cooking, like my paranormal needed to do. I like having several projects going at once and these two, plus another one that came to me a couple days ago (and another one, actually, that's been cooking for a month or so . . . hmm), should keep me busy for a little while.

Busy is good.

September 21, 2005

The Writer's Seduction

Nothing, but nothing is more seductive than that new, amazing idea that begins as an interesting glimmer in the distance, attracts the imagination, and draws it deeper and deeper in thrall. Truly. It's just magical.

When you've been writing for most of your life, as I have, it's easy to get a little jaded about the process. First, during the early days, you consider writing romantic and exciting. Then it morphs into a craft, an ambition, and eventually a business that's often frustrating and even discouraging at times. Ideas aren't always amazing anymore; they're either marketable or they're not. A serious writer must also be a professional.

But sometimes . . . that idea . . . yeah, that's why I started doing this. Goosebump moments when an idea hits you in just a certain way and builds into something that's so intriguing you only hope you can do it justice.

Then the cynical inner voice pops in with a "yeah, but you're going to think it's really stupid tomorrow, you know." But then again, maybe not.

September 16, 2005

And . . . Friday it is

I did it! I dropped my proposal off at the post office this afternoon and I'm a happy camper. Doubts and desolation will undoubtedly follow, but I'm existing in bliss at the moment.

Oh, what do I mean by the doubts and desolation? That's part of the writer's insanity. The proposal is shiny, beautiful, ingenious, a work of art, all that good stuff, until the postman gets his hands on it. Then it becomes, in the writer's mind, the worst piece of drek ever written. Mostly because there's not a thing the writer can do to fix this state of affairs. Before the envelope was sealed, the writer could edit and polish to her heart's content. After the envelope was sealed, she could still rip the thing open, edit and polish, and reprint the thing and seal it into a new envelope. Before she stepped foot into the post office, she could jump back in her car, drive home, rip the envelope open . . .

You see where I'm going with this. The mailman's hands, however, would be the point of no return. Especially if he and the newly stamped envelope are outside of snatching radius.

September 13, 2005

gNotettes/gNotinos/Mini-gNotes/Minor IgNfodump

I suck at knitting. Crochet it is. Although the overachiever in me insists on trying again later. I'm considering driving a knitting needle into her ear, however. Stupid overachiever. (I think my personalities are splitting. It's mildly uncomfortable and yet liberating.)

Aside from the knitting and related insanity, it's been a productive day. I like this. I'm thinking a proposal's on its way to the post office no later than next week. Even better would be this Friday, though; I love sending something off on a Friday. It's a great way to end a week.

Gonna try for Friday . . .

September 12, 2005

Creative Nesting

Maybe it's because fall is coming, maybe it's because I finally tossed the kids' butts on the bus and off to school again, maybe it's just me being insane and distracting myself from it. Whatever the reason, this weekend I decided to pick up scrapbooking again (and, oh, but it's been a long time since I worked on my scrapbook . . . at least five years now, so I'm way behind) and teach myself how to knit. Yes, both at the same time.

Sure, one can understand the scrapbooking, but why knitting? Uh, dunno. Maybe because I already know how to crochet and wondered what all the knitting hype was about? I understand it's therapeutic, too, and there are some (husband), though I'm not mentioning names (husband), who have implied that I'm slightly unbalanced and therefore in need of therapy, if not a lobotomy. I figure knitting's a cheaper, less drastic alternative.

Knitting needles are amazingly sharp, though. (husband)

[Note from gNat: Yes, of course I was kidding. Sheesh. Not everyone's a serial killer in the making. Hmm. Maybe there's a book in this . . .]

September 09, 2005

Addendum to Alternate Reality

Okay, it came to me. Were I single and able to do anything I wanted with a home, I hate to say it, but I'd probably turn at least one room into . . . (and this is really geeky) . . . my very own library.

Yeah, I know. Good thing I got married, right?

SEPTEMBER 09, 2005

Alternate Reality

A few weeks ago, my husband, the kids and I drove to St. Louis to visit our extended family. While we were there, dh and I visited my younger (single) brother at his house.

Now we won't go into his single status (not that I'm above nosiness, just that I thought it would be less than subtle to ponder such in a blog), but rather his home. He chose it, furnished and decorated it to please only himself. This has always intrigued me. I've never lived alone, so I've always had someone I needed to consult before decorating and other home-related decisions were made. But my brother actually bought a house on his own, and he's put in some time, money and elbow grease to make this house into the ultimate guy's dream residence. Now, I wouldn't call it a bachelor's pad, since I saw nothing cheesy about the place, and yet he has this entertainment system that made my husband's eyes glaze over with gadget lust. Sure, dh admired the new siding, the resurfaced patio, the improved landscaping, the game room, even the masculine furniture and paint job. But it was the entertainment system that completely held dh's attention. It was obvious to me at least that if dh were still single, the entertainment system would be priority number one for him, as it obviously was for my brother.

Which got me to thinking. (Yeah, it takes a while to get the wheels turning, but they're creaking away now.) What would be priority number one in a single woman's home? If she had a decent income, a home of her own she intended to keep indefinitely, and no one (e.g., family members, roommates) competing for available cash or priority-making decisions, what would be the single most important indulgence for her?

And why do I have the feeling that, were I single and capable of redoing a home any way I wanted it, that exponentially increasing indecisiveness would be the end of me? How sad is that? As it is, I choose my bathroom, with its garden tub and abundance of candles, as the ultimate indulgence in the home I share with my family. You won't find dh with bubbles up to his chin in the oversized tub, so it's mine. All mine. And it looks like it too -- very girly. Actually, the bedroom is, too. (Hey, the bathroom adjoins it, so they should be a package deal, right?) I told dh I was painting it a subtle 'plum' shade, which, in reality, is this lavender color I just loved. It's all in the spin. Plum. Not lavender. Just looks like-- Ssssshhhh.

September 08, 2005

Aiding the Fickle Writer

Okay, aiding me, then. Let's be honest, if self-absorbed. I looooooove my Alphasmart. Sometimes my office starts feeling like a dungeon -- a very hot dungeon since it's in the partially uninsulated room above my garage -- and I need to escape. Now, I don't know about your laptop, but mine's a freaking dinosaur (which I'm grateful to have -- so I humbly beg the universe not to send out any laptop-jamming whammies as punishment for the insult). The point is, sure the thing is portable and I can take it with me to escape my dungeon, but after working on it for a while, it too can get heavy and hot. (Plus, there's the temptation of Solitaire and any other simple games loaded onto the darn thing before I ever bought it. Games bad.)

So then we have Alphie, and I admit I get all dewy-eyed whenever I call him by name. Aaalll-phie. ("Daaaarr-ling.") Makes you wanna hurl, doesn't it? Like I care. (Shame, what's shame?) For anyone who's never met an Alphie, he's to a writer what a calculator is to a mathematician. Simple, effective, runs on teeny batteries. Basically, a simple word processor about the size and weight of a paper notebook, from which you can upload a file to a Word document on your computer. Even techno-idiots like me can master these things. Anyway, I took my buddy Alphie downstairs today, plopped my butt on the couch, next to open windows with the breeze blowing in and the fan encouraging more breeze, and tap-tapped my way through my pages. I like this.

When I first started writing fiction, I resorted to pen and paper when I needed a new venue to break up the monotony/beat my fickle work ethic into submission. Then I'd have to type it all into the computer by hand later. Granted, this also gave me a decent opportunity to edit and revise as I typed along. Still, using Alphie, I send the rough version to computer, but then I have to go through and format anyway -- revising as I go -- so I can accomplish the same thing in less time.

Thus ends the day's informercial. I'm willing to be quoted. Just make sure you only show my good side (yeah, I'll try to find it and get back to you).

September 04, 2005

Tribute to Katrina's Victims

I called Baton Rouge home for six years, during which time I endured the dregs of Hurricane Andrew. Now, here in Virginia, I've experienced the remnants of Isabel and Gaston. But none of this, as unpleasant as it was, compares even remotely to the horror visited upon the Gulf coast. It gives me nightmares, and that's only thanks to news bytes. I can't imagine actually living the nightmare. Words and wit escape me. My heart goes out to all the victims.

August 15, 2005

Drunken Penguin Performs Flying Somersault

It's just the strangest thing. The outside of my ankles have always envied the bottom of my feet. That has to be it. It sounds foolish, but I swear it would explain so many of my exercise gaffes over the years. Yes, just this morning I went jogging at an ungodly hour (I was feeling pretty self-righteous about this, too, which is an improvement over grumpy, my normal state of mind at dawn). I was halfway through my route, when I performed the inevitable: stomped on the side of my foot. Naturally, I couldn't just stumble and recover. That would be too simple. Too dignified, even. No, I went down hard and rolled and rolled . . . good thing it was dark or my dignity would never recover.

Still, I got back on my feet (whining and bitching, of course, as I did so) and finished my route, but with an important exception. Yes, I mean besides the bits of dirt embedded in my butt, the swelling ankle, and the scrapes on my knee and hand. You can bet I stopped wandering off inside my head and kept my eyes open, aware of sounds and the little I could see of the road and my surroundings at that time of morning. It's a different experience for a chronic daydreamer. Like reading from right to left or walking down the stairs backwards. Not that I would dare trying the latter -- my ankles have those devious ambitions.

August 10, 2005

My Bad (Obviously -- who else's would it be??)

That is the weirdest phrase. When did the adjective become a noun, anyway? Yeah, another tangent. Avoiding the subject. Mea culpa. I have not posted in well over a month now. The summer has escaped me, but I have been working, believe it or not -- writing proposals and, most recently, attending the national RWA conference in Reno. That's Romance Writers of America for the acronymoniously challenged. (I love inventing words. Unless it already exists? I'd look it up but I'd rather not.)

The RWA conference. That annual trek crazy writers make to a hotel somewhere across the country to gather with 2000 other introverts willing to brave untold social pressures for the simple yet complicated pleasure of interacting with other writers. There is nothing more exhilarating, more inspiring or more exhausting. Hey, I crossed three time zones. I should be allowed a month to get back to normal -- and that on top of a 6 am flight to get there. Ug-ly.

But it was all worth it -- I caught up with lots of online friends and came home anxious to get back to my writing. Anxious to write? Yes, that does mean I'm officially insane now. It explains my inexplicable return to morning jogging less than a week after I returned. Since I haven't jogged in many, many moons, I've been waddling around like a drunken penguin ever since that first run. Mind and body broken -- it's good to be consistent, right?

July 01, 2005

Friday-Enhancing News

We interrupt this blogging hiatus to bring you breaking news:

Studies show (well, at least one very small European study shows) that drinking an alcoholic beverage with a meal can lower a person's chances of contracting food poisoning.

Gasp. This is amazing. Just think. My husband can consume my cooking without fearing for his life in addition to his taste buds. No, really. It's theorized that either the alcohol itself or the kicked-up rate of bug-killing juices frothing around in our stomachs eliminates the bacteria. And I read it in a magazine so it must be true.

Okay, it was hard typing that last bit with a straight face. Still, I do think it would behoove those of us who are so inclined, to offer the original author of this piece of trivia the benefit of the doubt. I know I will. Anti-salmonella tonic currently chills in the refrigerator . . .

June 21, 2005

The Evil Inside Pandora's Box

So I think I finally figured out exactly why writing a synopsis before finishing the story is so uniquely daunting. (Yes, I did all this philosophizing when I was supposed to be writing the synopsis, not thinking about writing the synopsis. Consider it involved procrastination.)

Anyway, I'm what some writers would call a pantzer at heart. This means, instead of plotting out the story in advance, I find it more natural to just jump in and see where it leads me. Writing by the seat of my pants, so to speak. I'll decide I really like this little plot device or character or dialogue tidbit and I'm going to be an absolute maniac and pretend I can create a novel-length story out of it just by writing wherever my imagination takes me. So I'm not sure where I'm going when I start, just enjoying the ride and hoping for the best. This would drive organized, engineer types like my husband completely up the wall, but that just makes this process all the more entertaining for me. (I'm a difficult wife.)

Returning from my tangent to address my 'epiphany' . . . writing the synopsis before finishing the story is sort of like taking a sneak peek inside Pandora's box, where the future products of my evil imagination reside. I don't really want to open it all the way, because looking inside like that is completely unnatural and forbidden. All hell could break loose, busting the box, and my ability to tell this story (or any story!) could be lost to me. So, since the peek is so brief, I can't completely trust my eyes or my memory of what I think I saw in there. Is that what I really saw or just what it would be more convenient for it to be? Am I just filling in the blanks now or is this really how the story's intended to go? I can't tell for sure until it's actually written.

But . . . as a professional, I'm supposed to prepare and submit a proposal (three chapters and a synopsis), not a complete manuscript. After all, I don't want to waste my time finishing a story if no one's going to buy it. Hey, artistic integrity is all well and good, but books don't write themselves overnight and my lifetime is finite.

My solution: Pantz the first three chapters, close my eyes and write the synopsis for the rest of the story, then submit all of the above just to see if my editor and/or agent will actually buy into the package as a well-conceived plan instead of shaky guesswork. Yeah, I know. It's completely irresponsible -- but better than breaking the box.

June 17, 2005

Anticlimax

So I pulled up my manuscript this morning, did my usual procrastinatory junk before slamming nose to grindstone, then realized . . . oh. Huh. It's, um, well, okay. That's actually a decent proposal length and even a decent place to close a pivotal chapter. How'd that happen? Not that this baby's beautiful by any means and I need to drive home the hooks, but the heft is there and so is the potential. Think sixty-some odd (really odd) pages of almost straight dialogue and that's what I'm looking at.

Now I have to create bodies for talking heads and plop these characters in some sort of world and then -- ugh -- write a synopsis to go with the chapters. Synopses are butt-ugly horrible things bigwigs in the publishing industry use to torture writers into-- Oh, all right. It's a marketing tool -- and useful for many things, or so I'm told. A short, snappy little summary of the story that must also be lively, thorough, engaging, polished and concise. Basically, I'm supposed to tell the story before I finish telling the story. What about that statement doesn't sound redundant?

June 16, 2005

I wanna be the girl

I was reading this column in one of my magazines the other day. (Tangent: I'm addicted to magazines -- they soothe the urge to read someone else's words when I'm denying myself new fiction in favor of stewing over my own stories.) It's a column from the guy's point of view and how difficult it is for him to cry, when every one of his girlfriends has rated his emotional maturity based on his ability to produce tears. Huh? You know, I don't believe I've ever run into a female with the gut-deep urge to see her guy cry. No, we don't want him to laugh at his dog lying on the street as roadkill, but there is such a thing as moderation and variation. Hey, I hate to cry. Why would I want anyone else to cry?

It's not that we (women) don't want to share in our guys' lives, and no way would I begrudge a guy a few honest tears, but the whole idea of a highly groomed 'metrosexual' or a guy so sensitive he might weep over a beautiful sunset . . . okay, it's just beyond me. I don't want a guy who cries more than I do, one who mousses and blow-dries his hair, enjoys professional facials and manicures, and obsesses over his clothing. I really like the raw look of a guy who wouldn't know what to do with his hair beyond buzz it once a month and run a comb through it. I also like that little bit of mystery women retain merely through the fact that guys don't completely understand us. Sure, that's confusing and contrary, but my point is, it's good to maintain a little mystery. It's good that we're different. That doesn't make one gender better than the other -- just different. Different can lead to curiosity can lead to interest can lead to romance. See? A good thing.

No, I'm not into the Neanderthal type of guy who speaks through his fists and, frankly, I don't need anyone to sweep me up in his arms and carry me around. (I am, after all, independently mobile.) But, darn it, I'm the one with the double-X chromosomes, so that means I get to be the girl. I like being a female and I like being prettier than my husband (forgive my vanity and presumption, but I think he prefers this view of things, too). If a guy spends so much time dwelling on developing his emotional sensitivity and on being as pretty as he can be, then darn it, he's raising the bar for the females, too. And I have a hard enough time dealing with my own bad-hair days without sharing my makeup and blow dryer with the guys.

June 14, 2005

Little Thrills

Check it out!! I managed to move my journal from my website to a bona fide blog site. Not bad for a techno idiot. Isn't it neat how, with just a little bit of knowledge, I can be both effective and dangerous at the same time? First I managed to design and create my own website without truly understanding HTML or, really, anything at all about the web. Blissful ignorance. Who knows what havoc I wreak? And now a blog. Be scared.

And on to today's update: I've become a page count Nazi and it's working. The only way to deal with a fickle muse and work ethic is to treat them like misbehaving toddlers. "Now sit in that stupid chair and beat at the keyboard until you see this page number. Got it?" Whine. "And no pounding out gibberish either." But- but- "There must be words and sentences and relative coherence on those pages or I'll make you do them over. "

Yes, I'm insane. It's what makes me loveable. (Yes, more blissful ignorance. Please don't enlighten me. I enjoy my delusions.)

June 09, 2005

Soggy Ponderings

So there I was, just bobbing along on a wave of creativity (don't knock it -- these waves don't come along everyday, so bob I will), when it occurs to me that yes, it is June. It is not April any longer or even May, but June. Decidedly summer. Decidedly swimsuit season.

Is this fair? Who invented swimsuits, anyway, and for that matter, who decided it was a great idea to swim for reasons other than necessity? People were not born with gills. We breathe air, not water. We have no fins. We have feet. Feet belong on land, not desperately paddling away to keep an air-breathing mammal afloat. When did avoiding death by drowning become a recreational activity?

It makes no sense, I tell you. I wonder if I could protest squeezing into a swimsuit this season, just to make a point. Merits some consideration.

June 07, 2005

The Quota as Butt-Kicking Inspiration

Aaaaaaand . . . met my daily page quota. This makes me a free woman for the evening. Yes, I've reverted to quotas again -- otherwise, I'd be taking up a career in Solitaire and Jewel Quest. "Oh, for shame. Where's your passion, girl? Your ambition? Those words should just leap onto the screen because you just can't suppress them any longer." Right. Like the writing just flows from some mysterious inspirational wellspring in my fevered psyche. Pullease.

Still, the quota's a good tool, and at this rate, I could very well have three chapters roughed out by the end of next week. If not sooner. Those first three chapters are like the honeymoon period of any project, where everything looks shiny and new and exciting, so the pages come more quickly. Then, when I hit that three chapter mark (it often resembles a big, ugly brick wall), it's easy to grind to a halt, look around, realize it's all drek and everything that follows will be drek and--

Yeah, I love writing. No, I love having written. There's a difference. Insane business. Predictably insane, though. You gotta love it.

June 05, 2005

Gazing at My Navel Gazing

"Tortures of writing," "playing in traffic," "scary" . . . a person could almost be convinced that I hate writing. Well, the person would be half right, I suppose. Like many writers, I have a love-hate relationship with writing, and frankly, my default state of being resembles that of a mentally impaired slug. Still, we all must get off our duffs occasionally, and I've been told that I'm a scary person when I'm not actively writing. So I write.

June 03, 2005

Book Binge/Paranormal Proclivity

I know, I know. I'm supposed to be writing the stupid things, not reading them, but darn it, reading was my passion way before I decided to subject myself to the tortures of writing. I'm on a paranormal kick right now: Christine Feehan, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and now Katie MacAlister and MaryJanice Davidson, too. Just discovered MJD -- I love her books! Finished KM's Fire Me Up earlier this week and bought Christine Feehan's most recent book today. I told you it was a binge. Anyway, to all these wonderful writers, I apologize if I've misspelled your names and will correct it just as soon as I revisit your books. At my current rate of book consumption, this means probably tomorrow.

This past week, I've been reading a book a day, which means I skimped on sleep instead of computer time, although my face might have smacked keyboard once or twice. It's hard to read so much paranormal and not write it, though -- which explains my current venture, which I will not discuss. (Reasons being: Writer's paranoia/jinx prevention/potential momentum homicide.) I couldn't write a believable vampire or werewolf novel to save my life, but other aspects of the subgenre are really, really calling me right now. Picture me gleefully skipping through traffic.

May 27, 2005

Navel Gazing

Okay, so I did it. I don't wanna call it a blog, so gNat's Notes, as cheesy as that is, will be the title for this little journal my friends convinced me to start keeping. But before I do this (duh, too late?), I have to admit, writing anything approaching a blog just feels like I'm gazing at my navel in public. Seriously uncomfortable and possibly antisocial as well, but picture me diving into the pool of social discomfort ...

So, what have I been up to? My fourth book and last Flipside was released in April, which was sort of bittersweet for me. Okay, nothing sort of about it. I've enjoyed writing for Flipside so much, but as many readers have learned by now, Flipside will cease publication after next month. Let the wailing and hair-tearing begin, yes? Nah. Okay, sure, there was a brief and insane moment where I might have freaked. Did freak. (But I still have hair. Thank God. I think I'd be one of those people who'd end up with a seriously unattractive skull shape. I require adornment.)

After the freak, however, I began venturing into other subgenres of romance and even experimented with some single title stuff. Scary and exhilarating. So what will it be? Single title romantic comedy? Chick lit? Women's fiction? Romantic suspense? Paranormal romance? I've been playing with all of them, both now and in the past. I feel like a kid whose mom just smiled and told her to go play in traffic. ("Yahoo! Wheeee ---- aaaaaaarrrrgghhhh!" -- splat -- "It's okay, Mom. I'm okay. You sure I gotta do this? Yahoo! Wheeee--")

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