Sweat The Small Stuff

The other night I had an epiphany. I'd known for months that part of the reason writing my book has taken so long is because I spent almost a year trying to polish scenes and plot points that didn't work -- an effect that is like constantly rearranging furniture in a house with no bathroom or windows. But I hadn't fully understood why I did this, besides being buried in denial about having built a house with no bathroom or windows.

Then it came to me -- I'd been too obsessed with the details. Why? Because I love the details in books. That's what make books worth reading to me. Those little bits of information that build onto a whole and offer insight and truth.

But you need to have a whole first.

I remember watching the movie about Ed Wood years ago, and thinking that he had all the enthusiasm in the world but didn't realize he needed to pay attention to the details. Part of the reason I decided not to go into film despite having a degree was my hatred for the details involved. I hated figuring out the fstop of lighting, the frame rate of film, where the music needed to swell. I loved the stories, I didn't care at all about the technicalities.

Meanwhile, I love working on the details of my real house (which thankfully has a bathroom and windows). At some point in the last two years I realized that if I wanted my house to look a certain way, I'd have to Do It Myself. Perhaps if I had a large disposable income I could hire someone, but even then, I fear I'm too much of a control freak.


I don't have any particular style or goal. I don't know Interior Design, but I know what I like -- A little Jane Austen, a little Steam Punk, and anything else that hits my fancy.


I made those curtains. I'm proud.

The apartment overlords must have realized I'm on a home decorating mood, because they helpfully removed large parts of the trees outside (a bit too much perhaps) and now my patio is getting more light than ever.


Details... details...

Paperback Writer

The first real completed draft, the draft where the importance of having a good plot on which to build good writing finally sank into my dense skull, is done and weighs in at 104,233. At 250-300 words per page, I've written a whole lot of pages.

Time for a break. Step back, get a little perspective so I can be critical of the New Improved Plot. Get back to the blogging I stopped doing when life got busy and I got so focused on my writing that writing anything else inspired mental tantrums.

Meanwhile though, I have continued to use the donabe.





I love that all you need to do to make something in the donable is chop some stuff, saute some stuff, and then throw the lid over it. Nothing takes more than 1/2 an hour to prepare.


Here's a picture of my writing partner and his associates. Every morning I get up before Tech Support, around 7am, make tea, and do some writing -- and I never lack company. Now that I'm on break from writing, I'm not sure what I'll do. I'll figure something out. And I'm guaranteed company.

I think embarrassed is spelled wrong

If I were in charge I would spell it emberass. Actually, I spell it that way on a regular basis, but an awful red underline forces me to change it into the 'correct' spelling. Pah!

Moving on. Though I can put on a good show, I've discovered that having a single night of bad sleep can throw me off for the next several days. I slept poorly on Tues, okay on Weds, and well Thursday night, but by the end of work on Friday I was falling asleep on a student who'd come in for a private lesson. Luckily I still managed to help her fix her lace, which she proclaimed 'saved her life'.

On the bus ride home I contemplated dinner. We were supposed to do burgers. I was so tired. Yawning tired. I ran through a list of local restaurants in my head, and argued with myself internally.

Pro: I am tired and won't have to do anything if I let those nice peoples make my dinner.

Con: I will feel like a weak failure and probably won't enjoy the ill-gotten food that much.

The fact that we were eating out all weekend pushed me back into the "no, I will be STRONG!" arena of thinking (though I suffered a setback when I realized I had also planned on making fries). Then a blast of inspiration, what if I topped the burgers with caramelized balsamic onions and brie? Memories of the burger at the Bistro in Independence tantalized me.

I think this is why I get lazy about cooking sometimes, I seem determined to always make more work for myself.



But surprisingly, the fries and the onions were very easy to make and didn't require much more than slicing and putting over heat.


Tech Support came home and I put him in charge of the burgers.


In about a half an hour, we had brie burgers. Not quite as good as the ones in Independence, I think we needed a milder brie, but delicious anyway. Very satisfying after a long day of saving lives.

Rainy Days and Mondays...

I've made a lot of mistakes writing my book. The kind of mistakes I had to make in order to learn how to be a writer. But still. Big Mistakes. Frustrating Mistakes. Tiring Mistakes.

I spend hours in my kitchen/office. From the window and brief ventures outside I see the sky is clear and blue. The morning glories or the jasmine or some flower is blooming. Birds are chirping in one of the trees. Southern California has gorgeous weather and wonderful days 95% of the year. They're hard to escape.

I let the blinds down low. I stare at the computer screen. I angst. I need to go get some whipping cream for desert tonight but I can't get myself to go outside again.

Monday something clicked. The writing flowed. Went places I didn't expect. New places I was excited to go. Tuesday I'm still going. Nervous flutterings have started in my stomach. This can't last. This won't last. There's something horribly wrong that I'm not seeing. Tomorrow I'll look over what I wrote today and discover that it's pure trash.

Wednesday morning I go over yesterday's writing. I like it. I love it. I have to go to the work that actually earns money.

Wednesday night sees me at massive coffeehouse chain. There were no seats inside so I'm stuck outside, waiting for over 45 minutes (at least I was forewarned) for Tech Support to join me for dinner at the intersection of two busy streets. The day is gray, it rained earlier. The two men sitting next to me are having a loud conversation in a foreign language. My drink is too hot and every time I put it down a little bit spills.



What a wonderful day. I can hardly wait for the next.

Writing About Scones, Sorta

Sometimes my head gets buried too deep in the computer. I spend all my time either writing, or trying to write and feeling bad that I'm not. There are many problems here of course, but one of the big ones is that is hardly the kind of Full Life to inspire writing.

At the very least I risk becoming one of those writers who write about writing, which is not dissimilar from filmmakers who make films about film. They're not all bad, some are quite good, but there are too many and one gets the feeling that these people just don't Get Out Enough. Or Do Enough.

So I'm taking a few days off. Yesterday, on my second day off, I found myself standing in my kitchen thinking: "Now what?" I didn't have to turn my computer on and open up Scriviner -- so what should I do?

Make some cream scones of course.



I left out the currants (my pantry does not feature currants) and thought that I was making the same Cream Biscuits that I'd made a few times. These scones were FAR superior to the biscuits (amazing what 5 tbsp of butter will do) and paired with clotted cream and Aunt Kitty's wine jelly, well, I'm going to be making a lot more cream scones in the near future.

To help with my writing, of course.

Why do I like these guys?

They're difficult. They make bad choices. They don't see what should be right in front of them because they're caught up in their pasts. They can be self destructive. They could use a few hours on the therapists chair. They don't do what I tell them to do, and sometimes go off in their own direction entirely. They bring things to a standstill when they don't like what is happening and won't move again until they get their way. They make waves, and can never leave well enough alone. And if I leave them alone, they do nothing at all.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I like the main characters in my book.

Reading

Earlier in the year I vowed to read about 50 paperback books this year. So far this is all I got. Actually there is one missing because I loaned it to Mum. Beau Crusoe was a very excellent historical romance, with the proper mix of dark and light.

So, that's not the book I want to talk about. That's not the book that dragged me down and made me not want to deal with reading anything but the cheap, illicit thrills that e-books bring. No, this is the culprit:



I saw the TV series. I read good reviews. Sure Meggish wasn't enthralled but she can be a poo so I chose to ignore her. I made it through the first book, and about halfway through this second one.

Ugh.

I have this problem with a certain genre of mystery novels and for some reason Dexter, though not really similar in any other ways, shared this trait. Awful characters. I don't mean poorly written, I mean assholes. Every single one of them. Main character. Romantic interest. Suspects. Often in mysteries this seems designed to make it difficult to tell who is guilty, but usually it makes me lose interest. I hate these guys, so why should I read any further?

I didn't. I skipped to the end, read the last five pages, and then deposited it in my "read" pile without any guilt.

I sought comfort in the above mentioned e-books. I read dozens and dozens. Light, fluffy wonderful e-books. Short often at the expense of any depth, but good like a bag of skittles.

The truth is though, that writers need to read, and not just little fluffy happy e-books. I needed to read real good literature. Stuff that at least has the potential to be better than I could ever hope to write. With this in mind, I managed to pull myself together and finish The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles. My favorite Murakami is still A Hard Boiled Wonderland at the End of the World followed by A Wild Sheep Chase, but as always, I enjoyed being confused.

Now, on to these. Three of these I've already started once, but think if I show just a little more fidelity I can finish them.

Any suggestions on what should come next?

Taking Walks

There are times when I can't focus. I have a day stretched out ahead of me for writing and I'm all set with my tea and laptop and all that remains is for me to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Instead my hands and impulses take over, and I'm reading half a dozen knitting blogs, my thoughts run in strange jagged paths that all lead away from my story, the hours go by, I can't stop checking my e-mail and for some reason the only thing I can keep straight in my mind is a smugly smiling James Spader.

Walk time.

The camera in my phone is a valuable tool that actually takes amazing photos (along with dozens of blurry ones). I've started taking pictures when on my little walks, or out with the boy, that inspire me.