Fuzzy pajamas and snowflakes

           I’m wearing my blue fleece pajamas and sitting beside our big picture window in the kitchen using the table as a footstool.

Blessed contentment.

Birds are frolicking in the snow, digging for the seeds I threw out, and I’m spending more time watching them than I am writing.  Which is okay. It doesn’t snow here every day, especially on windless days where the the big fat lazy flakes float gently to the ground.

I love to watch the snow. It’s romantic. One of my favorite memories is walking with my husband at night across a mall parking lot while it was snowing, the giant flakes illuminated in the lamplight. I made him hold my hand.

Snow is relaxing. Quiet. Soft.

Sometimes.

For our second book, I chose to set it in November (and because I wrote the first scene, I got to do that!). Our last book was dead of summer, lots of heat and a thunderstorm but provided little opportunity to use the weather as a character for conflict.

Winter, I thought, is more complex, at least here in the Midwest--more possibilities for complications. Slick roads, ice storms, whiteouts. When I was in my 20s and drove a white Honda, I got lost on the interstate during a whiteout and took a wrong exit—didn’t recognize anything, signs were all coated. It was terrifying in that tiny, well camouflaged car.  I was sure a snow plow would cover me up and never know I was there.

Terrible things can happen in the snow which could add complications to our characters lives and even up the ante in already difficult situations.

And then there is the balance of that. The romance of the snow where characters can cuddle in front of a fireplace, frolic around bonfires and double up on a sled, or just take a walk along a country road.

Holding hands.

Nevermind

I’ve really gone to seed since I moved to the country. For example:

·       Why get dressed? Where am I going?

·       Why spruce up? Who is going to see me?

·       Why bathe? Who is going to…never mind. 

I’m kidding about that last one. Mostly. A couple of other things have suffered along with my appearance—housekeeping and writing. So what AM I doing all day if I’m not grooming, scrubbing windows, or authoring the next best seller? I wish I knew, because I’m busy all day and go to bed tired. Maybe I’m being abducted by aliens for testing. That would explain…never mind.

I’ve told myself repeatedly that I’d get back on a schedule and write. That I’d get on a schedule and run the sweeper.  That I’d comb my hair at least once a day.

The fact that I’m not working a “real” job makes me think that I have all the time in the world, so instead of  wisely budgeting said commodity, I’m doing what I want to do when I want to do it while suffering a bad case of bed-head and wearing kitty cat pajamas.

This has got to stop.

Starting next week, I will dedicate a portion of every day to writing.

I know, I’ve said that before, but this time it’s really going to happen. And I really mean that. Mostly.

First, though, I’m going to take out the trash because it’s starting to smell. Wait a minute. Is that me?

Nevermind.

Whatta Doll!

            I just got my first pair of real glasses, prescription, no-line bifocals, and I can’t see a damn thing! Everything’s blurry. I feel like a bobble-head doll trying to find the right position.

My mind’s eye is blurry too. I wrote a scene where a boss and his employee were sitting together in front of the boss’s desk. I tried to see the scene, but it was blurry. I could see the arc of the top of his chair barely higher than the desk. There was a fuzzy picture frame on one side of the desk and a tall glass or vase on the other side. A pile of papers sat near the center, with a thick book beside it on the left. Small items crowed the vase. I was searching for something to tell the readers what this boss was like. The fact that there was no computer may say something. A small table sat in the corner of the room littered with nondescript mechanical parts. Leaning in the other corner was something tall: a pole, a board, a pipe? Beside it was a bucket of metal parts and a cardboard box, half full of something.

That’s probably enough for me to work with, if only I could position these damn glasses so I can see the computer screen and keyboard well enough to write it.

So until next time, this is Bobblehead Larry, over and out.

You want me to tour WHAT?

          I finally got a chance to meet Becky’s mother who Becky talks about all the time. So long before I ever met her mom, I referred to her as Mom, even though she is only a few years older than me. Most of Becky’s stories of home revolve around her mom and her brother, Eric. Becky seems to think Eric is the funny one, and she describes Mom as a “hoot.” And her mom truly is funny and fun to be around.

Becky and Mom drove the two hours to get here to tour, with me, the Decatur Sewage Treatment Plant. The fact that Mom would make the trip says a lot about her. Branson, Disney World, even the Lincoln Library are typical tourist destinations, but the Decatur treatment plant? Not so much.

It’s my experience that humor and intelligence go hand-in-hand—not always, but the funniest people are usually intelligent. A lot of funny people play the fool and being stupid isn’t easy. Trust me, I know. Mom took to the technical aspects of sewage treatment well; she asked impressive questions and took interest in almost all of it.

Mom would make a great character. She is a great character. She reminds me so much of a hilarious sitcom star, one which I choose not to name for fear she will take offence. (I’m afraid of Becky so I’m doubly afraid of Mom.) I’m pretty sure she’s a better shot than Becky, and she’s probably always packin.’ (I say all these positive things not only to stay on her good side but because they are true.)

With Mom being a hoot, Eric being the funny one (I have to take Becky’s word for that), and Becky’s droll humor, holidays at her house are probably a rousing good time. I wonder if they need someone to play the fool…

Creativity? Not even after chocolate...

Writing is easy. Changing a password is hard.

Creativity is inhibited by stress—so blogging right now? A challenge. I just spent ten fuming minutes changing a password for which the process included deciphering contorted green wording and retrieving a secretly coded text message from my phone like I’m a hot Russian spy with my own talk show.

Isn’t technology supposed to make things easier?

Although I did manage to change the password, I’ve fallen in to a dark, non-creative abyss. Even after helping myself to a Hershey bar, I’m still surrounded by darkness. Wait a minute…hang on…

Had chocolate in my eye.

Writing is easy, but good writing takes lots of practice, lots of study, and apparently lots meditation and yoga to keep the creativity flowing. So it’s back to the mat for me.

Hey, before you go, can anyone show me how to do the one-legged king pigeon? Never mind. Today I think I’ll just be happier with corpse pose.

Come again?

“Steady by jerks”

I always thought that phrase was pretty well known - until I moved to the city and had to explain what it meant pretty much every time I used it. Maybe it’s a local colloquialism or maybe I transplanted myself into the one pocket of humanity that had never heard it.

So I Googled the phrase and although I found others who used it, I was unable to find a definition. So here’s an example:

Consider landscaping—you work like crazy in the yard until weather runs you indoors, and a week later you go back out and work on it until the weather changes again. You’re making steady progress but in jerky rhythm. Like Elaine dancing on Seinfeld.

I kept thinking I’d get into a routine after I moved to the country. I’d sit down every day and work on it, even if it was only 10 minutes at a time, I’d chip away and get it done. (Larry and I agreed from the beginning that I would do the revising, so I can’t even share the blame!)

          Instead, it’s been accomplished steady by jerks. I’d have a chunk of time and work like crazy for three hours then put it away for a couple weeks. Then I’d work like crazy for a couple hours and put it away for a week.

          Yesterday I had a block of time and put in the last few hours of revising (woo hoo!) and sent it out to our next wave of readers. I’m feeling really good about the manuscript, and considering what it’s been through, we really should. Here’s how our steady-by-jerking has gone so far (with a few steps to go):

1)         Write the book

2)         Discuss the book, agree on what to change

3)         Revise the book

4)         Take it to critique group

5)         Discuss critique group comments, agree on what to change

6)         Revise it again

7)         Send it to beta readers

8)         Discuss beta reader comments, agree on what to change

9)         Revise it again

10)      Send it to next set of readers

11)      Discuss next set of reader comments, agree on what to change

12)      Revise it again

13)      Begin submission process

Ending with 13 didn’t thrill me, but it is what it is. We are now on step 10 and awaiting the verdict.

I don’t know how other people write their novels, whether their process is as broken up as ours, but what I do know is that it works for us. It’s in the down time that our subconscious does its thing and we go back to the manuscript with fresh eyes.

Steady by jerks.

An Inconvenient Convenience

My laptop. An amazing convenience.

·       When in college, I didn’t have to skip vacation because I would have homework due. I sat with my laptop completing assignments in our down time.

·       When writing/editing our book, I took the laptop to wherever Larry and I were meeting.

·       This year I took my laptop camping and used it for both an entertainment center and a night light.

Now, when it comes to editing our manuscript, when it should be MOST convenient, I find myself longing for the days of a dedicated location for the family computer. Back then, there was room to spread out whatever papers I was working on. There was always power. There was quiet place that when I went there my brain knew that it’d be working and kick itself into concentration mode. Like Pavlov’s dog. Sort of. 

In my last blog, I promised that by this week’s blog I would have a dedicated location for my laptop—even had the spot all picked out. But it didn’t happen for a few reasons:

1)    My planned spot was the dinner table, so I still have to pick stuff up when we sit down to eat because the table’s so tiny.

2)    Either the table is too tall or the chairs are too short, because within half an hour, muscles were spasming in my shoulders and neck. I kept trying to sit up taller, but there’s only so far I can stretch.

3)    Way too much light, and there’s no way to angle the computer to get the glare from the windows off the screen.

          I have not given up on the plan to find/create a dedicated location, but it’s apparently going to take longer than a week to do.

I’ve tried the bed where I can spread things out, but it makes my hips ache and kinks my neck.

The recliner is an option for researching and writing (as I am doing now). But I can’t spread the manuscript out to edit. Even in the binder, it’s too unwieldy to balance on the chair arm.

The next place to consider will be the sofa, when it comes available. Right now our sofa is a bed until we finish decorating the bedroom. 

So the convenience of a laptop has turned out to be a bit less than convenient in this particular instance. Certainly the benefits outweigh any negatives, but there are times that I do miss a desk and a den and the room to spread my notes out far and wide, take a break for an hour or a day, then come back, and everything is where I left it, ready to continue with the next page.

When I think about writers who banged out entire manuscripts on manual typewriters, I know I’m wildly blessed to have a computer at all.

I’m so spoiled by my convenience that it’s become inconvenient.