I'm getting avoidant toward Gaia's Hands.
Honestly, every time I add something, I feel like I didn't do enough, and I wrestle between going on and adding more plot and going back and adding more detail.
I think I need to do the former, because I need a whole book to react to. But it doesn't feel rewarding, just a long slog with no cookies at the end of the day.
I'd drop it entirely, but I'm in the middle of Camp NaNo, and I have six hours left to write till goal. I've only lost a NaNo once, and that was when Trump got elected.
So I'm going to have to go on and write, with hopefully an aha reaction with my characters today.
Showing posts with label Camp NaNo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Camp NaNo. Show all posts
Saturday, July 13, 2019
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
An excerpt from Gaia's Hands
I am getting so tired of editing.
That's all I've been doing this summer -- editing/rewriting whole novels, starting with Apocalypse (almost ready for querying) and continuing with Gaia's Hands (my current source of despair). But it's between that and putting them in a drawer somewhere, and I think that, now that I have a sense of what the novels need, they deserve the second (actually fifth) chance.
When I started writing, I thought that my first draft was the final product, which was my honor-student hubris speaking. Those rejections were the best thing to happen to me, because they made me work harder and learn more.
That being said, it's time to go back to editing Gaia's Hands. My commitment to Camp NaNo is one hour per day, but I've been doing two just to be safe.
********************
Now, an excerpt:
On Wednesday, Jeanne arrived at her office after her 11:00 class to find Dean Davidson, who she had previously only met at college meetings, standing at her office door with two other men. All wore bespoke suits that probably cost as much as her monthly salary.
“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson said in his light, cultured voice as he stood at her office door with two other men. “This is Jack White, the Chief Financial Officer of Growesta — “ Jeanne shook hands with a middle-aged man with silver hair and a tan — “and Enzo Patricelli, Board of Directors.”
Jeanne shook Patricelli’s hand. His eyes, ice blue in a pale, strikingly handsome face, held eye contact for a hair more than was polite, and Jeanne wondered if he was from another country. He seemed foreign to her with his auburn hair falling just a little too long for Corporate America, and a slightly stiff manner about him. Austere, even chilly, but handsome in a compelling way. Jeanne wondered what his role in the proposal would be.
They discussed nothing significant on the trip to the steakhouse, nor did Jeanne expect to. Nor did they talk over the dinner of steak and potatoes. True to what she suspected, the men served the proposal with dessert and coffee.
“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson led the gambit, sipping his coffee, “I understand you’re applying to become a full professor this fall.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Jeanne said. “I have my materials together; you should receive them for review the first of August.” She remembered the earlier hints Davidson had dropped.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t brought any grants into the department lately,” Davidson replied.
Jeanne felt herself tense up, her hands flatten on the table. She took a deep breath. “I received a grant two years ago, a sizeable grant from the National Science Foundation.”
“Still,” Davidson said. “I believe we can offer an opportunity that would not only fund your research, but would vastly improve your changes of promotion.”
“Okay,” Jeanne said, knowing she sounded tactless, “tell me about it.”
“Well,” Jack White began, “Growesta is reaching out to make connections with promising faculty in various agricultural institutions, and we decided to start here at home. We at Growesta have been following your career with interest. You have an excellent track record in research with your — uh — Jeannie Bean. You have media exposure in the Chicago market talking about your research, and you come off with integrity, all things we’d like to capture.”
Capture. Jeanne hoped that was an unfortunate choice of words. “So what is it you’re offering?”
“We’d like to invite you into a collaboration with us where you could help us promote new varieties of beans for the agricultural market. You’re known for your work with beans.”
Jeanne took a deep breath. “You’ve looked at my work. I bred a perennial bean for larger bean size to make it more interesting to a consumer market. These beans were developed to be planted within the context of permaculture gardens, which are by definition organic. Are you offering an opportunity for me to work with you on promoting beans for organic applications?“
“We aren’t pursuing organic strategies at this time,” White replied. “But someday, I suppose, we may get to that point. We want you to promote our herbicide-ready products to the public, who has become increasingly distrustful of our products. You have captured the imagination of — of at least the marketing department at the University, and the regional media as well, as is evidenced by your interviews with Chicago-area stations. We would like to have you speak for us.”
“But my research — “ Jeanne stammered. “It’s not —”
“I know what your research has been,” Dean Davidson interrupted smoothly, “and it has been excellent research. But look at the opportunties here. We’re talking about money for you to continue your research, which we will treat as a grant for the purpose of your portfolio and taxes. Upward of $50,000 a year. And this should pretty much guarantee your promotion to full professor.”
That money would fund a lot of research, Jeanne considered. But tenure … “You can’t guarantee me full professorship.”
“You would be surprised,” Patricelli spoke for the first time, in clipped words. “Corporate dollars go far into greasing the wheels of the college administration.” In his words, Jeanne heard promise — and warning.
“I don’t know,” Jeanne nearly stammered, meeting Patricelli’s eyes in their icy regard. “Please let me consider this offer.”
“Okay,” White said. “But we can’t wait for too long. The ad campaign would need to be drawn up soon.”
That's all I've been doing this summer -- editing/rewriting whole novels, starting with Apocalypse (almost ready for querying) and continuing with Gaia's Hands (my current source of despair). But it's between that and putting them in a drawer somewhere, and I think that, now that I have a sense of what the novels need, they deserve the second (actually fifth) chance.
When I started writing, I thought that my first draft was the final product, which was my honor-student hubris speaking. Those rejections were the best thing to happen to me, because they made me work harder and learn more.
That being said, it's time to go back to editing Gaia's Hands. My commitment to Camp NaNo is one hour per day, but I've been doing two just to be safe.
********************
Now, an excerpt:
On Wednesday, Jeanne arrived at her office after her 11:00 class to find Dean Davidson, who she had previously only met at college meetings, standing at her office door with two other men. All wore bespoke suits that probably cost as much as her monthly salary.
“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson said in his light, cultured voice as he stood at her office door with two other men. “This is Jack White, the Chief Financial Officer of Growesta — “ Jeanne shook hands with a middle-aged man with silver hair and a tan — “and Enzo Patricelli, Board of Directors.”
Jeanne shook Patricelli’s hand. His eyes, ice blue in a pale, strikingly handsome face, held eye contact for a hair more than was polite, and Jeanne wondered if he was from another country. He seemed foreign to her with his auburn hair falling just a little too long for Corporate America, and a slightly stiff manner about him. Austere, even chilly, but handsome in a compelling way. Jeanne wondered what his role in the proposal would be.
They discussed nothing significant on the trip to the steakhouse, nor did Jeanne expect to. Nor did they talk over the dinner of steak and potatoes. True to what she suspected, the men served the proposal with dessert and coffee.
“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson led the gambit, sipping his coffee, “I understand you’re applying to become a full professor this fall.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Jeanne said. “I have my materials together; you should receive them for review the first of August.” She remembered the earlier hints Davidson had dropped.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t brought any grants into the department lately,” Davidson replied.
Jeanne felt herself tense up, her hands flatten on the table. She took a deep breath. “I received a grant two years ago, a sizeable grant from the National Science Foundation.”
“Still,” Davidson said. “I believe we can offer an opportunity that would not only fund your research, but would vastly improve your changes of promotion.”
“Okay,” Jeanne said, knowing she sounded tactless, “tell me about it.”
“Well,” Jack White began, “Growesta is reaching out to make connections with promising faculty in various agricultural institutions, and we decided to start here at home. We at Growesta have been following your career with interest. You have an excellent track record in research with your — uh — Jeannie Bean. You have media exposure in the Chicago market talking about your research, and you come off with integrity, all things we’d like to capture.”
Capture. Jeanne hoped that was an unfortunate choice of words. “So what is it you’re offering?”
“We’d like to invite you into a collaboration with us where you could help us promote new varieties of beans for the agricultural market. You’re known for your work with beans.”
Jeanne took a deep breath. “You’ve looked at my work. I bred a perennial bean for larger bean size to make it more interesting to a consumer market. These beans were developed to be planted within the context of permaculture gardens, which are by definition organic. Are you offering an opportunity for me to work with you on promoting beans for organic applications?“
“We aren’t pursuing organic strategies at this time,” White replied. “But someday, I suppose, we may get to that point. We want you to promote our herbicide-ready products to the public, who has become increasingly distrustful of our products. You have captured the imagination of — of at least the marketing department at the University, and the regional media as well, as is evidenced by your interviews with Chicago-area stations. We would like to have you speak for us.”
“But my research — “ Jeanne stammered. “It’s not —”
“I know what your research has been,” Dean Davidson interrupted smoothly, “and it has been excellent research. But look at the opportunties here. We’re talking about money for you to continue your research, which we will treat as a grant for the purpose of your portfolio and taxes. Upward of $50,000 a year. And this should pretty much guarantee your promotion to full professor.”
That money would fund a lot of research, Jeanne considered. But tenure … “You can’t guarantee me full professorship.”
“You would be surprised,” Patricelli spoke for the first time, in clipped words. “Corporate dollars go far into greasing the wheels of the college administration.” In his words, Jeanne heard promise — and warning.
“I don’t know,” Jeanne nearly stammered, meeting Patricelli’s eyes in their icy regard. “Please let me consider this offer.”
“Okay,” White said. “But we can’t wait for too long. The ad campaign would need to be drawn up soon.”
Friday, July 5, 2019
Vacation in Horicon
I haven't written because I am having good family time in Wisconsin, celebrating the Fourth the way I like to: bratwurst and sauerkraut, good cheese and beer.
During summer, my dad lives in a camp trailer at The Playful Goose just outside of Horicon, on the Rock River and not far from Horicon Marsh. It's a cozy place cluttered with hobbies: woodworking tools, winemaking, a ham and bean soup in the crock pot.
It's a great time for family stories, with my dad and my Uncle Ron telling their adventures from childhood (and the time Uncle Ron set off illegal fireworks years ago on the lawn of the house on Beloit Avenue). Storytelling is an important part of relating in my family.
It's much easier to be around my family since I've been on my mood management medications. I used to feel so much pressure to talk that it was hard for me to be there. Now I'm relaxed, and I enjoy it a lot more.
I'll leave on Sunday with more stories and more appreciation for my family.
******
I'm in Camp Nano right now, and I'm trying to maintain two hours per day to keep up. My family's accustomed to me ducking out to write. I'll keep you posted.
During summer, my dad lives in a camp trailer at The Playful Goose just outside of Horicon, on the Rock River and not far from Horicon Marsh. It's a cozy place cluttered with hobbies: woodworking tools, winemaking, a ham and bean soup in the crock pot.
It's a great time for family stories, with my dad and my Uncle Ron telling their adventures from childhood (and the time Uncle Ron set off illegal fireworks years ago on the lawn of the house on Beloit Avenue). Storytelling is an important part of relating in my family.
It's much easier to be around my family since I've been on my mood management medications. I used to feel so much pressure to talk that it was hard for me to be there. Now I'm relaxed, and I enjoy it a lot more.
I'll leave on Sunday with more stories and more appreciation for my family.
******
I'm in Camp Nano right now, and I'm trying to maintain two hours per day to keep up. My family's accustomed to me ducking out to write. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Day 1 Camp Nano April 2019: The beginning of Gods' Seeds:
I'm trying to motivate for April Camp Nanowrimo and a new book. Here's an excerpt from the first chapter:
*****
A group of beings — human-like, but with a venerable air for all their apparent youth — sat in a room whose black crystal-crusted walls shone with reflected light from the molten white floor, from the white and silver table, and seemingly from the participants themselves. The paucity of light did not lessen the sterility of the surroundings.
“The Apocalypse proved that we, the Archetypes, no longer take our protection of the human patterns seriously,” Luke Dunstan said earnestly, his hands tented in thought. His visage, weathered in contrast to the unlined faces of the other immortals around him, announced that he had become worldly and, unlike most Archetypes, had committed evil — in his case, for the sake of good. Unlike most Archetypes, he had also repented, which gave him a perspective that could be called almost human.
“But they still embrace evil,” the Baraka Archetype, short and spare like his people, countered. “They fight wars. They envy each other and they commit crimes out of greed.”
“Or out of want, or madness, or jealousy or a dozen other things,” Luke stated, the grimace on his face reflecting a view of reality he knew had wavered from the neutrality of an Archetype. Su, his consort and the Oldest of the Oldest, watched impassively, her tightly curled hair ruddy in the sparse light. She knew how to play the game, Luke noted sourly, something he had lost in his long association with humankind.
“If we give them the full impact of their cultural histories — not just the facts, but the emotions — the fear, the hatred, the xenophobia — “ The Bering Strait Archetype trailed off.
“How do you know it will make them worse? They already have the stories of their peoples’ pasts, and those seem to inspire xenophobia, it’s true. But what if they remember the full impact of the losses of war and weigh it against their hatred — would they decide to fight more? Or would they lay their weapons down?” Luke paused to take a breath, to calm himself down, to wear the gravitas of the Archetype instead of the passion of humans. “The point is that, if they kill each other, millions of them will not die with each death. If we keep holding the patterns of the humans — “
“One of our deaths will kill millions of humans,” Su interjected. “Which is why the Maker created us nearly immortal. Yet Lilith, who held the patterns of all women, was nearly killed by our kind. Can we guarantee this won’t happen again?”
All of a sudden the residents of the room stopped speaking. Luke felt as if a wind had cut through his immortal bones and chilled them for just a moment. Then he felt the weight, a weight of the history of countless descendents of the people of the seax, the knife that gave its name to the Saxons. And then his burdens vanished, and he felt a hollowness inside. The gasps from the others at the table echoed his.
“What — what was that?” The Ibero-Maurasian snapped, breaking the silence..
“I think — Su, did you notice anything?” Luke asked, knowing that Su had not carried humans’ patterns, their cultural DNA, for millennia as all her people, the Denisovans, had long since become extinct.
“Nothing,” Su answered, “except that all of you around me froze for a moment, and slumped forward. As if something had been taken away from you.”
“As it has,” the Bering Strait Archetype murmured. “I think — I think we have lost our patterns, and if we have, the Maker has taken them from us.” He sounded bewildered, as if something more than the weight of patterns had been taken from him.
“I must see — “ the Ibero-Maurasian said, then paused, and Luke knew that she mindspoke another Archetype. “No,” she finally said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word. “I think we are the only ones whose patterns have been taken.”
“But what does this mean?” the Baraka demanded.
The Arnhem Archetype, theretofore silent, spoke. “I think this means that the Maker has decided for us — He will take our patterns from us whether we are ready to relinquish them or not. And we’re the harbingers of this big change.”
*****
A group of beings — human-like, but with a venerable air for all their apparent youth — sat in a room whose black crystal-crusted walls shone with reflected light from the molten white floor, from the white and silver table, and seemingly from the participants themselves. The paucity of light did not lessen the sterility of the surroundings.
“The Apocalypse proved that we, the Archetypes, no longer take our protection of the human patterns seriously,” Luke Dunstan said earnestly, his hands tented in thought. His visage, weathered in contrast to the unlined faces of the other immortals around him, announced that he had become worldly and, unlike most Archetypes, had committed evil — in his case, for the sake of good. Unlike most Archetypes, he had also repented, which gave him a perspective that could be called almost human.
“But they still embrace evil,” the Baraka Archetype, short and spare like his people, countered. “They fight wars. They envy each other and they commit crimes out of greed.”
“Or out of want, or madness, or jealousy or a dozen other things,” Luke stated, the grimace on his face reflecting a view of reality he knew had wavered from the neutrality of an Archetype. Su, his consort and the Oldest of the Oldest, watched impassively, her tightly curled hair ruddy in the sparse light. She knew how to play the game, Luke noted sourly, something he had lost in his long association with humankind.
“If we give them the full impact of their cultural histories — not just the facts, but the emotions — the fear, the hatred, the xenophobia — “ The Bering Strait Archetype trailed off.
“How do you know it will make them worse? They already have the stories of their peoples’ pasts, and those seem to inspire xenophobia, it’s true. But what if they remember the full impact of the losses of war and weigh it against their hatred — would they decide to fight more? Or would they lay their weapons down?” Luke paused to take a breath, to calm himself down, to wear the gravitas of the Archetype instead of the passion of humans. “The point is that, if they kill each other, millions of them will not die with each death. If we keep holding the patterns of the humans — “
“One of our deaths will kill millions of humans,” Su interjected. “Which is why the Maker created us nearly immortal. Yet Lilith, who held the patterns of all women, was nearly killed by our kind. Can we guarantee this won’t happen again?”
All of a sudden the residents of the room stopped speaking. Luke felt as if a wind had cut through his immortal bones and chilled them for just a moment. Then he felt the weight, a weight of the history of countless descendents of the people of the seax, the knife that gave its name to the Saxons. And then his burdens vanished, and he felt a hollowness inside. The gasps from the others at the table echoed his.
“What — what was that?” The Ibero-Maurasian snapped, breaking the silence..
“I think — Su, did you notice anything?” Luke asked, knowing that Su had not carried humans’ patterns, their cultural DNA, for millennia as all her people, the Denisovans, had long since become extinct.
“Nothing,” Su answered, “except that all of you around me froze for a moment, and slumped forward. As if something had been taken away from you.”
“As it has,” the Bering Strait Archetype murmured. “I think — I think we have lost our patterns, and if we have, the Maker has taken them from us.” He sounded bewildered, as if something more than the weight of patterns had been taken from him.
“I must see — “ the Ibero-Maurasian said, then paused, and Luke knew that she mindspoke another Archetype. “No,” she finally said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word. “I think we are the only ones whose patterns have been taken.”
“But what does this mean?” the Baraka demanded.
The Arnhem Archetype, theretofore silent, spoke. “I think this means that the Maker has decided for us — He will take our patterns from us whether we are ready to relinquish them or not. And we’re the harbingers of this big change.”
Sunday, July 1, 2018
Back to Camp
I'm back at CampNaNoWriMo, Camp NaNo for short. It's the second summer session for the virtual campers to work on books. I've signed up for 30 hours of revising (yet again) Mythos after my beta-reader went through it.
I'm feeling the heat of the summer deep in my bones, weighing me down with indolence and a total feeling of "meh" about writing. I don't feel hopeless about being published, I don't feel distraught about not being published, I just don't feel like much of anything, especially as regards writing. I don't like feeling this way -- ok, I like not being drenched by despondency, but I rather miss that belief that something could happen any day now that could result in a writing career.
Perhaps this "meh" feeling is what I end up with. If that's so, then maybe it's time to give up writing. I know, I keep threatening (or promising) to give up writing, and I don't. But if it ceases to spark something in me, I may have to find something that does.
This might be depression -- I've been struggling with that for a while, no matter how happy and bouncy I look. I have an eye on it.
I'm feeling the heat of the summer deep in my bones, weighing me down with indolence and a total feeling of "meh" about writing. I don't feel hopeless about being published, I don't feel distraught about not being published, I just don't feel like much of anything, especially as regards writing. I don't like feeling this way -- ok, I like not being drenched by despondency, but I rather miss that belief that something could happen any day now that could result in a writing career.
Perhaps this "meh" feeling is what I end up with. If that's so, then maybe it's time to give up writing. I know, I keep threatening (or promising) to give up writing, and I don't. But if it ceases to spark something in me, I may have to find something that does.
This might be depression -- I've been struggling with that for a while, no matter how happy and bouncy I look. I have an eye on it.
Friday, April 6, 2018
Day 6 Camp NaNo -- and a frustrating mystery
Day 6 Camp NaNo: I've made 10,000 works thus far, and hope to get another 2000 today. I'm pacing myself the way I would a regular NaNo, which is a 50,000-word month. Do I worry about writing too fast? Not really -- the first draft is there to get the ideas down on paper, and then there's editing. Lots of editing. Sometimes you realize that no amount of editing will save your book, such as when I finally gave up on Gaia's Hands after the Kindle Scout campaign. Maybe I'll write that whole book over from scratch some day.
The mystery has to do with the fact that my Kindle Scout stats haven't updated in three days. So last time I saw stats, I had 524 hits and no hours in hot and trending. That's what I have now, because three days' data is not showing up. Someone answered my email and said, "Thank you for reporting the problem, we will look into it."
So I'm a little annoyed and a little paranoid (see what I did there?) If the data didn't transfer is one thing, but if the data went missing entirely, I may have made the hot and trending list and never known it, in which case I would not win to the next step and I would not get published under their plan when I rightfully deserved it.
So Dear Universe, cut me a break.
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Day 3 Camp NaNo -- serious editing out.
Day 3: I'm writing the last 30,000 words of a 80,000 word book, and I am so far off my outline now that I'm not sure about this book at all. (goes back and makes minor changes to book).
Day 3: I deleted some of the more hokey parts that had developed. My problem is that I loved Agatha Christie's The Seven Dials Mystery, where seven sleuthing young adults in a secret society solve a murder. I had created a secret society myself of Prodigies protecting the wider band of Prodigies, complete with name and emblem. Too hokey for me, and thus I've lost a thousand words of progress.
However I'm one day ahead of writing, so I'm not really panicked. It's just part of the process.
***********
Thank you for all of you who visited my book and boosted the signal yesterday! The book hasn't made the hot list yet, but the hits to my site are gratifying. Remember that you can't just visit the site -- you must nominate the book for it to progress.
Here's the link:
https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/1KM8I0ZK97R9J/
Keep reading -- I love to see you show up!
Day 3: I deleted some of the more hokey parts that had developed. My problem is that I loved Agatha Christie's The Seven Dials Mystery, where seven sleuthing young adults in a secret society solve a murder. I had created a secret society myself of Prodigies protecting the wider band of Prodigies, complete with name and emblem. Too hokey for me, and thus I've lost a thousand words of progress.
However I'm one day ahead of writing, so I'm not really panicked. It's just part of the process.
***********
Thank you for all of you who visited my book and boosted the signal yesterday! The book hasn't made the hot list yet, but the hits to my site are gratifying. Remember that you can't just visit the site -- you must nominate the book for it to progress.
Here's the link:
https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/1KM8I0ZK97R9J/
Keep reading -- I love to see you show up!
Monday, April 2, 2018
Day 2: So far, I've written 105 words of my allotted 1000 per day. My brain is a bit sluggish today; lots of external turmoil and lack of coffee is contributing to this state of being.
Having a word goal, though, is a great incentive, as is having a group full of people in my "cabin" -- my group of fellow writers in Camp NaNo -- yes, Camp NaNo is a deliberate kitschy metaphor. I might manage to finish Prodigies yet.
Here's an excerpt of Voyageurs, my Kindle Scout entry at https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/1KM8I0ZK97R9J/ .Boost the signal if you can.
“Why did you make me jump right then?” I hissed at Berkeley. “We could lose Kat!”, by which I meant “I could lose Kat.”
“Because Kat deserves the best life possible, whether or not it involves you. The worst part is that, if she disappears and goes her own way, we won’t even remember her.” Berkeley sighed. "Besides, we need to change back the changed futures or else timelines become unstable."
“I don’t want to forget her,” I insisted. “Especially as I plan to dance with her tonight.”
“In that outfit? They’ll never let you in.” Then Berkeley popped out of the scene.
I suspected he placed me at the right place and time to see how events unfolded, but I would choose the right moment. I staked out a spot near the front facade of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, which had been torn down in 2045 to make room for a new public safety complex, one that could house armored personnel carriers. I could tell from the elegantly black-clad doormen and the young women in petticoated dresses that I would never get into the ball. So I had to think quickly of an alternative.
I wasn’t given much time. I looked up and saw Kat, in a flowing yellow dress with drop shoulders and a light shawl. She walked alongside Harold, who looked a little younger than he had when I had met him. Harold, of course, wore a black tuxedo.
Kat didn’t sound enamored as much as she sounded vaguely vexed. “So why, Harold? I don’t like to dress up, I don’t like to dance with people, and I don’t like you.” Interesting words for someone who was in love with Harold.
“It’s an experiment about time. I’ll leave you here, Kat, and you see if you can get in. I’ll come back later and dance with you.” I realized I had an opening, but I had to act quickly. As soon as Harold had bounced away, I ran up to the dark-haired young woman with the long white lock of hair hanging into her face.
Fifteen-year-old Kat looked me up and down and raised her eyebrows. “Hmm,” she said. “Did you want me to give you oral in the alley? That’s twenty.”
I felt sadness wash over me. “No, not at all. I want to dance with you.”
“Nothing for money?” she asked skeptically.
“Nothing for money.” I meant to keep this child safe; realizing that this teen was my Kat left me confused and queasy. I determined I would dance with her as if she were the cousin I never had, dance enough to tell her that she could dream.
Young Kat stared through me with those scornful ice-blue eyes. If I failed, there would be more pain, more cynicism in this child, and in the adult Kat.
“Would you like to dance with me?” I bowed to her.
“I won’t go in there,” she responded. “Harold will have to drag me inside if he wants me there.”
“No, here. On the sidewalk.”
She looked at me, and the shrewdness dropped. “I put my hands on your shoulders, right?”
“Yes, and I put my hands around your waist like this.”
(“Mom, Dad, what are you doing?” I asked as my parents whirled around the sparsely furnished dining room.
“It’s called dancing. We used to do this when we were young. We do this in memory of the culture we have lost." My dad spun my mother around, and she laughed. "Would you like to learn?”
And my beautiful red-haired mother taught me the box step that night.)
The young woman took to the box step immediately as we danced to music that maybe she remembered in her head, because of course she led. She stood a little shorter than my Kat did, a little skinny and fragile from her life on the street.
I whispered, “Would you like to find a place to live?”
“I knew there was a price,” she muttered, and I wanted to cry.
“No. No price. Just a Traveller who needs to teach you how to be strong and fly.”
I thought she would reject this plea as well, but she stopped dancing and mumbled, “Take me there.”
I put my hands around her waist and she mine. Then I bounced to 2065 and then to 1994 and Berkeley’s familiar porch down the road from the museum. When a younger, just-balding Berkeley opened the door, I said, “This young Traveller needs a place to live. She’s been on the street, and she’s in grave danger.”
Sunday, April 1, 2018
Update -- day 1 Camp NaNo
The first day of Camp NaNo has been a success. I've written 2k words (twice my daily allotment), and that section is helping to cement into place a plot twist. I'm despairing about what to do when the book is done, because the first half of the book is all about isolation, and the current direction is solidarity and uniting against danger. I don't know if it's going to come out smooth, but that's what an edit is for.
It's snowing out. In spring. On Easter. Two and a half inches so far and it keeps coming down. Rebirth is being buried under a cold, white blanket. Oh well
Rebirth
I believe everyone experiences rebirth --
My Kindle Scout entry, Voyageurs, can be found at:
Voyageurs
And I'm looking forward to you reading (and hopefully nominating) me!
- There are many religious festivals that follow the motif of rebirth, with Easter being the most present in my mind at the moment
- Some people experience rebirth through transcendental experiences like walking in the woods or standing in a silent cathedral or looking out in space
- Some people feel reborn through restorative justice -- not just the wronged, but the one who has done wrong.
- Some people feel reborn through new insights into life
- Some reinvent themselves -- when they fail at one thing, they open themselves up to another possibility.
I believe in the potential for constant rebirth. It might be a bipolar thing, because I've lived much of my life with that enhanced glow in the religious/spiritual part of my brain. But I seek out opportunities for rebirth as often as I can, hoping I can hatch a more whole part of me.
Happy Easter/Good Passover/April Fool's/Camp Nano time!
**********
And now for my re-hatching:My Kindle Scout entry, Voyageurs, can be found at:
Voyageurs
And I'm looking forward to you reading (and hopefully nominating) me!
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
A NaNo Success Story
As you noticed from the title, today's post is called "A NaNo Success Story". But it's not my story, which you've already heard -- more than once.
This is my husband's story.
For those of you who don't know my husband, his name is Richard Leach-Steffens, and he looks like this (the person who isn't me):
He is universally regarded as the sweetest guy in the universe. He has a couple quirks, but so do we all. One of his more obvious quirks is that he has trouble finding words, and instead of a stammer, he uses grand arm gestures to try to coax the word out of hiding. (In the fashion of married people, I have picked up this habit, except I also say "uh ... thingie" while trying to remember).
Richard has always wanted to write. When I asked him what job he dreamed of when he was younger, he said, "I wanted to be a traveling restaurant critic, but I have writer's block." I thought he had the perfect job idea, by the way: travel, eat, write, get paid. I'm still wondering why I didn't come up with this.
When I started participating in NaNoWriMo, I invited Richard to participate with me. "But I don't have ideas!" I knew that Richard had ideas, because he helped me with ideas all the time. Many a car ride and coffee hour has been spent bouncing ideas off him, and him bouncing ideas off me.
Richard, like many, dipped his toes in writing through Camp NaNo, a less strenuous version of NaNo, where one could set their own goal. Richard's first project was part 1 of a novel based on one of the characters in my series of novels, Arnie Majors, the D.B. Cooper of draft resistors. His second Camp project was part 2 of the same book. He felt comfortable writing in an established world, because although he'd gotten comfortable with his writing, he didn't feel comfortable with his imagination.
Last year, Richard started (and completed) his first NaNo book. Again, it was based on my Archetype world, but he took a character mentioned once in passing and created a book around her story. It's clearly his book and not mine -- yet it's true to the universe. He made his word count goal in time, so he won.
This year, Richard wrote a book with his ideas, his imagination, start to finish. It's soft Science Fiction, very conceptual -- in other words, his kind of book. (His Master's is in history, specifically military history; my PhD is in Family Economics, with a bunch of sociology and psychology thrown in).
Think about this -- Richard had writers' block. He didn't trust his ideas, he didn't trust his imagination, he didn't trust his writing skills. He now has one book to finish and then three to edit in case he wants to publish (and torture himself the way I torture myself trying to get published).
He's a NaNo success story.
This is my husband's story.
For those of you who don't know my husband, his name is Richard Leach-Steffens, and he looks like this (the person who isn't me):
 |
| We were both a bit chubbier then. |
He is universally regarded as the sweetest guy in the universe. He has a couple quirks, but so do we all. One of his more obvious quirks is that he has trouble finding words, and instead of a stammer, he uses grand arm gestures to try to coax the word out of hiding. (In the fashion of married people, I have picked up this habit, except I also say "uh ... thingie" while trying to remember).
Richard has always wanted to write. When I asked him what job he dreamed of when he was younger, he said, "I wanted to be a traveling restaurant critic, but I have writer's block." I thought he had the perfect job idea, by the way: travel, eat, write, get paid. I'm still wondering why I didn't come up with this.
When I started participating in NaNoWriMo, I invited Richard to participate with me. "But I don't have ideas!" I knew that Richard had ideas, because he helped me with ideas all the time. Many a car ride and coffee hour has been spent bouncing ideas off him, and him bouncing ideas off me.
Richard, like many, dipped his toes in writing through Camp NaNo, a less strenuous version of NaNo, where one could set their own goal. Richard's first project was part 1 of a novel based on one of the characters in my series of novels, Arnie Majors, the D.B. Cooper of draft resistors. His second Camp project was part 2 of the same book. He felt comfortable writing in an established world, because although he'd gotten comfortable with his writing, he didn't feel comfortable with his imagination.
Last year, Richard started (and completed) his first NaNo book. Again, it was based on my Archetype world, but he took a character mentioned once in passing and created a book around her story. It's clearly his book and not mine -- yet it's true to the universe. He made his word count goal in time, so he won.
This year, Richard wrote a book with his ideas, his imagination, start to finish. It's soft Science Fiction, very conceptual -- in other words, his kind of book. (His Master's is in history, specifically military history; my PhD is in Family Economics, with a bunch of sociology and psychology thrown in).
Think about this -- Richard had writers' block. He didn't trust his ideas, he didn't trust his imagination, he didn't trust his writing skills. He now has one book to finish and then three to edit in case he wants to publish (and torture himself the way I torture myself trying to get published).
He's a NaNo success story.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
Interrogating Google
I'm not pushing myself for Camp Nano this time. I feel guilty, because I've written much more for NaNo and Camp NaNo -- 50,000 words in one month is my usual challenge. But most of my novels have been contemporary fantasy, set in enclaves where the rules of the world were a little different. Or else they happened in familiar parts of the United States ("you write what you know") and I didn't have to do much research to write them.
Not so this novel. One of the characters comes from Poland and two from Japan. Because of this, I want to get the customs, beliefs, taboos, body language, and natural character correct -- not as stereotypes, but as character traits. Big difference. Because our characters are currently in Poland, I want to get the details of Polish rail travel, popular food, even the sound of sirens correct. I read maps in Polish (and mangle the pronounciations badly, because 'Glowny' is pronounced 'Goovneh' or something like that). I use Google Translate a couple times a day, sometimes to translate whole pages. This is how I discovered that "Krakow Misalliance" is a food item at an all-night pierogi place in Krakow (which is pronounced 'Krakov').
I feel like I'm writing a term paper.
People who write historical fiction read the above sentence and have no pity. They do this process every time they write. This is why they're called 'historians'. I fantasize. It's what I do. I had a dream where Ichirou shows Grace a screen saver he had drawn and animated that brings her into an unnatural state of calm. I wanted to explore these characters, Ichirou's strange talent, why they're in the same place at the same time, and the ethical considerations of Ichirou's talent. In other words, I interrogated the dream again.
Little did I know I would be interrogating Google as a result.
Oh well, that which does not kill me makes me stronger.
Not so this novel. One of the characters comes from Poland and two from Japan. Because of this, I want to get the customs, beliefs, taboos, body language, and natural character correct -- not as stereotypes, but as character traits. Big difference. Because our characters are currently in Poland, I want to get the details of Polish rail travel, popular food, even the sound of sirens correct. I read maps in Polish (and mangle the pronounciations badly, because 'Glowny' is pronounced 'Goovneh' or something like that). I use Google Translate a couple times a day, sometimes to translate whole pages. This is how I discovered that "Krakow Misalliance" is a food item at an all-night pierogi place in Krakow (which is pronounced 'Krakov').
I feel like I'm writing a term paper.
People who write historical fiction read the above sentence and have no pity. They do this process every time they write. This is why they're called 'historians'. I fantasize. It's what I do. I had a dream where Ichirou shows Grace a screen saver he had drawn and animated that brings her into an unnatural state of calm. I wanted to explore these characters, Ichirou's strange talent, why they're in the same place at the same time, and the ethical considerations of Ichirou's talent. In other words, I interrogated the dream again.
Little did I know I would be interrogating Google as a result.
Oh well, that which does not kill me makes me stronger.
Monday, June 19, 2017
A short note ...
I will be participating in Camp NaNo in July, and if you want to join me, please do! If you want to watch my word count progress, look me up. I'm lleachie, as I am everywhere else on the interwebs.
In other news, I sent another query, this time to Quirk Publishing. Wish me luck.
I love you all, and so do the Nephilim cats, who will hover in front of your face to get your attention.
In other news, I sent another query, this time to Quirk Publishing. Wish me luck.
I love you all, and so do the Nephilim cats, who will hover in front of your face to get your attention.
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