The Day I Started Working for God

So I totally missed National Coffee Day. I hope you all enjoyed a cup; if you haven’t, feel free to grab one now! It’s not too late; and while you’re ruminating, check out bookcraft.etsy.com for some awesome, coffee-stained home-made décor items!

Somewhere around yesterday, 19 years ago, I began working for God. Is that the day I came to Christ, you ask? I tend to think I must come to Christ every day, renewing the covenant my itinerant heart made ten years ago, and again 17 years ago, and again seven years ago....

But it was around this time, 19 years ago, that I wrote my first short story. It was one notebook page in length, and dealt with a selfish leprechaun who horded lucky four-leaf clovers. In a bit of logic that only my six-nearly-seven-year-old brain could come up with, he came to realize the errors of his ways, and began spreading the luck around instead of keeping it for himself.

Though my walk with God has been...broken, many times, His walk with me has been ever-faithful. And at times when I wouldn’t consider I was thinking of Him, he has been with me, infusing my stories with His will. Though I do it intentionally now, it was present in shadow form even years ago in very, very rough drafts.

So even though I shy away from “salvation” stories, leaving that work for the Scriptures to accomplish, I do write stories that privilege Christian morals. Where many TV shows these days value sex and pleasure, my story values the respect of women, and hard work that lead to a stronger mind and body.

So while I do write stories that I enjoy, they are not for the sole purpose of enjoyment. While I hope to be published, my sole purpose is not to make money. I do the work I feel called to, that I have talent for; God will provide my daily bread, as he consistently has, whether in season or out of season.

Here’s to another year, and approaching twenty years of working for God. See you Monday.

Six chapters revised, thus far. And going well.

Writing Like The Dickens

A practice which I had recently begun, and will probably end all too soon, was to go to the local café and run down their list of coffees, trying each once and keeping a log of how good (or bad) it was. But, my fiancée is moving into a new apartment after this week, close enough to the college for me to run there for some coffee. Today’s brew is Canaan Conquest. I don’t know exactly what it is, but there’s cinnamon atop the foam, and it’s delicious. Highly recommended by me.

There is a stage in my writerly life that I might imagine happens to many young writers; certainly I’ve seen it other places. In composition classes, they might call them run-on sentences, because, typically, they run on and on and on. Now, there’s the grammatical run-on sentence, in which the subject changes between the first half and the latter half. That’s easier to catch by simply searching for how many subjects there are in a sentence. (Hint: there should only be one...)

What I’m talking about is a little more difficult, unless you read Dickens. These sentences are, strictly speaking, grammatically correct. They just employ copious amounts of commas, semi-colons, and colons in order for one sentence to run the entirety of a six or seven line paragraph. Dickens was the master of the aside. I envy him, in certain ways, for his ability to cram four facts into one everlasting yet grammatical sentence. I don’t have the specific example with me, but there was a paragraph in Oliver Twist in which the actual sentence of action was infused with no fewer than four asides. You could untangle it like bad knitting, with some work, and speak the sentence sans aside rather well. And it was about a fourth of the actual sentence.

What possible use might this serve today’s budding author? You gain a very critical command of commas, semi-colons, and colons; because, truly, commas and semi-colons are the most misused punctuation. Now, I could spend the time to work this out for you; however, there are plenty of books (not to mention Google) to help you out with that. My objective here is to remind people that writing is fun.

(I did see once, in a class, a bit of dialogue wherein the author abandoned the period point, and instead enclosed each sentence with quotations. Writing is fun, yes, and you can push boundaries; that’s excessive.)

So let your asides flow. Write as long a sentence as you can, and make sure its grammatically correct. Just, do everyone a favor: before you have anyone else read it, divide it up normally. Do the opposite, and write in as tiny of sentences as you can. Mix the two; write a humungous one followed by a stupidly short one. Have fun with it. Be subjectively flowery, then objectively terse. And, of course, have fun. You can’t have fun if you don’t have fun.

See you Wednesday.

More On Revision

So when you change something about the main character, something about him upon which the whole plot hinges, you need to prepare yourself to rethink the entire plot before beginning to write. As I’m discovering.

This hit me last night, as I realized my character lost a major motivation to advance the plot. Motivation comes in at least two forms: plot, and personality. Plot-based motivation for travel is quest for an item, or a location, or because one is summoned or banished, to name a few. Character-based motivation is to find comfort or solace, or sustainment, to name some there. In literary works, it is best to use the latter more often. Obeying a summons can speak to human character, if there is personal motivation not to obey; but depending on what is driving the character internally, it may teach the reader nothing if the character obeys. “Oh, he was banished on pain of death? Good thing he left, then.”

If, however, there is an internal struggle whether to stay or go, that you can make bread off of. In changing my main character, much of the external motivation was gone, and putting it back would be too easy to contrive. So instead, I sat up for some time last night, notebook and pen in hand, and figured out different motivations for his movement deeper into the story. I had to scratch off some, because they were as cliché as his being an orphan. But a number of them could be combined rather well to give him some complex motivation that grew from his character, not simply the need for conflict.

And so I forge on. Chapter three had a lot of axed material; 2,000 words, to be precise. That’s the “focusing the plot” part of it. And it gets the reader to the meat of the story much faster, even from a simple numbers perspective.

So it’s all good. Three chapters revised. See you on Monday.

Stank Wars

Three hours ago, I turned on the A/C as I prepared to blog. My fiancée was at my house, doing some homework nearer the foot of the bed. As I thought about what to write, my reverie was broken by her request: “Honey, there’s a stink bug near the window; would you mind getting it and killing it for me?”

At least, this is how I lovingly interpret her exclamation; she’s a little less articulate when the only signal her brain is sending her mouth is: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I leapt up from the bed, grabbed some toilet paper, and squished the bugger before tossing him disgustedly into the trash can. Quick and dirty, I managed not to get his stink on my hands, and enveloped as he was by Charmin, not much escaped into the air either.

At least, that’s what would have happened if I was not so busy calming my frayed nerves and exclaiming: “You have got to stop doing that, babe!”

Over the next few minutes, despite my best wishes, it was clear the stink bugs were nearly pouring through the running A/C unit. It was now time for it to be gone from the window.

We cleared the area near the window of hiding places, and sealed up the dilapidated bed against them flying in and hiding between the springs to crawl over my body as I slept. Spiders I can handle swallowing in my sleep, provided I never learn of it. Stink bugs will probably wake me up on a trip down the esophagus.

The curtain was pulled aside, and I had five sheets of toilet paper folded in preparation of pulling the unit and shutting the window. Courtney had escaped the room to wait in safer environs as her valiant knight battled the stench-breathing dragon-bugs crawled once more from the sulfur pits of the Middle Ages. I peered ‘neath the unit to see what lay where I would need to grab; sure enough, about five of the prehistoric incensers were huddled there. A knife, I thought. I can stab ‘em with that.

I was not worried about stinking up the room; that was going to happen. But, oddly, their armored bodies resisted the blade, and like proverbial cockroaches they swarmed from under their aluminum porch-roof and began crawling across the window. In fifteen seconds, my stockpile of TP was gone, and I had yet to remove the tape and pull the unit. The night was going well.

Getting pretty thoroughly stinked, I unraveled more ammunition and prepared. I pulled the window open a little bit, pulled the unit from it and quickly set it on the floor. I tried to shut the window, but foiled! The little tabs which held the unit against the sill stuck up about an inch, and kept the window from shutting entirely. No matter; about fifteen of the brutish bugs were stuck fast against the back window frame, unsure what to do in the sudden light. Grabbing my paper, I squished and grabbed and squeezed and pitched; the stench of the slain filled my nose, than faded as olfactory nerves grew insensate. I opened the window once more to remove the tabs, then shut it fully once more. There was still the unit to contend with.

Wedged into the vanes, and hiding within the unit itself, were another ten or so of the critters. As they appeared, I spooled off tissue and grabbed and squeezed. It had been hot before, which was why I turned the A/C on in the first place. Sweat now rolled down my back as I shook bugs free, rolled TP, squished and pitched.

I don’t know how many lay slain, but I was victor on the battlefield. The unit is outside, where it will remain for a couple good frosts – and maybe a blizzard – to kill everything inside it. The window has been thoroughly sealed with Gorilla Tape. And I sit and write this now with a fan blowing on me.

Inside the fan is nowhere to hide.

Ah, Revision!

Day.....I don’t know which, of revising book one. Big time. Sort of. In rejecting my novel, and explaining why, an agent made me cringe. Not that her rejection was particularly scathing – it wasn’t – but because I said, inside, aw, I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to address that! Silly, lazy me; write as well as you can, cliché is cliché (are you writing this down?), and clutter is still clutter.

So, my main character is gaining some parents; and, in the process, the plot is tightening and focusing. And some major revisions are forthcoming. That scene where the news arrives? Completely irrelevant. Perhaps the entire visit home is as well. So far, it’s been rather painless; change some dialogue here or there, delete a line or two, shazaam: new plot. Tomorrow, it gets worse; storm clouds are gathering, and they’re in the form of chapter three.

Is it going to be worth it? Heck yeah. I may have started writing this novel just to write a novel, but it has gone way beyond that now. This isn’t genre fantasy, dagonnit, this is literature. And it’s important. So I take a month or two and rewrite a couple thousand words, maybe fifty; if the end product is published, I call that a win. When I marry my girl, it’s for life; whatever needs to be tweaked, whether it’s my nose, my elbow, or my back – and especially if it’s my mind – it’s worth it. Because she’s important. So if I need to tweak some things – whether it’s a scene, a chapter, or the main character – to make this novel live, it’s worth it because it’s important.

And that’s just the way she rolls. I’ll keep you updated, as I had before (or intended to, if anything worth updating had ever happened) at the end of the week. In between – well, this is the itinerant me. But I would expect some more on coffee and writing.

See you Wednesday.

One Step Backward, One Leap Forward

Well, friends, we come to something hard; one agent I queried took the time to say more than “no thanks” and actually explained why she was passing on the novel. As it turns out, she rejected it for some reasons that were nagging at me about the novel that I hoped I could get away without addressing.

See, I started writing this novel...well, maybe that will get me into trouble. I wrote the first lines of what would become this novel when I was 16. Even now, I realized that the plot ideas I had for book two – which I began sussing out even back then – were pretty crappy. Somehow I hoped that plot ideas I had for book one, that I came up with at the same time, would be okay. Well, they aren’t.

There were two issues I noticed about my novel; first, that the protagonist was an orphan who’d lost his memory. Because, you know, very few fantasy books address that issue. Second, about halfway through the book, the focus shifts from the protag finding his parents and regaining his memory, it shifts from that to his facing the arch-villain. I worked with what I could, bringing up the conflict that would be resolved earlier on, but attention is still focused on another issue for about the first half of the book.

And, wouldn’t you know, the agent had the same issues. She only read my query, but still recognized that him being an orphan would make it cliché, and it seemed to her that I had too much going on at once. Brilliant.

So, now, to the extent that I want to keep this novel – and I’ve considered it closely, and considered just moving on with book two – I need to revise what I have. Tighten it up, make it a little less cliché, stuff like that.

So, for the next month or two (I already have ideas how to change, it’s a matter of going chapter by chapter and erasing all mention of the protag’s memory loss and lack of parents) I will be editing this book with the intent of resubmitting to agents by November/December. With God’s help, it’ll be done even faster than that.

But I must get to work. Onward and forward. See you Monday.

Lest We Forget

I realized I missed, somehow, an opportunity to speak to the tragic events of September 11, the tenth anniversary of which recently passed. It may have had to do with the fact that I spent the actual day in church and at a wedding; so when I came to write my last blog, it had already, somehow, gone from my mind. I was reminded powerfully of it today, at morning Chapel in school.

The college, bless their hearts, tried to play sound bites of calls made on that day; to make up for poor sound quality, they displayed in tiny print the transcript of the calls, but I was at such a ridiculous angle to the screen, I could not see it.

So I caught bits, here and there, of what was said; mostly I was struck by the reliving of that day through voices of people who were there. I do not know if those recorded calls were all from people who died, but I might assume at least some of them were. At the end, despite the static, one phrase came through. It was clear the man speaking was crying; and he said: “I love you so much.”

I cannot comprehend the loss that so many suffered that day; I was fifteen, about to turn sixteen at the time, at the YMCA with my family. Within four years, I was in Iraq with an artillery unit of the 101^st Airborne, at a place and time that would see the loss of six men from our unit. It was a time where, suddenly, I worried about my own life, if I would come back home. I thought Iraq would be a year that I would get through, and come home with a ton of money. But after one truck was hit and four of the five men inside it killed, suddenly I had to think about the fact that I might not actually make it home.

I don’t know what my mom went through, hearing me talk to her about this from thousands of miles away. And I don’t know what the mothers and wives of the men we lost went through when they found out their loved ones had been taken. And I don’t know what we go through that we so eagerly pursue the death of people.

As a Christian, to in any way claim, suggest, insinuate, allude to the idea that God does anything but mourn when a human being is killed especially when that person does not have a personal relationship with Him, is to believe that God’s love is conditional, based on actions. As a Christian, I know that is not the case. Jesus Christ died for Osama Bin Laden, and when he orchestrated the monumental evil that was the attacks of 9/11, I can guarantee Jesus wept, knowing Bin Laden would have to be punished for it. It is despicable to me, as conveyors of God’s love, that we should ever approach the killing of a human being with anything except the heaviest of hearts. Must it be done? Absolutely, evil must be punished. But to assert that we must kill because it “makes us feel good” is an act more despicable as Christians than the acts committed by Muslims, who do not perhaps carry the same knowledge that humans bear the image of God, and that God sacrificed His Son horribly so that we might be reborn into what He intended from the beginning.

We are all children, we are all fathers, husbands, mothers, wives, sons and daughters. There is always someone who loves us, who feels that we should not have died, whose life is forever changed by our absence. Americans are not the only ones who “love so much.” Keep that in mind the next time we punish someone for evil acts; carry it out, in Gods justice, by all means. But do not relish it.

See you Friday.

The Blank Page

Some of the issues that came up in Schedule are coming to a head; I’m cutting back hours at work because there simply isn’t time to be a writer, a student, a fiancé, and a bike mechanic. Ah, well; the superfluous must go, then.

……..

I think this is what they call “writer’s block.” It happens to us all, I suppose, except Grady Tripp. I remember those who were afraid of a white blank page; to them it was a cavernous void that, *gasp,* had to be filled. I never understood being afraid of a blank page, except when talking about school or college assignments. Like when the professor demands a 7-page paper, and the student must dutifully fill all seven pages.

But that wasn’t the context of the discussion, back then; we were talking about writing for fun. In which case, I saw the blank page as an adventure waiting to happen. The blank page was opportunity, to fill with whatever I deemed fit. To be sure, in the beginning, I strove for a specific page count per chapter, and that was sometimes exasperating – but even then, still only rarely. After abandoning that, I had acquired a pretty good feel for chapter length. Call me picky, but random-length chapters annoy me; one is ten pages, then five, then twenty, then two. Use a line break, people, come on. Or come up with a better narrative.

See how I fill the page now? Random wanderings, with no thesis statement in sight. Freedom. Opportunity, to bring up whatever I want. Why is that daunting? Sure, a theme must be held in a short story or a novel; but just keep the theme in mind, and explore with words – it’ll come about one way or another. I fit doesn’t, that’s what revising is for. But until then, just have fun with words. Paint pretty pictures; tell funny or sad stories; use alliteration till it makes you sick. And then fix it! Throw the sand on the board, then push and pull and shape until you have a castle. But the castle won’t be built if there’s no sand on the board. The castle is what will draw on-lookers, but until you have that, just have fun playing in the sand, for pity’s sake. 

Sometimes I envision myself dancing around the words, bending and ducking around the bigger ones, looping around smaller ones, dodging mid-sized ones. My mind plays over the syllables and sounds like music, now high, now low; I can’t dance a jig to save my life, but give me some words! Then watch me move. But not just the way the words play over my mind, but their meanings, their nuances, subtle and precise when used and understood properly.

So is it any surprise that my ire flares when an itinerant man is called prodigal? Or when those who claim to be writers use the phrase “I could of done”? Does not a true Christian’s heart quiver when a man bombs an abortion clinic in the name of God? I suppose only if we agree on the definition of “true Christian.”

So, fill that page; relish the words; bathe yourself in the most fragrant of shampoos. If it turns out to be not so fragrant, fix it later. And write.

See you Thursday.

Writing And: Christ

It’s not coffee today, sadly; apple juice and a subway sammich for me, nourishing myself to be ready to work after classes. I claimed there was nothing inherent in coffee that fostered good writing; let’s see if that holds up today.

To answer your question: yes, I am not only a writer but a Christian as well. It may be popular these days to not let oneself be defined by just one thing; I don’t have that luxury, and no Christian does either. Now, there is still nothing inherent in writing in general that links it to Christianity. If you haven’t caught this thread yet, let me be clear; meaning does not exist in this world without humanity. Note I say “in this world,” and I’ll come back to that. But a table is not a table unless it is used as such. I could curl up, feasibly, on the table at which I sit and call it a “bed.” And of course, what “bed” means is subject to how we define it. It would be a small bed, and uncomfortable, and would not fit into any current bed-sizing language (it’s round...). But if “bed” means “thing upon which one sleeps,” than there are many things that can be called a bed. To my cat, I might be a bed.

This goes doubly for words. Words, after all, are symbols; symbols, in fact, of symbols of symbols. Words on a page symbolize words that are spoken, which symbolize thoughts. Meaning can be construed or misconstrued at any point along that path. (To divert for a moment, I accept the largely feminist notion that philosophy has been corrupted by male-dominated discourse; after all, rationality and logic is only useful to the extent it can be expressed by words.)

So, when words are used, we can claim they mean whatever we want. Or we can empty them of meaning – or attempt to – to say that foul language is not truly foul, because only be cultural interpretation are they foul. But there is a greater problem, a greater question to be answered.

When God chose to reveal Himself to generations, he used words. In John 1, He is described as The Word. When He created, even, He said; He used words. Words, then, should be used very carefully, should they not? If it is the method by which God creates, and then reveals Himself to His creation, then He is probably very interested in words, and how they are used.

Because, see, meaning can be stirred around by humans, true enough; but God first infuses meaning. To mess with His meaning and try to conform it to our will is to debase Him, and exult ourselves. Does that mean God speaks English? Interesting to consider: returning to John 1, it says that by Him everything was made that was made – including language. I would venture to say God speaks English better than anyone else, ever. James 1:5, one of my favorite verses, says: “If anyone lacks wisdom, let him [or her] ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault.” If a Frenchman asks God for wisdom, will God reply in English? Or German? Of course not; He speaks to all in ways they can understand.

So if I am going to engage in a practice which God Himself engages in, I should make very sure I use it properly. It’s not inherent in writing; but it is inherent in Christianity. And as I am a Christian, it needs to be inherent in me.

See you on Monday.

[Stats unchanged.]

Writing And: Themes

Here I sit once more, an Italian Car Bomb (coffee with a shot of espresso—my first time for this particular drink) by my side. Interestingly, I just came from two classes that began to explore my post for today; that is, concerning theme in writing.

Once again, a theme is not inherent in writing. All of us have one of these friends, at least; the person who tells story after story, with no point other than to talk. And sometimes, when we don’t pay attention, we conceive of a story and write it down in much the same manner. It has beginning, middle, and end to make Aristotle proud; it has fully fleshed out characters, real and believable; the setting matches the characters beautifully maybe even; and the prose comes straight from an amalgam of all our favorite authors.

But there’s no point. I can remember attending a writing club which seemed to consist of local writers getting together and pounding themselves on the back over great lines they had crafted. They would demand silence, read their line as Branagh does Shakespeare; they would look up as if stunned by their own creation, and exclaim: “Isn’t that a great line?!” And of course, the other wordies would offer their praise and adulations.

But you can pile great line on top of great line, like Neapolitan cake; but if the cake is not filling, it is worthless. Story does not just mean “narration.” Lots of people can create a narrative; but what’s the theme? Why is someone reading this?

In my previous class, my professor asked the question of how stories should be written; should they all have happy endings, in order to encourage? Should they all be Cinderella-esque in order to be “good” in an ethical and moral sense, not just an aesthetic sense. Some would immediately retort that such stories are in no way aesthetically pleasing; jaded and worn of the “happy ending” stories which do not match their life in even a shadow, they reject it instantly and search for something else.

I would argue that the purpose of a novel, or a work of fiction more broadly, is not to mimic, every step of the way, the life of the reader. Such books are dangerously escapist, but simply transporting the reader out of their life and returning them, like a round-trip plane ride that never lands except upon returning to the same point of departure. Rather, a story should promote something to the reader; not preaching, unless your objective is to recreate Aesop’s fables, or to mirror Chaucer. But upon reading your story, the reader should have questions about his or her own life; sometimes, that is achieved with a happy ending; sometimes it is done with the most horrible and twisted ending as the reader thinks, terribly, is that where I am headed?

The point of making the characters relatable, as any good teacher will instruct, should not just be there to “hook” the reader, to make the character sympathetic; rather the reader should relate to the character so that as the character learns and grows, the reader may learn and grow as well.

Thus far, I have been speaking generally of all books and stories; that every author should seek to teach their readers, on the sly almost, through their stories. However, on Friday, I will discuss something a little more specific, and something a little closer to home for me. Join me then.

Writing And: Coffee

We might hit a bit of a theme, this week; unintentionally, mostly, but if it continues to work out that way – a new week, a new theme across three blogs – that would be awesome.  So this week, I want to talk about writing, and some things that are not inherent in it, but that seem to recur.

Today, it’s coffee! Perhaps this hits me as I sip a caramel latte in the local coffee shop, enjoying some time between classes, but coffee and writing/books comes up very often. Many a novel, I would suspect, has been penned/typed within the walls of a local café – or even perhaps a chain; surely muses are not absent from Starbucks or B&N cafes across the country. In fact, the theme of my fiancee’s and my wedding is coffee and books; so perhaps there’s some bias there. But let us explore this a bit.

Again, I’m not saying coffee drinking is inherent in writing; friends across the Pond may sip offerings at a local tea shop, or their own Darjeeling at home. Hemingway sipped (to put it mildly) a different imbibition altogether. But the fact that Barnes and Noble thought fit to put coffee shops in their stores I think speaks to the legitimacy of my claim; and where better for a writer to be than surrounded by books? Hopefully a book is what the writer strives for.

So what does coffee do for the creative mini-me in my head? The swiftest answer is that it keeps one awake into the far reaches of night, where many authors seem to prowl. Perhaps; though I am very fond of my sleep, and believe me if you will, I do very, very little writing late at night anymore. Right now, in fact, it is 1:37 in the afternoon. Completely unnecessary, if coffee can ever be said to be “unnecessary.”

But perhaps there is still something about caffeine that awakens our little neurons to fire off excellent lines and ideas. Yet I don’t sit in a sports bar sucking down Monster energy, which is almost a sub-theme of my impending wedding, as both I and my bride-to-be are huge fans. Monster is a little too raw – almost like listening to heavy metal during a work-out. Great for upping the motivation; a little heavy-handed (for me) for just getting started on a day.

I think it’s hit it, right there; coffee is soothing, allowing me to relax and slough off the worries and problems and concerns that otherwise frighten my muse into hiding. Yet it awakens me, awakens my mind to sit in one spot, sometimes very still except for the four or five fingers I use to type, and yet not drift off into lethargy.

Also, it gives me something to do, first when I stop writing for a moment, to fill in time; but also, after executing a particularly good line, to sit back and enjoy the gifts of the Spirit. Which you must not deny me.

So, rather than boring you every two days with identical figures, only the Friday post will contain the stats for that week. So, until Wednesday, keep on writing (and sipping coffee)!

P.S. For excellent coffee and book themed decorations, check out www.facebook.com/BookCraftShop, or go to www.etsy.com/shop/bookcraft

Schedule of ________

“Schedule” for me is inescapable; the fact that I sit and write this in a Student Lounge between classes underscores it. I’m not, for better or worse, the guy people call last minute to say: “Hey, do you wanna ______?” (Actually, I am that guy; I’m just also the guy that answers with: “Sorry, I can’t...”)

It didn’t really really hit me till this morning, when I listed everything that I’m reading and writing. I won’t bore you with the details, but the end result is: “When am I supposed to find time to do all this??” What is of concern to you, potentially, is the fact I am going to make a strong effort to start blogging three times a week: figure Monday, Wednesday, and Friday just to make it easy. And also, that as an aspiring writer, and not a full-fledged author, scheduling time to write is extremely critical. Because I discovered something interesting last semester, and it came from my publishing class.

Making yourself sit down and write is sometimes less critical than forcing yourself to get up and stop writing.

It’s true. I was inspired by a quote my publishing professor gave me, which ran something like: “I don’t stop writing until I know what I’m going to write next.” Now hang on a minute; that means you don’t stop when you’re stuck, but when ideas are flowing.

Is this guy nuts?

Actually, he’s not; because with that little kernel -- that is, the place in my novel where I left off last -- lodged firmly in my brain, I run over and over in my head what I’m going to write the next time I sit down. And do you know, there would be hour to hour-and-a-half segments of time where I would write two thousand words? Good words, too; not necessarily ones that had to be revised later. And it’s not necessarily that I’m just such a stellar writer, I hope no one would ever say that of themselves; but just because I had this pent up flood in my brain for days, waiting for the next hour when I could write.

So last semester it worked out that I had two separate hour-ish segments to write, and I would sit – about where I am now, even – and write. At the end of those times, I would have to get up because I would have to go to class. And in that manner, at least for a while (eventually the book was steamrolling along so well I was able to write more often during the week), I wrote 100,000+ words in about five months.

So here I am at the end of the first week of another semester; and I’m trying to find out where I have time. I have to maintain this blog, for starters, and hopefully two to three times a week. Ideally three times. I have a twitter account that I’m trying to maintain; I’m working on my second novel; and I have a Creative Writing class that’s going to want a short story within the next few weeks. I have three hour segments presenting themselves right now, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Obviously, with five pieces to work on, I need more than three segments.

I’ll let you know where I find them.

Word Count, Book Two: 6,072 (From now on, I have a spreadsheet with a word count; just realize this number will be in flux as I muddle through the first several chapters.)

Agents Queried, Book One: 11

Agents Rejected, Book One: 4, officially: two non-responses for an assumed total of six.