Blog cheating

I'm cheating on Word Nerd, taking up some blogging duties elsewhere.

Through my church, I'm co-curating content for a special blog project for writters and artists in the congregation to reflect on suffering and good things and growth through fiction, visual arts, essays. You name it.

I hope you'll check it out at http://www.injoythebleak.wordpress.com/. It's a project that's currently very important to me.

The New Gig and Guarding Time

A week ago, I started my new gig as the Development Manager for the TKE Educational Foundation and what a week it's been.

The new gig's got tons of writing coming up that are a nice combination between my journalism past and my more current fundraising writing experience (one of the reasons I wanted this job...). For example, if all goes according to plan, I'll be on the phone with a 2-star General and former Teke for a testimonial piece. Getting to interview and interact with that kind of people of prestige is a huge draw to this job. Telling their stories is thing that will keep me getting out of bed in the comings months, and hopefully, years, for this job.

The new job's also got a longer commute to work. Not as a long as Stacie's daily drive, but long enough for someone used to about 8 minutes to get to work (and that because of two school zones.) Since I've started the job, I've finished reading one book and gotten about 60 pages into a second because I don't have as much reading time. Of course, one audiobook is almost done and I'm already thinking about what I'll listen to next. That reading time is because very precious.

The real place where I'm trying to guard time is the novel writing. With longer work days, it's tempting to sleep in and not keep the alarm set for the early morning writing time. Or, it's tempting to use that morning time to catch up on chores (like how I'm remembering there's a load of clothes in the dryer....)

But, I'm here, in the den, at the computer to write. The novel and the blog posts are the morning fair that have to get done in this time. Especially with all the writing at work, the morning time just sets the tenor for the day. A good 700 words or more in the morning propels all the writing for the day. A lousy morning of 50 words is OK too, because it means work can be the place where I write the thing I'm most proud of that day.

I've been asked about NaNo for this year and again, it's a no for me. My writing time is too precious right now to squander on 50K words that may not go anywhere.

And I've got to save some brain space for work writing.

The Bandwagon

It's 6:43 p.m. and I think I just woke up to the fact that it's Thursday and so I should have posted a blog hours ago.

I've got scads of time where I could have blogged. I'm on a two week hiatus from working as I transition between positions. But, without the daily schedule of work, I've got nothing to keep me on track with what day it is. It's been like 11 Saturdays in a row so far.

But -- I am reading a ton. My goal (save for a few days when I went home to see the family) is to finish a book every other day. I've been on track so far, and think I can keep it up for a few more days.

At least, if I don't totally lose track of time.

Robot Wars

I'm swiping this from Pbackwriter who got it from somebody else, etc., so the string continues.

Robohash creates a picture of a robot unique from your IP address, or you can paste in some text and it will generate a different one.

Here's the robot created from my IP address (at the office, actually). Friendly, non-threatening sort of robot, I think. Has that Jetsons' housekeeper feel to her.

Then, I tried inputting my name and I got this one:

My instant reaction was something like "YES!" which then had me wondering what in the world this says about me that I prefer that robot with the spiked helmet and the more sinister appearance. I also feel like this robot clearly belongs in a Steve Jackson "Munchkins" game -- maybe it's like the "Duck on your head" card... (Don't know about Munchkins?... oh my friends, go Google it. Right now.)

Then, I put in the name I'm kicking around for a possible nom de plume. And I got this.

This one to me is also awesome. The library hold system recently told me I was "Seven of Nine" for a book and clearly this robot just confirms this identity.

Lastly, I made a robot based on my protagonist.

What I think is interesting is how all these robots have some variation of each other, as if to say they really all are a part of me. My work, me personally, a perhaps alter-ego, and a character. I'm sure it's really just because of the way the generation program works, but I'm going to draw meaning from it anyhow.

Chapter 6

Ever since attending the Midwest Writers Workshop a few weeks ago, I've been hard at work, revising the work-in-progress, paying attention to issues that were raised there.

Things were clicking right along until chapter 6. Chapter 6 just wasn't working. Something was off about it.

Enter my writers' group yesterday. First comment out of the box: great tone, voice, etc that fits with the rest, but if you cut out this chapter from the book, what would you lose?

*Blink. Blink*

As soon as he said it, I knew that was the answer. Chapter 6 is getting cut. One smidgeon of the scene is important, but the rest is mostly just talking. Boring talking.

This is a good reminder of why I'm part of a writers' group. I was so close to my own story, that I couldn't see the very obvious solution. Take out what's not working. I was focused on on rewriting and had gotten so myopic about this chapter, I couldn't see the advantage of deleting it.

There are about three pages that I need to keep, tacking them on to the end of chapter 5 or the start of what once was chapter 7 and is now chapter 6. I think it's a great exercise and will make the book tighter in the end.

Delete key, get ready for a work out.

It's Friday!

Stacie's busy writing final papers and exams; Bethany's got several projects that need completed.

But guess what? It's Friday. Give it up.

The Editing Team

It's been awhile since the editing team was featured here, so, I thought it time.

Co-editor Mina is now 9 months old and more than double the size she was when she first joined the team. She's now a full part of the editing/writing every morning. Most often, this means a few laps around the desk and then trying to chew on the pen I've got handy. Lately, she's also been batting at the moving cursor/mouse pointer on the screen which, while hilarious, makes it hard to see what I'm typing.

Ooooh, the camera...

Co-editor Gatsby is generally content to hang out and sit on whatever pages I've got nearby. He also gets annoyed with Mina, as any older brother should. They both regularly try to sit on the laptop (I get the confusion... lap, laptop... it all sounds the same to a cat, I'm sure.) Gat is still doing well for a cat of his age. That age is undetermined really, but he could be anywhere from about 12 to 15, most likely, and could be even older than that. Dubious past and all...

I'm just hoping that their "help" is really improving the book. Maybe all the teeth marks on my pens and chewed page corners will be a good reminder that an editor/agent could chew up the book the same way if I don't put the time and effort into first.

Lost for Words

Do you ever get to the point where you cannot think of anything to say?

It's not typical that I really get to the point where I cannot think of a single thing to say. Yet, I've been dangerously close the last couple of weeks.

I've read some okay, but not great, books. I like to do reviews when I have something to say about them, otherwise they feel like a book report. Work is off-limits, so no comment there. And this blog is about writing, not running. Running has really become a passion for me.

In fact, running is a passion in the way that writing never was. The cool thing about running is that you are always winning simply by being out there. Any runner will tell you that completing the long run is more in your head than in your body. I'm willing to get up at 4:30 two or three mornings a week and run before work. At 6 or so on a weekend to take a long run through one of the winding trails near the college. I can't imagine getting up at 4:30 to write.

But when I run, I compose some great passages. They are for the book I'm still thinking about, the one that I won't talk about for fear of scaring it away.

It's a book that wants to be written from 8-5, Monday through Friday. And that's really odd for me. I used to write, pre-MBA program, after hours, later the better.

For now, I'll keep running. Chasing after those ideas, random thoughts and passages that come to me. It's enough for now. The paper will be waiting when it is ready.

Goals

I've been plotting out the next steps in a couple of areas in my life.

First, I'm in the middle of the semester that brings me half-way through my MBA program. I mapped out my remaining classes against the proposed schedule offered by the school and I'll be done at the end of December 2012. Can I say thrilled? That's three more semesters, not counting what's left of this one.

Second, on April 16, I am running my first ever 5K. I'm taking the Couch to 5k approach. Next week's weather is supposed to be in the mid to upper 40s. I cannot wait to see how I do running my 3.1 miles outside versus in the gym on the treadmill. And at my house, it's dogs, not cats. The dogs are THRILLED about the running.

Third, writing. Actually, it's the lack there of when it comes to writing. I am starting to get that feeling in the back of my head that there's a novel or a story building. I've been ignoring it for the last three years. Other than journaling and blogging, I haven't been writing at all. And I'm okay with that.

Here's why: when I stopped writing in 2008, I never thought I'd pick it up again. I wasn't happy with so much in my life that year. Now, I realize the source of that unhappiness was coming mainly from one aspect of my life. It was very out of control and I did not know what to do about it.

I ignored that one aspect and set some goals for the MBA program. Then I added in fixing my overall health and exercising regularly. I found a plan that worked for both of those. Along the way, I found the discipline I need to accomplish the goals I set. And that piece that was making me unhappy? It is gone. Actually, it's an adjustment of attitude.

Committing to any long term program takes dedication and devotion. It means putting your time in - whether through classroom participation or making sure rubber is meeting the road. It means developing and following a plan.

I look back at where I paused my writing life, and where I am now. The countless lessons I learned between there and here convince me that come January 2013, I will be ready to get back on the writing path, happy to have completed the MBA path.

Writing Times Three

Lately, I feel like all I've been posting are Book Banter reviews. I read a lot in January and I like doing reviews, but I thought I should shake things up a little bit on here and talk about writing.

Being co-editors is hard work. We must regain our strength.

The co-editing team of Gatsby and Mina will tell you that I'm still getting up at the crack of dawn to write. (They insist it's so I feed them, but that's just an added benefit. I swear.) Most mornings I'm writing fiction; today, admittedly, I'm writing blog posts. Gat is fully committed to this process by snoozing on my lap and Mina is hopping on and off the desk and expending kitten-ish energy that is enviable this early in the morning.

 Lately, the morning writing has been different because I'm not just working on one project. I'm working on several. Blog posts not withstanding, I've got my writing fingers in three and half projects.

There's the urban fantasy novel that was started back during NaNoWriMo 2009 and is still in process and I believe still viable. There's a collaborative short story project with a friend (who will be featured here in early March in author answers). And there's updates to the stuff I wrote for Advent as it's turning into maybe a novella and continuing to blow my mind (and I'm writing it) with it's 12 Monkeys-meets-Left Behind vibe that it's got. And the 1/2 project is a 4,500 chunk of that story for an anthology submission that has to stand on its own.

I ask myself is my mind feeling blown because I'm constantly switching back and forth? Maybe a little, I think. On the other hand, I kind of like the challenge because no one set of characters or plot has the opportunity to get stale. I work on one for a few days, finish a section, and then move to the next. And then back. You get the idea. (And there's the referee-ing between the co-editors when Mina takes to pouncing on Gat and using his tail as the Best Toy Ever.)

Being involved in multiple projects definitely keeps me on my toes in the morning. It's also a little exhausting, figuring out which thing gets top billing today, or this week.

Nevertheless, the important part is that my behind is still in the chair in the morning and my fingers (when not being chewed on by Mina) are still typing away. I'm still writing. Nothing is ever going to get finished if I don't continue this very basic process.

So here I am. Writing by 6 a.m., every weekday. Your guess as to which thing it is today.

It's all about the deadlines

I used to be a newspaper reporter. Deadlines were part of my daily existence.

It's a good thing deadlines and I get along because -- whoo-boy -- I am stacked behind deadlines from now till the end of the year.

In my job, I'm a fundraiser and write a lot of grants for that. This is a big season for grant applications and filing end-of-the-year reports about how we spent the money before we ask for more. On my dry erase board at work, I have 14 writing projects that need completed before Dec. 31. The deadlines on that board represent, roughly, a potential $1.1 million for Starfish Initiative. That's major money and that will make it possible for a lot of kids to stay on track to graduation.

In my personal writing, I'm waiting to hear back on some firm deadlines for writing I'm doing for Advent for my church. It's looking like those pieces will be published online so I'll post links when I can. But first, I have to finish them. Four pieces, one for each Sunday of Advent. I have one done, one in revisions, one being drafted and one needing started. Advent starts on Nov. 28. The done piece is the first one up and so on for the whole four-part series, but Advent is a lot closer than it appears.

And so, I'm spacing out my deadlines to make sure it all gets done on time. Writing in the morning before work. Writing at work gets fit in between meetings and I'm pacing out how to get projects due on the same day done. After work is revision time.

All together, the deadlines can be a little overwhelming. But, taken one at a time, it's totally doable.

I have noticed, I'm drinking more caffeine... What's your deadline fix? Or, how do you manage multiple projects at a time?

Feedback on Writing

I'm in the midst of an MBA program. As one may well imagine, it's a large time commitment with lots of reading, analytical thinking and writing.

Some of my favorite things, right?

Except one of the classes where the bulk of the grade is based on writing isn't going so hot. In fact, my grade is progressively getting worse.

And it got me to thinking about the feedback I'm getting from the course instructor and what I am doing with it. Most of the comments I've received are to the effect that I am creative in my solutions but not incorporating the course material appropriately. The solutions have been appropriate and well-developed.

My confusion resulted from the appropriate and well-developed solutions, but not incorporating the course material. How is that possible? If the solution is appropriate, I must be hitting the course material, right?

Wrong. A kind classmate shared his paper which earned him an A-level grade. He directly quotes the text, incorporates stats, etc. The difference, as far as I can tell, is that I was applying the knowledge in my solution without direct relation and my classmate was rehashing the text's jargon.

Each approach is fine, unless you are relaying on a passing grade. Then you need to play the audience.

It's the same for publishing, right? Your novel/book/article/baby may really show off your writing skill and creative juices, but if it isn't what your audience is looking for, it's the rejection pile for you.

I'm off to re-write my next case analysis. A little less creativity and a little more blatant fact.

Word Count Meter

The Word Count meter says Word Nerd's half done writing her current WIP. Yes, another one. Except not, really.

It's the NaNo2009 manuscript and the WIP from about 2006 come back around again.

It doesn't feel very half done, actually.

But, hopefully, the word count meter will continue to tick upwards. It is fun to update the progress.

For the record, the goal for June is to hit 50,000 total words and July will be 70K.

What's in a name?

Word Nerd's madly writing again, going back and making something viable out of what she wrote during NaNoWriMo in November. It's going well, but she needs some names.

Rather than spending hours (hours? Yeah, maybe...) pouring over choices at behindthename.com, she's going to turn to you, her faithful readers for some help.

Here's what she needs:

• A police woman. First and last name... Sgt. ??? ???
• Her protagonist's middle name. Ainsley ??? Doran. It's used one whole time in a legal document. But, it looks funny without it.
• A black pegasus. She asked for help on this before and got the helpful suggestion of Charlie. Charlie was a unicorn, not a pegasus. This pegasus is a part of a polo string and needs a name sounding like a champion. Cuz he is.

So, what do you get for your help? An advance copy of Kirsten Miller's "The Eternal Ones." Straight from the publishers. Before it comes out in August.

Anyone who puts a name suggestion in the comments is entered! Winner will be chosen at the end of this week!

NaNoWriMo Revisted

In the past week, Word Nerd has re-read the 50,000 words she wrote during November and the madness that is National Novel Writing Month.

A bunch of life stuff happened in between NaNo and now (like, say, buying and moving into her first house). She putzed around back in December with some of the early chapters. Yet honestly, she didn't really even remember what happened in her whole story. And, Word Nerd is not one who likes leaving projects unfinished.

The plan is to get back into the book -- move some scenes around, spruce up the first 50K words and finish telling this story. Word Nerd doesn't exactly remember all the things she thought she might do in the second half of the book (oh, the dangers of no outline and writing at NaNo speeds), but she's given herself bread crumbs all over the place to pick up and run with. (Like the thing with still, as-yet-unnamed Pegasus. Or the miniature knight. Who also needs a name.)

Now that's she's done with the reread, the next step is an outline. For the whole thing. Word Nerd actually likes a lot of what she wrote during NaNo, but not the placement. The flow feels a little disjointed. So, a full out map of the story is in order. She's also got one minor character who needs sorted out (what's her role in the story? Does she even belong there?). But it's all good problems to solve.

NaNo Excerpt

As promised, here's an excerpt from my NaNo 2009. This is most of chapter three. Chapter 1 features a house fire and chapter 2, a visit to a strange lawyer's office. Now, in chapter 3, Ainsley, the protagonist, is trying to shake off the experience in chapter 2 with a night on the town.

It's gone through, at least, a cursory polish, but any mistakes (spelling, grammar, punctuation, or just lousy word choice) are entirely my fault.

There was, I decided after a glorious steak dinner alone and now two yummy martinis my new friend Geoff – Geoff with a G, he’d told me – a serious flaw with Kate’s plan. I was feeling good, but beyond the vodka haze, I knew it was just the booze and not an upturn on life. Geoff had his own plan, that I’d go somewhere with him, but there was a serious flaw with his plan too.

“Look,” he said leaning over on the high-backed couch-booth-thing where we sat at the martini bar. He twisted his watch toward me. “11:11 p.m. Isn’t that great?”

For every martini I’d had, he’d outpaced me with at least one whiskey chaser.

“Swell,” I replied. Ainsley, I told myself, who says “swell” anymore?

I leaned back in my chair, trying to keep my head attached to my shoulders and not let it get away with that floaty feeling I got after two martinis.

Turning to my right, I saw a clock rimmed in a blue neon light hanging over the bar. The minute hand slid from 11:10 to 11:11 with a tick that sounded to me like thunder.

The blue neon edge of the clock pulsed once, like a languorous heartbeat. I could hear the sweep of the second hand, brushing though each second effortlessly. Life was present in the space between the seconds, a primal feeling of possibility and things being called forth from nothing, from imagination. This life-giving force resonated in my being, to the deepest matter of my cells. To me, it felt like an eon.

The second hand finished its upward sweep and the clock moved to 11:12.

“—the whole point of it, right?” Geoff asked. He looked at me for whatever kind of pithy response I was sure to have.

I mumbled some kind of response, half-hearted and stupid. I was still vitally aware of the past moment.

I’d never felt anything like that before in my life. I’d read plenty of accounts of strange happenings – my roommate in college was obsessed with things like alien abductions and the 11:11 phenomenon. I’d read them all with the same disinterest I’d read my economics textbook, that they were things that occurred, but that had no bearing on my life. The odd parts of our world, the unexplainable happened to other people.

I wasn’t surprised I encountered it today. Today was just too weird all the way around. I double-checked my watch just to ensure I hadn’t lost any time, like some sort of X-Files symptom. It said 11:13 now, just like it should.

“Are you alright?” Geoff asked. He put a concerned hand on my arm. Smooth, I thought.

When he asked, though, I realized I wasn’t all right. Not entirely, at least. My senses felt hyper-aware, the way they did when I had to cover an emergency, sucking in every detail. I could smell the regular bar smell, the yeast and hops and the more subtle liquors, but also the wood polish for the bar, and the cleaner rubbed over the tables. I could hear the hum of the underbar refrigerators. Taste the cigarette smoke still in the air, even though it had been a nonsmoking establishment for a number of years now. Beneath my fingers, the wood of the old table still shimmered with a life, though the tree itself was long dead.

I was, I determined, more than all right. I was aware. Of everything.

Geoff’s hand, my jeans, how the alcohol in my system was changing my responses. The flicker of the lights. The conversation three tables over. All of it was vivid and accessible to me.
This was true information overload. My brain couldn’t work fast enough to process everything it was taking in.

I shut my eyes. The darkness helped some, but not enough. While it blocked out the visual assault from the room, I could still sense all the rest. The awareness felt like it was deeper than just my senses, like it was in my blood. Even my watch, ticking against the vein in my wrist, echoed through my whole body.

If I wasn’t so aware, I would have thought Geoff roofied me. I knew from reporting about a spate of the drug that these were not the symptoms.

“Ainsley?” Geoff asked again, sounding less drunk than he had a few minutes ago.

My eyes fluttered open. “I need to go,” I said. I could only hope that the dark and quiet of my hotel room would help bring this feeling under control. And if I could sleep off what I’d drunk.

I gathered up my bag and my jacket and got to my feet. As soon as I stood, the room gave one lazy spin and I tottered.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Geoff offered, putting a hand under my elbow. “Or call you a cab.”

I waved off his help, the room righting itself. “The walk would be good. Some air.”

Geoff followed me out of the bar. As soon as I was outside, I breathed in deep lungful of the cold, winter night air. It seared going down, feeling like I was coating my insides with frost.

The air tasted like snow and freezing and truck exhaust and the hotdog stand set up down the block. Around me, I saw the blinking of traffic signals and the sheen of car-lights. The hyper-awareness was not any better outside.

Like in any big city, I had to park at least five blocks from my destination. I set off at a good clip down the sidewalk. I heard each of my own footsteps. And Geoff’s. I looked behind me to see that he was wearing some kind of soft-soled shoe that shouldn’t make noise. Nevertheless, I could hear each of his steps as he tried to keep up with my fast-paced stride.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

I told him the intersection near the empty street space where I’d wiggled my rental Toyota.

“Wait,” he called. “It’s faster if we cut through here.” Geoff pointed at an alley running between two of the city’s tallest office buildings.


Tromping through an alley in any city was not highly rated in Ainsley’s best ideas ever, but I wanted to be home. The hotel room would have to do. Burrowed under the covers, where I couldn’t feel like this.

The alley wasn’t all that bad, I thought, looking again. Security lights brightened most of it and I didn’t hear anything scuttling around. I could see straight through to the next main street over. Geoff trotted a few steps in, stamping his feet against the cold and beckoned for me.

I supposed he could try to get friendly in there, but it took two to tango and right now, it was way too cold. I gave a wistful glance at the main street with its glowing street lights – its buzzing, glowing storefronts and traffic lights – and followed Geoff down the alley.

When we were about one-quarter of the way in, I heard another set of footsteps. Inside my coat pocket, I crossed my fingers and hoped that it was just a homeless guy hoping for a handout. But then there was another set, and another.

My stomach dropped toward my shoes. I took ahold of Geoff’s arm and whispered toward his ear. “I think we’re being followed.”

He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “I thought that weirdo convention was next weekend,” he said.

Unable to help myself, I looked back as well.

The end of the alley we’d come from was blocked by three figures, make that four. They were dressed in some kind of robe, with cowls or hoods pulled up around their faces. Poking out from the bottoms of their pants were metallic colored pants and black booted feet.

“Who are you guys? Devo dressed up as Dementors?” Geoff taunted.

“Not helping,” I hissed at him.

The four figures advanced. Other than their footsteps I couldn’t sense anything else about them. Next to me, I could hear Geoff’s heart-rate increase, smell his beer-laced sweat and the tinge of adrenaline beginning to pump through his system. I could feel my own pulse, matching the ticking of the watch at my wrist.

This was bad, I knew, that these four were blank in my otherwise highly-tuned Spidey senses. Their chests didn’t rise and fall with breath. I caught no trace of a pulse.

I tugged on Geoff’s arm, pulling him backward deeper into the alley.

The four figures advanced as well, faster than we were retreating.

“What do you want?” Geoff shouted. “I’m calling the police.” He brandished his cell phone at them. It was off, I noticed.

They took another few steps forward. Even though Geoff’s phone was off, it gave a sick whirring noise, then sparks jumped from around the edges. Geoff yelped and dropped it in a puddle. One of the four robed guys raised what should have been an arm, but looked more like a tentacle, toward it and the phone was enveloped in a bright flash like a magnesium fire.

Geoff shoved me behind him, a gesture of chivalry that seemed completely irrelevant to me. “I don’t have much money,” he held up his hands, palms out. “What I’ve got is yours. Let me get my wallet.”

They came a few more steps closer. Geoff smelled more now of panic and fear. They smelled of nothing.

“C’mon guys,” Geoff tried again. “No police. Let’s just all be civil here.”

One of the four raised its head. From underneath the cowl, I heard something that seemed like language, but nothing I could understand. It looked at me, ignoring Geoff. It had no true eyes, just two even darker pits in the shadows of its hood.

“Ainsley Doran,” it said.

“Oh shit,” I breathed.

They took another step closer and we ran. They came after us, faster than seemed possible. One reached out a tentacle-arm and Geoff yelled. I saw red dripping from his shoulder, but he continued to run.

I was a few steps ahead of Geoff, since he’d tried to be gallant and move me out of danger. I wasn’t much of a runner, but fear does amazing things for a person.

I pushed whatever energy I had into my legs, ignoring the painful rubbing of my feet in my boots. My life right now, blisters tomorrow.

Behind me, I heard another shout of pain from Geoff, then a full out scream. I risked a quick look. One of the robed guys was on Geoff’s back, pulling him down. I stopped running.

It was like a Nature special, the pack of lions bringing down a giraffe. The robed guys lifted Geoff off his feet and then all I could see was robes swirling. Geoff screamed, the sound echoing in my ears, pain and terror. And then silence, as rivulets of blood streamed past their feet.

I let out a small whimper and one of the figures turned in my direction.

It raised a tentacle in my direction and I felt a sting across my cheek. I touched the spot with my fingers and found a bleeding cut, like a deep lash mark.

Without thinking or waiting any longer, I ran full out to my car. I didn’t hear any signs of pursuit, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of nothingness that surrounded the robed guys.

I burst from the end of the alley and slammed into a wall of sensations from the city street. It made me disoriented and I lost precious seconds trying to get my bearings. From the alley, I heard the sound of footfalls again. I whirled in a circle, attempting to locate my car.

“Give me your keys!” shouted a familiar voice off to my left.

Standing next to my Toyota was Rémi, the butler fromTulio di Lorenzo’s house.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Answers later, Ainsley,” Ibsen VanderVeld (or VanderVelde) said, emerging from a recessed doorway to my left. “Ordinary blood will not sate them for long.”

“Who are you people?” I demanded again. I clutched my keys in my hand, the way we were shown in a personal safety class I took in college. I wasn’t going to be carted off by this group of wackos after escaping from those robed guys.

“C’mon!” Rémi shouted. “Your keys.”

“Hey!” I shouted to the street at large. “Some help here!”

From across the street, two other men approached. One wore a trenchcoat and looked vaguely like Columbo. The other was bald, his eyes lost behind the reflection of sodium lights on his glasses. None of the city’s other denizens stopped or even looked at me.

“Hey!” I shouted at the two men.

The guy in the trenchcoat ran over toward Ibsen, both taking up defensive postures at the end of the alley. Postures like they were ready for a fight.

The other man came up to me. “This is the best help I can offer,” he said to me.

I jerked back, but he was quicker. He grabbed me around the waist and with his other hand, put his thumb and first two fingers on my face like a Vulcan mind meld. I smelled salty ocean air, then the overwhelming sensations left me and in their place, blackness rushed in.

National Novel Writing Month

November is still some weeks away -- a good thing, that.

But Word Nerd is starting to contemplating trying to do National Novel Writing Month this year. Yes, she has a novel already done. It needs to be shopped out. While she's waiting for replies, she's interested in working on something else. For which she has an idea.

Realistically, there's never been a good year for it before. Word Nerd always had to cover elections which were held in November. Then, it was right after she moved to Indy. And then, right after becoming gainfully employed again. This year, though, it's looking do-able. Maybe.

So -- from past participants, what advice do you have? What does Word Nerd need to think about before launching into this on November 1st?

New writing schedule

Word Nerd is trying something new....

Lately, she's been lax about writing. Not much word nerd-iness going on here, or at least not much related to the WIP because writing at work has been on full steam since late May. But, she's been feeling the lack of creative work. Many people who are artists and writers can attest to this... how it's an internal feeling of misdirection when not producing material.

In the past, Word Nerd's writing time was about 6-8 p.m. She wrote two novel rough drafts during this general time frame. But as of this spring, that time isn't working... disappearing most of the time into other projects, late evenings at work and no head space left for creative work. This time frame was a holdover from graduate school when those two hours were the ONLY two she had to complete her Creative Fiction class projects. It just took her a while to realize that a schedule that worked six years ago wasn't working anymore.

So, this morning Word Nerd began the process of switching her writing time to the morning before work. The alarm went off at 6 and she got out of bed then, no hitting of the snooze button. The goal is to gradually work that time back to 5, to give her two hours of writing time in the morning when her brain is fresh.

This morning, she managed to carve out a few minutes even in the compressed schedule and it felt good. Word Nerd talked to several other writing contacts about their schedules and found that 5-7 a.m. (or earlier) was popular and productive. She really hopes this solves the lack of productivity problem and makes for some good writing time.

She's curious though --- who else writes in the early morning? Or how did you establish the writing schedule you have?

Mo*Con

Word Nerd went to her first ever writers conference this past weekend. (And life has been really busy, which is why no blog until now...)

Mo*Con is put on by the Indiana Horror Writers Association. No, Word Nerd is not switching genres. And yes, it was still really fun and valuable.

The panels were good, but the best part was the amount of time left open for just talking to people. Word Nerd met several other burgeoning writers (is it pretentious for her to put herself in that category?), some published authors, a book buyer and a publisher. All in one day.

She's heard for a long time that the cons are the way to make connections and she sort of thought yeah, well, maybe someday. Not anymore. She needs to make time for the conventions now. Really. Even this relatively small one was hugely helpful.

And motivating.

Now, back to chapter 1 of the WIP.

Beta reading

A few months back, you may remember that Word Nerd talked about asking a few trusted readers to read her whole WIP and give feedback.

Well, as has been said, turnabout is fair play and so now Word Nerd is doing this for a writer pal and she's realizing just what hard work she subjected her friends to. This is a different kind of reading than just reading a book for fun. It's harder because you have to pay more attention and figure out how to tactfully explain problems and still give praise where praise is due. (It's so much easier to pick on the negatives.)

What this really brings Word Nerd to is a big THANK YOU for her magnificent seven who have read/are beta reading her WIP. She really didn't know what she was putting you through and you absolutely deserve every ounce of thanks and credit possible for helping make the WIP better.