Hives

I’m breaking out in hives.

For the past nearly two months, I’ve been sweating in solitary confinement over writing a log-line for my book.  The solitary confinement has been self imposed because, per my usual ridiculousness, I hate the idea of trying something, sucking at it, and then looking stupid in front of all you lovely people.

But sometimes (okay, really, probably all the time), a girl needs feedback.

Some basics first, for those of you reading my blog who aren’t writers – a log-line is a single sentence that tells what a book or story is about.  Kristen Lamb has a frigging fabulous post on writing log-lines – one I’m a little embarrassed to admit I can pretty much recite verbatim.  (That’s embarrassing because I still have this sneaky suspicion that I’m failing miserably in my log-line writing attempt.  Hence this post.)

When I first began writing three years ago, I was clueless.  Everything about my start in writing was @$$ backwards.  My pants were in charge and I was flying by the seat of ‘em.  All I knew about the story I was writing was that I was trying to get my character to a specific destination.  The why’s for getting there weren’t important to me when I began.  *cringe*

Several months after I started writing, I somehow realized (among a plethora of other smack-myself-in-the-forehead-I’m-going-to-be-lucky-if-this-thing-is-salvageable epiphanies) that I needed to figure out where the story was going.  So I stopped and began my first feeble attempt at plotting.  At that point, the book became three books.  After the drafts of those three books were finished, I realized that the story hadn’t tied up as neatly as I would have liked, and so a fourth was born.  Now, three years later, I’ve got four books drafted, all tightly knotted together, the first book nearly polished enough for beta-readers, and I’m trying to figure out how to go about this log-line crap.  Do I write one log-line for each book?  Or do I write one for all four?

(And let it be known to the writing-deities of the universe that I am well aware of how @$$ backwards it is to work on the log-line after the story is written.  I see my folly now.  It will not be repeated when I start a new book, I swears…)

I’ve been working on one for all four, partly because I’m being lazy (shut up, I know – writer’s aren’t supposed to be lazy.  I’m playing my third trimester card here), and partly because while each book definitely has its own story to tell, in the end, all four books come together as a very solid whole.

But the problem with writing one log-line for a four-part series is that I’ve ended up with what I’m sure is the world’s longest run-on sentence.  And also, I’m not sure if a log-line for the whole series is the best way to represent a single book.  I don’t know; maybe I need to do both – one log-line for each individual book, and one for the series as a whole.

Oh, lordy.

Anyway, here’s what I’ve got so far – one log-line for the entire series.  Have a looky:

Abandoned in the woods as an infant, and brought up in a family that despised her, a teenage girl places her trust in an other-worldly stranger hoping to discover what she really is without being caught by either of the two men who claim to be her father: one, who wants to kill her for what she’s not; the other, who’s intent on using her as a weapon because of what she is.

Thoughts?  Does it catch you?  Does it make you want to read?  Or does it drone on and on to the tune of more YA white noise?  Perhaps I ought to throw a vampire in there for good measure (*giggle, snort*)…

I would heart, heart, HEART your feedback, lovelies – from all of you, writers or no.

In the Nick of Time…New Year’s Resolutions Unveiled

I’ve struggled whether or not to publicly declare my New Year’s resolutions.  I’m a giant commitment-phobe, and the thought of saying “Hey, look at what I’m gonna do!” to anybody other than my son’s stuffed whale (the only person I tell all my secrets, hopes, and dreams to), has me breaking out in a cold sweat.  Because if anybody besides me or Whale knows my intentions for the next year, I might actually have to follow through on them, or face the embarrassment of failure.

Blech.  Forget it.  I’m ending this post now, right now.  *runs from the room screaming* *trips on something in the hallway* (Whale is on the floor, staring up at me with his dark, soulful eyes) *sighs heavily, picks up Whale, and shuffles back to the computer*

Okay, I’m back.  So.  New Year’s resolutions.  Here they are:

(1) I’m not going to nit-pick my body.  I’ve been blessed with excellent health, am in the process of making my fourth child…this body has been good to me.  Do I have stretch-marks?  Yep.  Are my arms and tummy flabbier than I would like?  Yep.  Do I sometimes still get a zit or two?  Yep.  But this body has been good to me.  Time for me to return the favor.  I’m going to use it.  I’m going to sweat, and breathe deeply, and sometimes, I’m going to be sore.  But through the process of getting back into shape after this last baby, I’m not going to nit-pick my body.  I’m not going to imagine what it would look like without the battle-wounds childbearing often places on a woman’s body – instead, I’m going to cherish those reminders of the three (soon to be four) most amazing children any parent has ever been blessed with.  Children who exist because I’ve been blessed with a body that could carry and nurture them to term.

(2) I’m going to admit that I’m a writer.  This is a silly little thing that shouldn’t be difficult, but is.  There’s this little irritating voice in the back of my head that says I should wait until I’m published; but this little ‘pastime’ of mine has quickly evolved into something that’s no longer a hobby…no sane person would spend this much time, effort, emotion, tears, determination, and did I say time, on a hobby.  I’m a writer.  It’s what I do.  I may not be the best writer on the planet.  Heck, I may not even be a good writer, yet.  But I’m a writer, working hard every single day to be a little better at it than I was the day before.

(3) I will finish my first book this year.  I will allow myself to put an end to the edits, to the modifications, to the obsessive going over, and over, and over each page, and be done with it.  I will allow myself to finish working on it, and be proud of it.  I will set a deadline, and meet it.  Suck on that, commitment-phobia!

(4) I will play.  With my kids, with the hubster, with my friends.  I will make time to romp, to laugh, to be frivolous, to be loud and live with mirth.  I will not get so caught up in my own life that I forget to enjoy the lives of those I love.

That’s it.  That’s what I’m planning for this year.  The over-achiever in me says the list is too short.  The commitment-phobe says it’s too long.  The tiny little part of my brain that is actually sane says it’s just right.

How about you, dear friendlies?  Do you make New Year’s resolutions?  Or do they scare the shiza out of you?  Or both?

VICTORY

I never finished college.

In an earlier post, I attributed that to ‘artistic differences’, but that’s really a cop-out.  I didn’t finish college because I’m flawed.  Fatally so.

I’m one of those lucky people that lots of stuff comes easy to.  I’m a decent artist.  Have a nearly photographic memory.  I take risks in the kitchen that pay off 90% of the time.  I get the piano, have nimble fingers and a pretty good ear.  The list goes on.  Please don’t take this as bragging – it’s not, I promise.

So many things come easily that my visceral reaction is to be lazy, and oddly enough, scared.  I’ll play the piano until it becomes a challenge I don’t enjoy any more.  I absolutely won’t play in front of anyone outside of my little family, for fear of a missed note.  I hate cooking, because of that 10% I screw up in the kitchen.  I’ve never taken a serious art class because I’m afraid I’ll get bored – or fail at it.

And there’s the problem.  I’m lazy, and I’m scared to fail.  Those two things, when given any amount of credibility one’s mind, make it nearly impossible to commit to anything, let alone something as strenuous as college.

So, college.  I had a lot of fun.  Made a lot of friends, most of whom have long since gone their separate ways.  Wasted a lot money.  Wasted a lot of time.

Je regrette.

And now I’m a mom.  I stay home with my kids, educating them, of all things.  Teaching them to keep at it when they don’t want to.  That quitting’s not an option when stuff doesn’t come easy any more.  Trying to teach them lessons I still haven’t fully learned myself.

This book.  This freaking book.  It’s so much more to me than words on a page.  It’s my right of passage.  It’s the college experience I cheated myself out of: late nights working on something that, at times, I’ve grown to hate.  It’s choosing to sit my butt down in front of the computer instead of going out with the girls.  It’s not settling for ‘good enough’ when the desire to quit is so pungent I can hardly breathe.  It’s letting go of the fear of failure, even when that little critter is gnawing at the back of my mind with its razor-sharp teeth saying, “Really?  This is what you’ve spent the past three years of your life doing?  Pathetic.”

Can writing a book replace the college experience?   Probably not.  I won’t have a diploma in my hand at the end of it.  I may not even have a published book at the end of it.

But, it’s a personal first.  I’m finishing something.  Finishing it well.  Doing it the right way.  Not giving up when the part that comes easily is over.

That’s my victory.

What’s yours?

Stick, Stack, STUCK.

Normally I don’t blog about writing.  I don’t know why I shy away from it exactly.  Maybe I think it’s a waste of time for me to write about writing when I could be writing instead of writing about writing.

Sorry about that last sentence.  Horrifying.  *cringes a little*

But here’s the thing: I’m stuck.  Like, uber stuck.  Stuck like poor Ollie. (If you don’t know who Ollie is, read this.)

Last winter I decided to re-write my work-in-progress from a third person perspective.  Holy cow, it blew the whole thing open.  I loved the added dimensions to the story, the ability to shift view-points and see what’s happening through different perspectives.  It was a good thing.

But as I did it, the story shifted.  And since the story blossomed into one of epic proportions, a little shift  can cause a huge earthquake down the line.  I feel like I’m navigating those story-line waters pretty well right now, but I’ve been plugging away at it for so long, I’ve come to a problem with the third-person perspective.

It’s grown stale.  I’m feeling more and more disconnected from my characters, who I love.  They are vibrant, each with their own story to tell.  But I feel like I’m losing them into a two-dimensional world.  Some days that world feels one-dimensional.  Some characters have blended into the computer screen entirely.

So now I’m toying with the idea of re-writing…again, in first person.  But honestly, I’m terrified of writing more than one character in first person.  What if I can’t make each voice unique?  What if everything becomes unbelievable because every character sounds the same?

Oh, the doubt and self-loathing.

Tell me I’m not the only one stuck in life.  Maybe it’s not in writing.  Maybe it’s a yoga pose you can’t master.  Maybe it’s an inability to make the perfect pie crust.  Maybe it’s that you’ve let your dog’s toenails grow too long because clipping them eebs you out.  (Maybe every single one of those examples comes from my own life.)

I am one messed-up Midwestern chica.

*crooked grin that says I’m smiling, but I’m not happy*

Myn

1+1+1=3 (Shocking, but true)

This is the story about how a little book I wrote turned into three.

Really, it’s more the story about how I learned (it’d probably be more accurate to say began to learn) to digest constructive criticism.

The first words I put to paper in an effort to write a book were penned the summer of 2009.  I don’t know when I decided to write, exactly.  I do remember being in the car with the hubs, saying to him, “I think I’m going to write a book.”  I’m sure he wrote it off at the time as another one of my harebrained ideas that I was sure to outgrow.  I tend to have those.  Do the words worm farming mean anything to you?  Yeah, not proud of that one.

He may have written it off (justifiably so), but I didn’t.  The idea in my brain just wouldn’t shut up; it had to be let out.  My memories of writing that summer are a blur: I remember scribbling on a legal pad in my car at Sonic after grocery shopping.  Staying up until three in the morning, alternating between wine and coffee, writing.  Mumbling something incoherent to Thomas (on several occasions) when he’d ask what was for dinner.  I’d found a new addiction, and thankfully, my sweet family was very tolerant of it.  Seriously, I couldn’t ask for a more supportive family.

I disappeared that summer, and by the time autumn rolled around, I had a finished (I thought) book in my hands.  (What I had a was a second draft.  And those of you who write know that a second draft is just a couple shades away from the pure junk that is a first draft.  But I didn’t know that.  I was a total newbie, and in my mind, I’d finished a freaking book, people.  I was ready to go.)

So I decided to put it out for a little test run.  I asked a few friends to read it and give me their thoughts.  Some read it, some didn’t.  The ones who did were incredibly supportive.  I mean, really supportive.  Way more supportive than what I think a second draft deserved.

But one tiny little suggestion ate at me like rust eats metal.  I can’t even call it criticism, because it was so gently given.  The suggestion was that I rewrite the book (that was written from a first person perspective) in third person.

Rewrite the book from third person?  Are you kidding me?  Rewrite the whole darn thing??

I ran two miles that night.  This detail is significant because I haven’t run two miles (or one mile, or a half-mile) since I was 19.  (I’m a shade older than that now.)  And I haven’t run two miles since.  I was just bowled over by the suggestion.  Didn’t this person know how much work I’d already put into it?  On that side of the looking glass, the few months that I’d spent writing seemed like an eternity (on this side, it’s a laughable amount of time).  I think at the time I justified ignoring this person’s suggestion by telling her and myself that I was going to write another book in the voice from another character in the story to fill in the parts she found dissatisfying.  Lame-o.

Anyway, I put the book away entirely for a few months.  It was the holidays, we were busy, and I didn’t want to think about it.  Because in the back of my head, a little thought was nagging at me: Maybe it would be better from third person.

I fought that thought tooth and nail.  I did not want to rewrite the whole stinking book.  I didn’t want to do it!  No!

And then, on a wintery day in 2010, I turned on the computer, and got to work.

Oh.  My.  Gosh.

My friend was right.  The book exploded (in a good way).  Things that were left unseen came to life, characters that were one dimensional grew in depth and understanding.  The plot thickened, relationships grew.  The two worlds I’d created – the fictional version of our own, and a brand new one – seemed to come alive.

And somehow, in that time, one book became three.  A little more than a year later, they’re finished.  And I’m so proud of them – and proud of me.  Finishing this project has definitely been a defining time of personal growth for me.  Reaching a long-term goal has a way of shaping a person.  That stubborn I’m-sticking-with-it-no-matter-what attitude is something I’ve had to work for, to earn.  It doesn’t come naturally to me.

And now I’m in a whole new process of waiting/persistence – the haunting chore of querying literary agents.  Will my stomach ever not be in knots when I go to check my email?  Will I ever be absolutely satisfied with my query letter to the point that sending it doesn’t have me breaking out in sweat?  I don’t know.  But I want to embrace this part of the journey, and let it take me where it may.