Random

Life is spinning out of control lately. I hate when it does that.

It's been my experience that March usually comes in like a lamb and exits with a roar. I'm not looking forward to that.

I've a 70,000 word story that won't come together, no matter how hard I try to beat it into submission. And why in god's name did I think I could write a sci-fi love story to begin with? Really. A science fiction love story. Yeah. Maybe if I set it in rural New England I'll have better luck?

Anyway. That's what's on my mind.

Is it too late to move?

Met some nice folks today. They are all writers from my neck of the woods. All of them have signed up to do NaNoWriMo - every blessed one of 'em has taken the pledge to write like crazy for the month of November.

Except...now they know who I am. And I'm pretty sure they expect me to write like crazy for the month of November, too.

Ruh roh.

They toil not, neither do they spin...

The yellow loosestrife by my back door.

Sweet William.

It self-seeds every year and I never know where it will turn up or what color it will be.

Helloooo in there...

Been pretty quiet in my head of late.

Most people would be grateful. Not me. Used to be a time when the voices of my characters would clamor to be heard. They used to have a lot to tell me, most often things like where they were headed and how they would like to get there. Now, not so much. Matter of fact, not at all.

Nick and Flint MacAllister are arguing in a post-apocalyptic world, Randy's in a police station wondering what's become of his mother, young Sam's just gone out to steal breakfast in an oversized rainjacket, and Dottie's got a secret she hopes her husband doesn't discover. And Monk. Dear Monk. Monk sits on the top shelf pinging me with peanuts, his mad attempt to either juice up my imagination or at least keep me nourished until I can find it again. The rest eye me periodically wondering what's next on their agenda.

I've no idea. Literally. None. Does Nick save Flint's life and prove himself the next leader of the ragtag band of refugees? Is Randy's mom off getting married to the wealthy Mister Mister? Will Sam make it home before being beaten by the lowlife that lurk in the shadows, will Dottie's husband forgive her? And will Monk survive long enough to hear Kira say she loves him?

I dunno.

The ceaseless chatter of the internet is blocking my thoughts. I hope Monk has lots of peanuts.

"We're not going to Guam, are we?"

A  plane crash, a tropical island, a polar bear, a mad Frenchwoman, a series of repeating numbers.

A hole in the ground, a science project, a four-toed statue, the end of the world.

A smoke monster, a trek through time, a long-standing battle between good and evil, and an alternate universe where a plane didn't crash.

At some point in the next week or so, all these random pieces of information are going to come together into coherent whole. That's my hope, anyway. For 119 weeks, I have eagerly sat in front of my TV, remote control in hand, poised to leap into the strange and confusing world of LOST (created by Damon Lindelof, J. J. Abrams and Jeffrey Lieber.)  I visit that world with a large group of fans. I'm thankful for them. I'd hate to feel this confused all by myself.

I'm thankful for another thing, too.

This show inspired my writing. It begged me to put things on paper whether they made sense or not. It helped me to trust the process; it taught me to ask "what if..." I accepted the challenge to view the blank page with  a LOST perspective. I learned it is okay to take your readers on a ride, to keep some things a mystery, to take risks, to just write the damn thing and see where it ends up.

I'm not sure whether the LOST writers had it all planned from the beginning or if they've been making it up as they go along. What I know for sure is they've freed their imagination, and in so doing, have lit a fire under mine.

Not a bad way to spend a weeknight.

Nicknames

I blame my father.

Not that he had a lot of silly names for me, he really only had one, and it wasn't even all that silly, but he did have a lot of other silly sayings he used to direct at me along with a wealth of affection. Things I can't even try to spell, that's how invented they were.

In that same spirit of silliness, I nicknamed the dogs, my husband, our relationship, the canoe, our kids.

I use nicknames often enough that the animals respond to them as readily as they do their true names. (For a cat, that's saying something.) Tish-Tosh, Snoo-Boo, Smoreo, Peebs.

I called my son "Speedy Pete" long before he began actually traveling at the speed of light, and my daughter "Peach Fuzz" for the downy soft fluff that covered her head on the day she was born.

Recently, I've been playing around with nicknames for my characters. Not all of them. Some of them are too nasty to merit a nickname. But, for others, I think it might be a way of fleshing them out, of giving them an intimate history with another, of showing the reader a side of them that might be otherwise hidden or secret.

I think this bears some looking into.

Names

It took us four days to name our daughter. Strange only in that we chose our son's name years before he was born.

I think about their names sometimes and the way they were chosen and whether or not we made the right decision. The fact is, their names suit them. Much as I wanted to call my daughter Margaret - Maggie, for short - she's not a Margaret or a Maggie. (We've her father to thank for that save.) And, while I still love Joshua and all the reasons we had for choosing that name, it's not the right name for my son.

My characters are also like this. No matter how they get named, be it an inspiration that comes while I'm composing, or a name I've researched, by the time I call them a specific something - that's who they are.

Usually, it's not a problem, but lurking in the back of my head, and sometimes on paper, is a guy I've come to love. He's got a story to tell even if I can't find all the words to tell it just yet. His name is Donnie Monk. Most of his friends call him Monk. Trouble is, he looks nothing like the nebbish TV detective with OCD and an anxiety disorder who just happens to have the same surname. And try as I might, I can't get Donnie to change his name. I've suggested a different spelling: Munk, Monch, Munck - nope, Donnie and I are having none of it. We like Monk.

Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk who is so 

NOT Donnie Monk

I've got a sneaking suspicion if I tried to pitch this story, an editor would insist upon a name change. So, what's a writer to do? 

I've got no answers on this one, but I'm really hoping I get to debate it with an editor someday. 'Course, by that time, Monk the TV show may be a distant memory. See, Donnie, told ya not to worry.

Pencil and Paper

About a year or so ago, I began composing all my stories on the computer. I'd squirrel ideas in my head and type them out whenever I had a chance. It worked pretty well for quite a while. And then it didn't anymore.

For some time, I've been wondering why I can't finish a story. I came up with two reasons: one - I used to spend more time in my car. I do a lot of great brainstorming in the car. It's the only completely quiet place I have. Two - I used to write everything out longhand.

Here's the thing: I write in bits, nothing is linear. Sometimes I know the ending before I finish the middle. Sometimes I have a general idea of what gets talked about in the middle and then have to find a beginning. Sitting at the keyboard, I feel compelled to fill the page from top to bottom, beginning - middle - end.

Except.

I don't write that way.

The other day, I typed out a decent beginning, took a drive and daydreamed about the middle and then, over the next two days, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down ideas, sentences, snippets of dialogue. It's all very disjointed, with arrows and cross-outs and a few passages are circled (them's the good ones) and I can't tell (yet), but I think I'm going to end up with a decent story.

I'm glad I re-discovered this style of working. This post is here to remind me.

Getting Paid

I made an executive decision a couple of weeks back. It involves money. I decided I'm not going to give away my work anymore. I'm going to get paid for my stories. Sounds cocky, doesn't it? I mean, I'm not brilliant or famous. I write little stories. Very little stories. Some of my stories barely break a thousand words. But, still. I work hard on them. They represent countless stolen hours. I write. I re-write. And then, just to make sure I know what I'm doing, I re-write some more.  

By the time I'm done, I feel like I have something valuable. Maybe it is only valuable to me. That's okay. I can take it. I'm proud to see the growth in the work, I like that it continues to evolve. I mean, two years ago I hardly knew where to place a comma. (You're re-reading now, aren't ya? Making sure I've got all the commas in the right places. Don't bother, I promise you, I still screw them up.)  

It's not about greed. It's about respect. Mine, for my work.  

From now on, if I can, I get paid for my efforts.