Gravedigger

I swing my legs, perched on a tree. I watch down below at those draped in black, breathing smoke deep in my lungs. I often come to watch. This particular tree is high, but I wouldn’t be worried even if it had been the smaller crab apple on the other side of the cemetery because no one looks slightly up when coming to pay respects. They look down, to the sky, or they look straight ahead, not noticing much of anything. There is nothing in between, unless you’re a child.

It is a child who notices me. Her father has died: train wreck. He was the conductor. Her large eyes fix on mine despite the distance. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t cry. She simply notices me and looks. Startled, I stare back at her, assessing her in that way we all do: small six year-old, velvet dress of dark purple, matching ribbon in her black hair. She is a pale child, but naturally so, not grief-stricken. Still, that doesn’t mean she is cold with no love for her father. Children that age don’t always understand exactly what it means when a parent dies. Some refuse to accept it for a prolonged period. Others cry silently because they understand that Something Bad has happened, if nothing else. Others still find unconventional ways of dealing with it. Like me.

I was nine. Both of them, two days apart. First went my mother, a graceful dancer who smelled of honeysuckle year-round. She fell off one of those tall library ladders. Landed on her neck. Instant death. Forty-eight hours later, my father. A volunteer fireman drowned while on duty. Accidents, accidents. Irony doesn’t help. Gone means gone.

It still feels unfair. I kept the dead flowers for too long and spoke few words for years. I’m often told that I’m solemn and quiet, but I don’t think of myself that way. There’s a very loud voice inside my head, and it keeps me company. Particularly at night.

The procession moves and the crowd swallows the girl. I kill the cigar on a knot in the tree, flick it to the ground and climb to a lower branch, swinging to a silent drop on the grass. Squinting at the sun and rolling up my sleeves, I ready myself for work. Still, I’m sure if I had been loud, no one would have looked at me.

No one notices a gravedigger, after all. We come when grief and love has left for good.

It’s flowing again! Woohoo!

Apparently, my brain needed a vacation.  I wrote three chapters, straight, and then couldn’t write a word for a week.  I’m not sure whether to trust myself, still, even at this point.  That makes the whole experience scary as well as exhilarating.

Still,  I am filled with words at the moment, words and oranges, and I must spew them out (the words, not the oranges), as fast as I humanly possibly can, before inspiration takes a hike again.

I wonder if it will always be like this for me.

Whether it will or not, I’m riding the wave, folks.  Riding the wave.

Like prostitution

Charming villains have always had a decided social advantage over well-meaning people who chew with their mouths open.
— Miss Manners

You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,
And now and then stab, when occasion serves.
— Christopher Marlowe

Every writer I know has trouble writing.
— Joseph Heller

A professional writer is an amateur that didn’t quit.
— Richard Bach

Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.
— Sidonie Gabrielle

Write without pay until someone offers to pay.
— Mark Twain

A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted. You should live several lives while reading it.
— William Styron

Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.
— Winston Churchill

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.
— Moliere

Don’t get it right, just get it written.
— James Thurber

Attack plan

I have now devised a plan of attack.

Right. Like I’m attacking my story. Allow me to rephrase:

I have now devised a plan.

(Of attack.)

You see, the more I go on, the more I realize how this story is meant to take shape, and the more I end up writing an embellished outline, on a chapter-by-chapter basis. I’ve expanded my book; it is now four parts (it consisted of three until a week ago), and each part has about 8 chapters so far.

It’s got the mathematical side of me extremely excited, you see, because I can now chart my progress, based on how I was doing before.

I’ll explain a little further. I have created a book progress chart, based on the time I have alloted to complete the book, and the number of chapters I have decided that I have. It’s all subject to change, naturally, but for the time being, this is how I’ve translated words into math:

The outline consists of 5% of the book.
Part one consists of 20%. It has 8 chapters.
Part two consists of 20% and has 9 chapters.
Part three consists of 20%. It has 8 chapters.
Part four consists of 15% of the book. It has 7 chapters.
Editing the whole enchilada consists of 20% of the effort with the book.

Note how much editing is required in book writing. A whole lot of editing, as it turns out. I’ve realized that I spend about 3/4 of my time editing, which is what takes me so long. I’m hoping that I’ll have edited as much as I can by the time August 28th comes around. In any case, here is a table of those notes:

Section - Percentage of whole
Outline - 5%
Part One - 15%
Edit Part - 15%
Part Two - 15%
Edit Part 2 - 5%
Part Three - 15%
Edit Part 3 - 5%
Part Four - 10%
Edit Part 4 - 5%
1st Draft - 10%
Final Draft - 10%

If you prefer graphical representation, the above translates to the following chart, based on my estimates over the next nine months. The little diamonds each represent a chapter, and I am currently on chapter seven.

Lordy am I proud.

…

I’m also a little perturbed at the fact that I took the time to actually do all of that.

Routine

Write one thing at least, apply for one job at least. That’s the rule. My own rule.  It’s how I retain my sanity.

I think the universe has ways of making things happen or not happen for people, sometimes. And sometimes, rather than worry, it’s quite nice to let the universe do that, and just go on.

I might be a freelance fill-in-the-blank soon. Instability, varying income, stress, here I come!

I’m optimistic.

Note to self

When writing seems impossible and difficult for days that stretch on, just sit down and write.  The words will come to you, they will surprise you, and they won’t be half as bad as you think they will be.

It is always better to have something to edit.

Maybe

Maybe it takes a low to get to a high.

Writing, it’s so fluid today.  An extension of last night.  I might actually finish chapter five by this evening.  I’m so excited that I am freaking out on the inside.

And it’s time to break for lunch.

1:24AM

Well, that’s it, folks.

Chapter three is FINALLY finished.

It took an especially long time to plug the holes in this chapter.  Hoo boy.

I now have Chapters 1, 2, 3,  and 4 in their first draft formats. Of course, this is all a working draft, so I’m sure they’ll change again, even though I spent this week editing and pouring over each page.  It’s good. I think it’s good.  I’m flushed and on a word-high, although I’m really tired.  I’m struggling to blink less long and less hard.

I’m excited.  I’ve got chapters 5 - 8 not only outlined, but begun.  It’s about filling them in with the meat and potatoes.  Once those are done, it’s on to Part II.

Let me spell it out for you guys, who have no idea how long a chapter may be, and who are curious about how that fits into the scope of the whole.  There are, as far as I know, three parts.  Today marks the halfway point in Part I.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be done Part I way before Christmas.   That puts my far ahead of my tentative schedule, baby.  Ooh yeah!

Feeling good.

Feeling oh so tired.  But now, it’s a good tired.

I’m trying to decide

Trying to decide. Can’t make up my mind. Might be that I take myself too seriously.

But.

Haven’t written a new piece in weeks.

Want to submit to the CBC contest, due November 1st, don’t know if my piece will be ready.

Plagued. With doubts. Want them to…

Just.

Go.

Away.

Literature

Something I subconsciously have been doing is a lot of reading and researching. Reading about publishing, about techniques in writing styles, reading books by celebrated authors, re-reading my favourites and analyzing why they ARE my favourites. Biographies of writers, success stories. (By the way. You know those people who sit down, write a book, and pretty much just publish it right away, without having to consult much outside forces? They don’t exist. There are inevitably outside forces, whether they are recognized as such or not.)

I’ve essentially been trying to improve my own writing by learning from others who have done it. I have to tell you, it’s working in ways I didn’t suspect it would.

Most recently, I bought a book. Today, actually. Word Painting by Rebecca McClanahan. I highly recommend it, and I’ll hardly be the first to do so. In particular, I’ve been struggling with descriptions, and this book is really the answer to that problem. I’ve been focusing on characters and character development and life events, but I haven’t so much been putting my characters in places, having them interact with too many things. I realized that a couple of weeks ago, well into chapter five.

There is something missing, and it’s the descriptions that evoke strong sentiment and a visual quality to a scene.

Happily, I realized that fact relatively soon, and am now on my way to correcting it. Many of the things I instinctively knew as I started rewriting with this in mind are stated in the opening chapters of Word Painting, and I was glad to learn that my instincts were spot on. Reading a bit for information, I got to know my opening chapters again, and added detail here and there. Once I finished editing in chapter four, I have to admit that it made me feel like a student who got an A on a test after having failed the assignment; in particular, I feel that in chapter four I did it correctly.

In Word Painting, McClanahan writes: “Descriptions composed of sensory details penetrates layers of consciousness, engaging your reader emotionally as well as intelectually.” I really feel like I did that in this particular instance, and it makes me feel like I am learning more and more about my art. I’m learning about something I love. It’s exhilarating!

I love feeling that I know what’s wrong or missing, and working to fix it. There is good writing, and then there is great writing. Great writing has all of the elements. It’s important to realize that your writing can get better.

I realize that this jumble of thoughts may not make too much sense all strung the way they are, but please forgive me. It’s 1:17AM, I am tired from having sat here for three hours, re-working my first four chapters, and the small of my back is beginning to ache. I have no energy left for editing this particular blog entry. I will just hope that it finds a sympathetic reader at one point or another, be it a later me or anyone else, and go to bed happier for having noted the progress I feel I’ve made today.

By the way, I’m really looking forward to writing the next part of my book. It’s an exciting, organic thing.