Past the halfway mark… Again

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Thoughts:

  • So I’ve cut over 4,000 words (and I’m still over 101,000!), and I hope to streamline the battle scenes for more reduction.
  • I’ve come across so many typos (even in names!) that I’m wishing I hadn’t sent out my first round already.  But there we are; and I’m getting very useful feedback trickling in, shaping some of my changes.
  • One thing I’m loving about this revision process is that it really does get easier as I go along.  Not (I think) because I’m so much more experienced, but because the faults are refined a bit more away each time, so that section that was a *total* slog last time around was a simple clean-up this time.
    • Hey, I can see some personal application for that too… {grin}
  • One of the very cute things about getting comments back is being complemented for certain things that were done… by accident, or instinct you might say.  That is, there are “pockets of brilliance” here (very small pockets ;) ) and I love them being noticed, but I can’t take conscious credit for all of them.  They weren’t all calculated.
    • And that’s the fun part.  That I can end up with “freebies” like that.
      • Of course, being cheered for the things I did think of is the best.  Lets me feel clever.

Cutting and Map-making

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Got rid of about 3000 words tonight.

Down to 102,598.  Still shaking my head at the length.

I don’t think we have any *enormous* loss.  Which of course is the point of cutting.

No, I haven’t gotten all my mss back, and no, no one told me to cut these particular scenes, but my [ctrl]+x was ready to cut something and I dismissed them as too “Elrond’s Council,” which I imagine to be hard to sell these days.

Yes, they’re saved somewhere.  I can always put them back if *someone* decided they needed to see more. {shrug}

It just feels nice to cut.

No, not that way.  Not one of my issues.

Total change of subject:

Remember all my grousing about cartography and map-making, and how I had no idea even how to start?

Well now I do!  This article was the perfect introduction (of the concise, to-the-point variety so important to me) to make the process seem quite possible and even reasonable.  Now I just need to quit reading for a little bit and work on it ;)

Joule creamed my left knee on Mother’s Day and I’ve been babying and icing it ever since.  Finished two books since then (both *awesome* consolation for my state), so I could probably take a breather and try mapping for my stillness activity tomorrow.

Just. Start.

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I’ve figured something out.

I’m actually scared of starting new books.  In fact, I am amazed when I look back over all the books I’ve already read this year— because it is so hard for me to sit down and start something.

I will not tell you how many books I have *bought* this year.

And no matter what you might say, I think there’s actually a reason I’m scared.  Not quite complementary, but real:  Reading a new book requires surrender.

I am surrendering my time, my mind and frequently my emotions to a person I have never met, and someone whose motives and world-view are (so far) unknown to me.

Just now I am amazed by how hard it is to pick up the sequel of a book I actually enjoyed (I have unread books of at least three authors I’ve liked, and I still haven’t been able to surrender to finishing any of them. )  I’m leaning more toward starting another series, just to check it out, rather than continue investing in a story world.

I wonder if I’m really just afraid it won’t be as good as what I’ve had before and I will feel like I’ve been foolish and wasted my time.

I’m still working on words for the difference between owning a book, and merely picking it up from the library.  There are books I’ve been able to hold my breath and dive into only (I think) because they’ve been sitting on my shelf long enough to become somewhat familiar.  Sometimes from appearance, sometimes from a half-dozen pick-up-and-flips (I am a total spoiler-seeker; I think it’s connected to my suspicious nature when dealing with strangers).

~

In some crazy way this seems to make them less-threatening, and when I take the plunge I feel more secure.

All these are books I didn’t even crack within a month of buying, but all are books I am very glad to have read.

As I look back over my shelves I am reminded why I picked each of these books, and another reason for my hesitation becomes clear: I want to give them more than I have right now to give.

I expect twists on old tales to make me think, and I want to have enough brain to give them, and just now I wonder if that is possible.  But that question will never go away, so the end is where I began: just. start.

If God can use leprosy, he can use even a book I don’t like or don’t understand to advance my education.  I do my best to avoid them, of course, but he can redeem the uncomfortable too.

He’s just that good.

Laughing at Myself

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I used to be embarrassed when my writing pleased me (toe-curling, laugh-out-loud delight seems rather presumptuous– sort of like describing your children’s wonderfulness).

“Isn’t it amazing,” my mom gushed last summer, “We have only beautiful and brilliant people in this family.”

My dad placidly observed, “I’m sure the warthog says the same thing.”

Today I fixed something in Linnea’s Journey, re-read it and laughed aloud, clapping my hands.  At once I cringed, even in the privacy of my writing nook.  Then I remembered something my one editor-encounter left me with: “Your writing should move you.  If it doesn’t excite or entertain you who are this close, how can you expect it to move anyone else?”

So I enjoyed the feeling.

Here’s something from my story that made me laugh (possibly in an inside-joke way), though not the passage I described above– that was a chunk that makes no sense out of context.  This one has at least a chance.

Continue reading »

Thoughts While Waiting on Critiques

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A couple times during college I asked different friends, “What’s wrong with me?”

On some level I think I wanted to be sure I was “working on” the stuff that actually bugged people, but at my core I know I wanted to hear, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

I never heard that.

Instead I got a very cautious, respectful, (in one case delighted) listing of all my known flaws.  They hurt to have so plainly enumerated, but I was thankful at least not to hear anything new.

This is how I feel about sending off my manuscript with directions to tell me everything that was wrong.  I was contemplating how differently (more critically) people are reading this than the average book off the shelf, when my SIL nailed the reason.

“You *asked* them to notice what’s wrong.  When I’m asked that I’m going to be reading differently.”

So, in a last-minute effort to salvage my feelings, I do want to announce that I forgot to put on critique directions that I am *also* interested in anything nice you want to say about what you read.

I want the story to be as good as it can be, so yes, I want to hear ideas about improving; but I’d greatly enjoy hearing indications it was more enjoyable than painful to read, and knowing any particular moments that were favorites or helped form a positive impression of the work.

There.  I hope that’s not interpreted as groveling for compliments.

Of Blood and Accidents

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Purple Moose mentioned a finger-cutting incident that reminded me of a story I haven’t told here before.

The summer that Natasha was 2, I was shaving the fat off some cuts of meat (toward my hand.  Duh.  Everyone knows you don’t do that, but everybody also knows you’ve got better control that way) when the blade slipped and sliced my index finger across the first knuckle and into the cuticle.

My knives tend to very sharp, so it wasn’t painful, per se; a very clean cut.  But I was angry.  I stomped the floor *hard* (this is my “emotional” response to pain or frustration.  I don’t really scream or swear– in the traditional sense).

On some level I was concerned for my girl– vaguely aware that this could be one of those really formative moments in her young life– and I was determined *not* to have a little girl that was afraid of blood (no offense).  I rinsed my cut finger under the faucet while I ripped off a paper towel to wrap it in.

Now, before all this began I’d been explaining safe food-handing practices to my 2-year-old.

(Yes, it’s okay to laugh.  I thought it was funny.  Especially the quiet, serious look she maintained while I talked about washing and germs and not cross-contaminating used surfaces).

When I cut myself, precipitating the rapid string of actions that followed, Natasha kept piping, (younger than Elisha is now, though I can still hear it in his voice), “Sick? Sick?”

Still I stomped, wondering the best response to her concerned inquiry.  To myself, head spinning just slightly, I was hissing, “I never cut myself by accident.  I never cut myself by accident.”

Which is true.  I knew better than to cut toward my own hand, so this wasn’t a true accident.

And all of a sudden the image of an oblivious adolescent was in my mind’s eye, and she was saying, “I don’t know *how* I got pregnant!”

I laughed, and my head cleared.

Turning to Natasha I showed her my clean and blotted finger.  Bending the knuckle caused the cut to begin leaking again and she studied the color.

“This is blood,” I said in the same voice I’d used to talk about why we cut off fat, and why we wash our hands.  “If you ever see this you’re allowed to scream, and you get a band-aid.”

Can’t be all bad, right?

What is it about

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“Don’t say ‘Good-bye’.”?

How in the world could that be reassuring?

I’ve seen this in movies and books.  Just tonight I heard it in a song.

I always say good-bye even in small non-threatening events; why would anyone find ignoring a departure comforting?

Just don’t get it.

One-Million is a Big Number

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In several places I’ve seen the declaration that it takes 1,000,000 words to be a really good writer.

Leaving aside the arbitrariness of the number and the implied assumption that quantity leads to quality (since I will admit the two are related), I checked out my own record against this.

And I’m barely half-way there.

Okay, technically I did scrape together over a half-mil, but that was with *everything* over 300-words I’ve got on this computer: including old school papers and my 3 months of daily foster-care notes.

Half of that is my estimate of word-count from my blogging the last three years, and maybe a quarter could be attributed to my novels.

There’s a reality check for me.

Every now and then I think I write a lot, and this new measuring stick is like a reminder of the Biblical admonition Don’t think you are better than you really are. Be honest in your evaluation of yourselves.

Too often we evaluate ourselves (in every arena) in relation to what others are doing, when the only healthy ways to evaluate are against what we were and against what we’re called to be.

Those should be enough to cheer, shame, and challenge us without adding other people to the equation.

A Wrinkle in Time book review

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I put it up on the Teen Lit Review site.

Let’s just say I’m glad I bought it used.

I wasn’t massively disturbed by it this time (as I was as child), but overall it seemed to me a very experimental book, and not one that was very useful to me.

Yes, I’m that mercenary now. If a story doesn’t sweep me off my feet or model amazing *something* I’m on to the next pretty quick.  More thoughts on the book are on my 2009 books page if you’re curious about that sort of thing.