Quitting and Proud

It's time. It's been coming for at least the last 9 months, but the time is finally here: I'm done. I'm quitting writing. Please understand, this is not said with the slightest trace of bitterness, regret, despair, or anger. A few days ago it might have been, but not now. Now it's said with a sense of freedom, liberation - and excitement.

I'm growing up, you see. Learning that I'm the one in charge of my own life, and if I don't take charge now, I'll wake up forty-five with schoolkids, stuck in a rut I didn't create for myself. I refuse to be a part of that future, and claiming my future means claiming my now. And my now of the last year or so involves far too much angst, over everything - evidenced by the fact that I saw the ear/now/throat surgeon yesterday, and while there are definitely operable structural issues (HOORAH, I WILL BE ABLE TO BREATHE), a large part of the problem is that I grind my teeth - and I grind my teeth because of stress.

It's been a slow and gradual process, a culmination of many, many conversations and blog posts and things read and seen and observed. It's knowing I spend far too much of my evenings on the computer; it's knowing that I'm spending the majority of my time dealing with urgent and not important; it's knowing that I can't physically, mentally or emotionally cope with everything I've set up as 'have to do'.

It's being inspired by declutter blogs, finding the blogs of wonderful women who speak to the issues of my heart, who care about the things I care about, who struggle with the things I struggle with. It's recognising the I want to spend more time being happy and less time being worried; it's erasing 'should' and 'have to' from my vocabulary.

It's learning to be kind to myself, to love myself, to recite love letters to my body every night as I towel off from my shower, to make time to relax, time to sit, time to breathe, time to be. It's finding silence, finding the moment, finding me.

It's finally, finally, finally, being set free from everyone else expectations, real, imagined, whatever. It's learning to see how I measure up to my own expectations, my real, personal, own ones, not the ones that life has forced onto me. It's laughing more, smiling more, running more, even though I get sweaty and bright red and the ungainly bits of me bounce. After all, sweat is the skin's best cleanser, right?

Most of all, it's learning about what makes me me. I'm quitting writing because I need silence, this kind of silence, and at the moment my world is full of words from first-breath to last-breath, and I can't hear who I am through the noise.

It's not a break, because that implies a specific intent to return. But it's not necessarily forever-quitting. I love stories, I live stories, I breathe stories. I may be back. But if I am, it will be because I've remembered how to love writing - and not because I need yet another way to measure my worth in terms of thing done, quantity acheive, how quickly I can master something.

I was scared to quit for so long, because my house is littered with 'Amy projects', things started and incomplete after the first fervour of passion has died away. But it has finally occurred to me that all things in life are not equal. I've never quit things to do with my work, my family, my God. So if I start hobbies and drop them much like college boys change their underwear, SO REALLY WHAT? All it means is that I'm creative, doncha know? O:) :D

So. I'm still going to be blogging, but it won't be here, because I won't be blogging about writing and there's bound to be a whole truckload of TMI. If you're interested in following me to my new home, there's contact tab just up there ^ on the blog. Shoot me something - email, tweet, FB, whatevs - and let me know, and I'll give you the address.

Otherwise, thank you. Thank you for sticking it out with me this long, for watching me mature and grow in my writing - and my life. Thank you, because even though I don't know most of you, it's amazing to know that there are people out there reading what I'm writing, that I'm not talking to a void. So thank you.

I have a few books that I collected to give away on here, so I'll do that before the end of the week. There is also one or two more posts already scheduled, so I'll let those post too. But other than that, this is it: the end of an era. I'm going to wave goodbye, close the door, and leave you all to party. Last one out switch off the lights, m'kay?

~Amy.

To Tip The Scales of Justice and Mercy

The Small Person is in bed, again, at last, and I'm reading, again, but not books, because books can't hold my attention right now when I'm restless, and tired, and vaguely guilty for the fact that my house looks like it's lived-in and there are toys in the corner and folding on the lounge and unfinished paperwork on the table and dishes in the kitchen, though all the non-dishwasher dishes are clean and really I just need to unstack and stack. There's a basket of wet laundry waiting to be hung out on the line like flags, colourful flags that symbolise everything we are and have been, because we wear our clothes every day and they make us, and we make them, the caterpillar suit that belongs to Small Person that is my favourite, the shirt I should have thrown out months ago but that I love, the sheets that my husband and I bought together, lie in together, change together.

All of this is calling to me, but I'm sitting here reading, and my soul is full. I'm reading about courage, and hope, and change; I'm reading about things that outrage me, things that try to excuse themselves saying they 'didn't mean' to be offensive, and so therefore aren't - to which I silently, furiously, blood-boilingly disagree, because when you are the powerful one, you don't get to define what offends those in less powerful positions. And I'm reading about love, and life, and wanting to uproot everything you are and have and just get out, change, do something different because what you're living is so empty, so small, so nothing.

I, too, was raised under the unconscious message that bigger is better, that more is more, and I'm not talking about the world, about acts of greed and selfishness and plastered billboards and enchanting lights and beautiful people with beautiful drinks and cars that change your life and computers that sing and dance and long slim legs and long thick hair and sparkling eyes and full breasts in bikinis and clear skin and stuff and things and more-more-more. I'm not talking about that.

I'm talking about other things, unselfish things, things that help and heal and minister. Things that change the world, that can only BE big because what can small do against a world of greed, a world of pain and hurt and envy and pride, large gaps getting larger and privilege and wealth and so much poverty that I never, ever see. I'm sheltered, spoiled, I don't even KNOW anyone who qualifies as poor, and we're not rich and we have bills but we also have a car, and a motorbike, and a house and new furniture, a dishwasher for Mothers' Day and fishing rods for Christmas, thousands of dollars of books and a flat-screen TV, and how dare we think that we need stuff in a world where people die so easily at the end of a gun wielded in a bar brawl, in front of their wife, with two small children at home?

And I'm doing nothing, or so it seems, because we're told that the only things that count are BIG, that if you're not serving overseas it doesn't matter, that soup kitchens and street alleys are the only places you can make a difference, that unless you're fighting to stay alive with everything you have your perspective isn't valid, doesn't count.

And I'm thinking all this because of what I'm reading, because the woman whose blog I'm reading has felt all this and I do too, and it's guilt, and it's more guilt, and I am so. sick. of guilt. Guilt is poison, a spider bite in the vegetable garden, a snake curled in the blankets of your bed, a fire-ant sting at a lavish summer picnic, ready to flood your senses without provocation, devouring, destroying, souring the taste of the cherries because cherries are expensive, and out of season, and you shouldn't be eating them because the cost to ship them here from America ought to be prohibitive, and people in the world are dying from lack of sustenance and you're eating things that cost a year's worth of food for these people, and you're enjoying it, and you must be perverse.

Sometimes, even big things aren't enough.

But I'm reading, reading, feeling and still reading, and a sentence makes me pause. In all of this, the quiet reminder that even if we don't feel like they do, the small things count, because we're not in this world to fix it, it's broken, it's crumbled, and one day maybe we will rebuild but for now there are just as many working against as there are working for and really, ultimately, there's nothing we can do. One day it will all be gone and we'll start over with everyone, everyone, who wants to see that, regardless of race colour creed size shape gender age. We will all be there, and then it will be fixed.

But now, here, we're not fixing things, no one can do that, we just can't, we're fighting against powers and principalities not of this world, and here, on Earth, it's a losing battle, though ultimately it's won. But I'm reading, and I know: that doesn't mean that what we do doesn't count. It's like the starfish, which has been retold so often it's cliche, but it matters, it still matters even if you've heard the story a thousand times, just like what we do. We do it so often, all that small stuff, that it becomes cliche, and we're inured to it, and we forget that it still matters, that even though we've never seen a smile of ours make a difference, that doesn't mean it doesn't. That giving a few dollars here and there still helps, even if it's boring, even if it's tiny, even if it's 'done'.

And I'm reading, and I find the thing I didn't realise I was looking for, the sentence that gives me hope. We're not here to fix things, we can't, it's too much. Instead, all we need to do it tip the scales. We're striving for justice, for mercy, at least I am, it's what I burn to do with everything that I am, every time I read something that makes my blood boil it's because I hate, I hate injustice and I hate unfairness and I hate that there are people in this world that think that privilege is okay, that power over others is God-given, that discrimination is alright. I long for justice; I ache for mercy. And in the end, that is what we are to do, all we are to do, everything we are to do: to tip the scales in their favour.

And I read this, and I remember: it only takes a grain of rice to tip the scales in the end. We don't need 'big', or loud, or bright or shiny or dazzley; we just need. Everything tips the balance, one way or the other.

Litlinks Speech

Don't forget to enter the contest to win a copy of Michelle Davidson Argyle's awesome debut, Monarch.

Have finally managed to get my hands on the recording of the speech I gave earlier in the year at the Litlinks 2010 Awards Ceremony. Hurrah! The Litlinks contest is an annual contest in the ACT whereby schools submit a handful of their students' best stories for the year. The top x stories in the state are then selected and published in an anthology, and winners in both the junior and senior categories receive prizes. It's a lovely initiative that makes the whole concept of writing and publishing more accessible to students, and I was tickled pink to be invited to speak.

I was invited in my capacity as both an English teacher and a short story author, and I gave the below after reading out my flash fic Forget. Enjoy ;)

Back When I Was REALLY Bad

Image from Stock Xchange
I learned to play piano so long ago that I don’t really remember struggling to match black dots on lines to white keys on the instrument. Same with riding a bicycle – although I DO remember a particular wattle tree at the turn of the street I got a little too friendly with on one of my very first expeditions.

I don’t remember being an only child, even though I was four and a half when the next sibling was born. I don’t remember learning to read, and I DO clearly remember correcting the reading of students in the year above me when I was in year three (and yes, I was a miniature Hermione in primary school, which in Australia is Kindy to year six).

I don’t remember learning to hold a pencil and form letters.

I DO, however, remember very clearly learning how to write. Mostly because I’m still learning :P but also because in comparison to these other things, it’s more recent. And while on the one hand it’s frustrating to look at authors who are REALLY good and go – oh my gosh, I’ll never be that good, why am I even bothering? – on the other hand, it’s also kind of cool to be able to look back on how far I’ve travelled in the last few years.

And believe me, I have TRAVELLED, and thank goodness. Cause you know, some of that early stuff was really, genuinely terrible.

I have a subfolder in my writing folder called ‘The Graveyard’, where ideas go to die. I actually tend to use it as more of a flexible dead zone, though, because things can always be resurrected as zombies >:) So in actual fact, it’s all the stories I’m not working on right now (because if I have all the folders out and visible, the Brain panics because OH NOES, ALL THE OPTIONS!!! *dies of indecision*).

BUT. In The Graveyard, I have another subfolder: Beyond Resurrection. And this, my friendlies, is where the true horrors of the graveyard lie. Sure, in other graves there are part-bodies and bodies with heads where their legs should be and bodies that never made it off the operating table and bodies that have been in train wrecks and bodies that lack hearts and all manner of other gruesome story stuff, but they’re not the horrors. The horrors are the one that are so truly DREADFUL that you don’t ever actually WANT them to come back to life.

Like the story I wrote as part of my masters degree for an archaeology course, which made it blatantly clear that I ought never, ever, EVER try to write historical fiction again. Or the story that was essentially just me in character form, angsting that I didn’t know what to write. Or the flash fic that was just a bad excuse to tell a joke that’s funny in real life, but from which I learned that stories and jokes are actually (shock!) different genres.

Look, honestly? Some of them are so bad that I don’t even have them on my USB stick which is my LIFE when it comes to writing when I’m not on my home laptop (as now), so I can’t even post excerpts for you to be amused at.

But the funny thing is, even if I wanted to, there isn’t a good excerpt to post, because the problem wasn’t that I didn’t know how to write sentences. I could write sentences, and pretty good ones at that; I did have university training in both law and English, after all. No, it was the STORY I had problems with – creating conflict without melodrama, allowing room for the reader and not overwriting, avoiding forced-march plotting (something I still lapse into sometimes), creating a satisfying story arc.

Which makes it all the sweeter when stories come to me now, like two have in the last ten days, complete with beautiful story arcs and pacing and character motivation. And it helps me to have patience through the drudgery of marking – because I used to be that awful too ;)

The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater

October 2011, Scholastic
404 pages, Paperback
Review copy

Literary fantasy
Some brutal, horrible deaths

Summary from Scholastic:

It happens at the start of every November: the Scorpio Races. Riders attempt to keep hold of their water horses long enough to make it to the finish line. Some riders live. Others die.

At age nineteen, Sean Kendrick is the returning champion. He is a young man of few words, and if he has any fears, he keeps them buried deep, where no one else can see them.

Puck Connolly is different. She never meant to ride in the Scorpio Races. But fate hasn’t given her much of a chance. So she enters the competition — the first girl ever to do so. She is in no way prepared for what is going to happen.

Amy's Thoughts:

This is not a book to squee over; this is a book to quietly die for. I really, really don't know how to do this book justice in a review, so bear with me while I try.

The Scorpio Races is set on a small island in the UK, and the ocean permeates the story. More. This story IS the ocean. The ocean is vast and deep and dangerous and compelling, moody and tempestuous and utterly, utterly charming while at the same time pervaded by a dangerous undercurrent. Ocean, water, blue-brown-grey, gull crying in loneliness from the craggy cliffs and the wind whipping in your face - this is Maggie Stiefvater's The Scorpio Races.

It's quiet, and compelling, and oh, so utterly, utterly true. No, it's not a factual story, but what it says about people and life and grief and love - it's real. It's true.

I've never in my life hated an author before, not even when J.K. killed off beloved characters in her Harry Potter series. I cried, sure, just like I bawled my eyes out for the last three chapters of Marley and Me; but I've never hated an author for something they made happen in a book.

I hated Ms Stiefvater. At a certain point in the last quarter of The Scorpio Races, I wanted to throw it against a wall and scream in outrage and horror at the unfairness of it all. But I couldn't, because what she'd written was right; it was true. And I couldn't bring myself to not read the end, not see how it finished. And I'm so, so, so glad I did finish it, because the ending was worth waiting for, and is so bittersweetly beautiful that I'm literally crying again now remembering it.

I love this book. If you love human-animal connections, real romantic relationships that are more about mutual respect and understanding than mushiness, difficult decisions, wild places, bittersweet endings and of course, killer water horses, please: love this book too.

Final Conclusion:
This is the most heart-wrenching book I can ever remember reading. I want to carry it around with me forever to remind me of all that is beautiful and important in life - and what exactly love is.

Find Maggie Stiefvater on her website, and view the trailer for The scorpio Races here.

EXCITING CONTEST NEWS: I'm doing a joint giveaway with Nayuleska of Nayu's corner. To enter for your chance to win an ARC of The Scorpio Races, tell someone about this contest (FB, Twitter, your blog, in person, whatevs) and fill in this form. And no, we don't require proof that you told someone; we trust you. Although if you came up with a way to show us that you told someone in person, that would be kind of awesome. *imagines photos, videos, audios* *cackles*

The contest will close on SEPTEMBER 13 and is open INTERNATIONALLY. Oh, and the cover is not as pictured since it's an uncorrected proof ;)

That We May Ever Strive

I should probably point out that I've switched the blog schedule around. At this point, I'm planning to post Tuesdays and Fridays. As we can see, I totally rock at keeping this schedule already. *insert Look here* So, let's all pretend it's Friday. After all, Friday evening is much more exciting than Sunday evening - hello, weekend!! O:) To aid you in this endeavour, I shall send you all imagination cookies via carrier bat. Rah.

Anyway, in wading through my feedreader today, I came across this gem from Nathan Bransford:

Writing is an act of getting down on your hands and knees and pushing on the ground and hoping the world spins on a slightly different axis. It's the art of not taking life for granted and trying to make something, anything change.

Go read the post; it's well worth it :) Essentially, what Nathan posits is that writers are, by definition, strivers; if one were happy with the world, one wouldn't write a book, after all. The act of writing is the act of petitioning for change. Even the books that are written off as 'fluff' are all trying to elicit change, all acknowledging that there is something in the world that needs improving on, even if that's only that people are sad and need to be cheered up. Escapist fiction, by its very definition, posits that the world needs escaping from.

I've talked about striving before to say that sometimes, even when we don't hit our goals, it's the very act of striving that counts. I think writing is part of that 'sometimes'. It's all too easy to lose sight of why we write when faced with rules and guidelines and agents and publishers and thoughts about the 'end goal' of writing as publishing. But really, I'm not here, presenting myself to you as a writer, because I want to be published. Okay, sure, that's part of it, but publishing is not my end; it's a means to my end.

My end is change. I write because I'm a writer, and writers strive. They strive for change, and usually to improve the world in some way, if even only by highlighting the bad and providing no solution beyond 'humans must die'.

In the throes of my first ever total from-scratch rewrite, I'm really glad I stumbled on this piece of advice today. Because during the rewrite, it's so tempting to concentrate on the fact that I'm rewriting it to make it better for people to read - which is to say, publication, in whatever form. But really, that's not why I'm rewriting. I'm rewriting because the original story, while fun, and while it had its shining moments, was not the story I wanted to tell. It wasn't the change I wanted to address; it wasn't what I wanted to strive towards. And the words flow much more easily when I concentrate on the heart of my story.

I'm going to end this the same way Nathan Bransford did: with some words from the great F. Scott Fitzgerald, reminding us once more that it is the very act of striving that's important - not so much the thing one strives towards (although that has importance too, in determining our direction):

"that's no matter--tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And one fine morning — So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

For the Love of Critique Partners

On Friday last week, I hammered out 1667 words. It might not sound like a lot, but for me, these days, that’s a huge accomplishment. Plus it’s double quota, which goes some way towards making up for my week of not writing at camp ;) I finished off chapter 3 and wrote all of chapter 4 – albeit a short chapter four, slightly over half the length of chapters 2 and 3.

How was this magnificent feat accomplished, I hear you all asking breathlessly? (Work with me, here) Two words: Critique Partner. This time, it was the lovely Liana Brooks, but at various times and places it’s been a whole range of people. Li very kindly decided that she needed to read the next chapter of Jesscapades, and spent much of my afternoon bashing me over the head via gtalk to Get It Written.

So I did. Accountability, ftw! I wrote it, added in an almost-kiss that she gave me the idea for right as she was saying goodbye, and dutifully emailed the chapter off to her so she could read it while I slept. (yay time zones!)

Saturday morning I awoke to feedback. The chapter was okay - but tame. Lifeless. The MC was smarter than I was letting her be, as she'd already demonstrated in the previous three chapters.

I sighed.

And then I settled down to redo the chapter, better this time. In the end, I did; I showed Jess's examining of her new room-of-imprisonment, rather than skimming over it in a couple of sentences, I made her smarter, more active, let her plan a little - and then threw the MMC at her and watched her flounder. It was fun, and this time, there was a real kiss involved. And Liana gave it the seal of approval.

Why am I telling you all this? Because sometimes, even when publication is our eventual goal, we get lazy with ourselves. We rewrite and rewrite and rewrite, and get sick of rewriting, so we accept 'good enough' instead of pushing ourselves to write better, write harder. It's so easy, so tempting, to settle for good enough. But you know what? The reader can always tell.

So today - tonight - I'd like to give a shout out to Liana, for pushing me to write to my abilities, when all I really wanted to do was be lazy. I didn't want to hear that my chapter wasn't perfect, but she pushed me to write better, to write harder, and to write more honestly. Thanks, Li. I needed it.

This is the point at which you all have to now scurry off and say thanks to someone who's pushed you in your writing. *hint hint* But before you go, I'll leave you with two pictures of possibly the world's most comfortable footstool. And yes, the footstool put itself there with no input from me whatsoever. Best. Footstool. Ever.

Wake Up

I started this year determined to turn over a new leaf; to remember what I'm capable of achieving, to go after my dreams, and to trust. So far, actually, it's been pretty good :o) As sort of a tie in to this, over on Holly Lisle's blog she talked recently about these 'intention coins' that her daughter is making - essentially just a coin-sized disc with a few words stamped on them, a focus or a talisman for your year.

Holly asked what words we would stamp on an intention coin for 2011. Originally, I thought I might go for something like ‘just write’ (pretty self explanatory) or even ‘good enough’ to remind myself that I am. Other people suggested things like persevere, embrace, accept change, get moving, and persist.

But thinking deeper on it, I decided finally that I would write ‘Wake Up’. Last year was a horrible year full of brain fog and some depression and a lot of self doubt, and I feel like the creative, vibrant part of me slept through a lot of it. And a camp I’ve just been at for the last week had an amazing speaker who used the catch cry ‘wake up’ as a reminder to open your eyes and see what’s really around you, to remember what’s really important in life, to keep your priorities straight and to live each day with gratitude and grace - and trust.

So, wake up it is. What would your catch cry for 2011 be?

Revelations

I had a revelation the other day - January the first, in fact, which is a Very Good Day for revelations.

For too many months, now, I've struggled to find drive and motivation in my writing. Why, really, did I need to write? My job was more fun than I expected it to be, and although it's often hard work, it is, really, quite cushy: great students, great colleagues, great hours, decent pay. Not a single person I know would fault me if I decided I wanted to walk away from writing and throw my energies into teaching.

Ultimately, no one cares if I write or not. Not really. And writing is hard, and all kinds of scary in ways that non-writers will never comprehend.

But here's the revelation:

If no one cares whether I write or not, then no one cares if I write badly. If no one cares, then I am free to write the worst verbal suckage in existence, even in 'edits', as long as I am having fun.

And that, my friends, is insanely, delightfully, liberatingly, uncomplicatedly good.

Yay.

It's Time

Wow. Hi everyone! It's been so long, it feels kind of crazy to be back. It feels even crazier to like being back, if that makes sense. (It does. Honest.)

See, there was a time a couple of months ago where I actually thought about shutting this blog down. Life had gotten too much, writing wasn't happening, and I felt like a total phony blogging about writing when I wasn't actually writing. It's like the cliche of those people who wander around wearing tweed jackets with patched elbows moaning about their writers' block; we all know they're not really writers.

And for quite a while, I didn't really feel like one.

So. What's changed? To be honest, nothing much - except my perspective. Last year was full of crazy; new job, new house, new addition to the family (the four-footed variety), new having-to-deal-with-long-term-illness (not serious, but annoying). Lots of new, lots of crazy. And in the midst of all that, writing became just one more thing I had to do, one more thing that had to be checked off a very long and exhausting list.

Long-time reader will know that I've been keeping monthly writing statistics for a while now. For ages, this really worked for me. I could count off the days by the words, and see that I was making progress, and prove to myself that I could write as much in a year as a pro author could.

But last year, I fell prey to the numbers. I had a few months in a row that were very nearly my lowest months ever, well below half what I usually expect as my minimum. The numbers started going down, and so did my writerly self esteem. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this, I'd think. Maybe I'm just a hobby writer. Maybe I'm not tough enough to be pro; maybe I'm just not supposed to do it all.

Throughout all this, I was getting some excellent advice from friends and you guys, my awesome readers. The one thing that remained consistent about all the advice was that I needed to take a break, have some fun - only I kept protesting to everyone, I AM taking a break! What do you think three months straight below HALF my minimum is if it isn't a break?!

Yeah. It was me protesting and complaining and beating myself up about having a break, which, as any of you who have done this will know, isn't really a break. So in December, I had a real break. I still wrote when I felt like it, but I did something really, really scary. I put away the spreadsheet.

Eeep!!

Yes, it's true. I have NO IDEA how much I wrote in December. I have no record of what I worked on, or even when I worked, or how much. So! Terrifying!! In years to come my descendants will have no way to see that on the ninety-second of Thentember I wrote sixty-two words on "The Most Brilliant Story"! *swoon*

But (of course), it worked. I feel less stressed about the whole writing thing than I have in a long time, and although I'm still not talking to myself about going pro (even though I'm secretly plotting it where my head can't hear me O:) :D), I'm enjoying writing. And for the first time in a long time, I have The Itch.

It's a great feeling. And to celebrate, I'm going to dig out the edits I've been avoiding for the last three months and kick some draft.

How are YOU going to start your new year? :D

Before I Speak

I have spilled
words onto the page
like sugar granules or
high fructose corn syrup
just because I could

but now
is the hour to be silent.

Very soon
I will speak words
like rain
in torrents
life in a parched throat
each drop sweet and
wholesome and
crystal, crystal clear

but now
is the hour to be silent
to let moisture gather
on my dust
before I speak.

now be silent / gather dust / speak.

Intelligent People

You know, for a bunch of relatively intelligent people, we writers have to learn the same lessons over and over and over again a lot of times.

Or maybe that's just me.

Remember, those of you that were with me then, last September when I decided to take the pressure off myself and just write what I wanted when I wanted? And how that had an unexpected upturn in productivity?

Remember this year, my lamentations over how many months I've had 'terrible' word counts? Five months under my self-imposed 10k goal, one of which is the worst on record since July '07, only three months after I started keeping records. Yeah, I've been feeling pretty down on myself at time.

BUT!

Don't you love it when there's a but? I do :o)

BUT. I realised something yesterday, in preparing for Nano: my pre-Nano word count was only a hair shy of 120k for the year. That means if I make nano, I'll be at 170k. That's my second best year in the four I've kept records for!

Second best!

!

So, you know, when intelligent people say you should really slow down, take your time, and enjoy writing - they actually know what they're talking about. One day, I'll remember that.

Where's Your Focus?

After writing that post about finding my focus on Wednesday, I was poking around through my saved drafts and saw the title of this post. I dragged it out, and decided I should post it today and pretend it was all a part of the Great Plan, talking about focus twice in a row.

*ahem* Yes. I planned it. Hear me? You never heard me admit otherwise, m'kay? Good.

When I first reread Marked (previously Hunter Hunted) after writing it back in January, I realised something. This is what I said in my notes to myself for this post:

"I realised I don't want to write it [Marked] for the cool religion, 'cause I don't know anything about that. I want to write it for the character's journey. Likewise, what interests me with Jesscapades is not the tech and spyness, but the mystery of the glasses".

I stalled out writing Marked for a while, and I worked myself into impossible, implausible holes in Jesscapades. Why? Because I wasn't writing the story I thought I was writing.

With Marked, I thought I was writing a story about a cool tiger religion, where humans are sacred and violence against them is forbidden. With Jess, I thought I was writing a cool spy/assassin story with lots of tech and gadgets.

I was wrong, on both counts.

Marked is a story about a young tiger's battle with his religion; about someone learning to trust that they can't see all the eventual outcomes of their actions and that laws exist for a reason; and most of all, it's about someone realising that no one is ever to low to be loved, or too far gone to be redeemed. Even if you do happen to start a full-scale inter-species war. O:)

Jesscapades is a story about one girl's attempt to save her sister from herself; it's about learning that you have to let people make their own mistakes; it's about the mystery of magic and the workings of Fate.

Marked still has the cool tiger religion. Jess still has the gadgets. But neither of these is the driving force behind the story, and as I was writing I realised I didn't want it to be. It wasn't what I was interested in; it wasn't where my focus was. Both times, I stalled because I was trying to force the story to be what I thought it should be, not what I really and truly wanted it to be.

Knowing your focus before you writing - knowing why you want to write this story, what the point of it is for you - is just as important as figuring out what your focus is after you write, when you're editing.

I guess it's kind of like life, in a way: Is your focus what you think your life ought to be, what others think it ought to be, or is it what you want it to be, in your heart of hearts? Do you know what you want it to be? How do you know you've got there if you don't know where 'there' is?

And I guess that's like writing: How do you know what you think until you see what you say, after all? The joy, in the end, is in discovering.

Thank You To The Suits

As those that follow me on Twitter know, I'm in the Mire of Edits right now. Irritatingly, I've come to a point on all four of my current potential wips where I am stuck, for some reason or another. The only one for which I can see a clear way ahead is Hunter Hunted, the tiger novella, on which I am doing Holly Lisle's How To Revise Your Novel course.

Although I've made many attempts before, if I finish it, this will be the first time I've edited something longer than a short story; cheer-worthy, certainly, especially because I can see already how much better this story will be because of the edits - but also terrifying. Because the step after editing is submitting. Because actually editing something indicates that you plan to Do Something With It, whatever that something might be. It means you're serious.

Why is that scary? Because only serious people get rejected. If you're not serious, you can also fall back on that as the excuse for the rejection; Oh well, I didn't really try anyway. But of course, you can't succeed if you're not serious. You have to try if you want to win.

Thankfully, writing is very different in our day and age to what it once was; writing groups abound both online and in Real Life, making it easy to connect to other people that share your dreams, your fears, and your woes. Misery loves company, after all ;)

Nothing beats having a friend who's also a writer, who's at the same place you are, and who is determined to drag you on during your bad times, and who you drag one during their bad times. In an article I wrote for EdNoWriMo this year, I called these friends your Train-Proof Suits; the ones who protect you from the fear induced by the light at the end of the tunnel - because from this distance, trains and angels (or whatever the light is supposed to be) look identical.

This is part of what I sent to my Train-Proof Suit, Liana Brooks, yesterday:

It's just like all of a sudden I'm on the brink of being in a really new place with writing, one big step closer to professional - and I'm scared. I mean, this is what I want, it really is - but rejection is scary. Not doing means I can always sit here and think, 'Yes, I could have done that!' Doing means risking the chance that I'll die from rejection overload, and that I'll fail with a finality that can't be denied, and, and, and...

*sigh*

Nothing will solve this except me doing. So, I just need to do. One step at a time. And forget the scary eventual end of editing this novella, which is submitting for publication.

And this is her fantastic response:

It's going to be fine. We're going to get these stories sorted, polished, and sent off. The first one is the hardest, because you don't know what it will be like... Kinda like being pregnant I guess. Once you've started, you know it has to end. But the possibility of pain is scary and terrible and you wish you could stay pregnant forever. Until week 32 when you're ready to risk a preemie just to be done with the pregnancy. Going early is just as fatal with books as it is with children. And no one can stay pregnant forever.

*deep breath* *squeezes your hand* I'm right there with you. We'll do it. Together. It's going to be fine. Big smiles.

Big smiles indeed :) That is why you need your Suit, someone who's in it with you to the bitter end.

So to everyone out there who acts as a Suit for someone else: Thank you. You mean more than you'll ever know to the person you're Suiting for; they couldn't do it without you. Thank you.

Slow Down

I was originally going to title this post 'A New Cure For Writers' Block'. But really, it's not a new cure, for either the world in general, or myself. You've heard me talk about it before; the cure is simple: listen to your characters.

But it occurs to me that the principle involved has so many more applications, and can be summed up in just one word: listen.

Most of us are not so crash hot at the concept of listening. The fact that it's a primary skill taught in relationship seminars speaks to this point. Sure, we hear other people talking, and we can repeat back a rough idea of what they've said, and we can even respond appropriately, but how often do we actually listen?

Listening is hard. It requires focussing completely on the speaker, clearing your mind of everything but what they're trying to convey. No wandering off onto tangents of your own, no pondering what you're going to say next as soon as they finish speaking; just listening.

One of the primary reasons we're so bad at listening is the kind of world we live in, where minute-long soundbites are six times too long and an article nearing a thousand words is more like an essay. We're used to doing ten things at once - we call it 'multi-tasking', and we're proud of it.

As I type, I'm also half-watching The Flintstones on tv, I'm chatting to my baby sister via gtalk, I'm discussing puppy care with my husband, looking up a timetable on the school intranet, and uploading photos to my webalbums. I also have my email inbox open, a short story I'm editing, the spreadsheet that reminds me I need to weigh the puppies, and a host of writing related articles to read. Oh yeah, and Twitter.

Is it any wonder, then, that we struggle to really listen?

I mean, seriously. I'm a writer. I know I need to listen to my characters. I know my characters should have personalities that are well-rounded and unique and individual, and that motivate all of their actions. I know this. I know that this requires listening to them, letting them be.

So why am I so bad at doing it? Why, every time I butt my head against another wall in my story, does it take me forever to remember to stop, breathe, relax, listen?

I think there's a clue in what I said about the kind of society we live in. Our lives are so fast paced, we're conditioned to believe that everything can happen at the click of a button or the speed of thought. I sit down to write, and I expect that the words will be there, waiting for me - and if they're not, I get restless, dissatisfied, think I'm doing something wrong.

I procrastinate, because I know it will take me fifteen minutes or so of concentrating on writing for things to start flowing each day, and fifteen minutes seems like a Really Long Time.

But here's the thing: Creativity takes time.

It takes time for ideas to filter through our mind, for connections to be made, ideas to be formed. It takes time for these things to consolidate, to shape themselves into more than ephemerality, to live.

It takes time.

So I need to remember to give it time. I need to slow down. In the scheme of things, fifteen minutes isn't that long; and it's certainly less time than the hours I can fritter away through procrastination otherwise.

Turning off the distractions doesn't help; if I'm not committed to sitting down and pushing through those fifteen minutes, I'll find other things to keep me occupied - dishes, dinner, tidying, puppies...

As writers, it's so tempting to look around and see how much progress other writers are making, and to let that get us down. I need to work faster, I need to work harder......

Well, maybe. But that's only going to happen if first, I slow down.

The Write Education

Brought to you by today's dose of randomness: Do I need an education to be a writer? An apparently straightforward question, but the answer is not quite so straightforward. The answer is, it depends on what you mean by an education. >:)

Education, according to google:

1) activities that impart knowledge or skill
2) knowledge acquired by learning and instruction

See, there's a school of thought that says that you can't be a Writer (TM) unless you have a degree in writing of some description. But there's also a school of thought that says that writing degrees churn out 'writers' who are better at analysing than writing, and talking about writing than actually doing it.

As with all arguments, there's something to be said for both sides. On the one hand, I learnt more about writing from joining a critique group and learning to give good critiques than I ever did from the university courses in creative writing that I did. The courses were too structured, too infrequent (one lecture and one workshop per week; not much time when spread over 25 people per workshop), too focussed on the theory for me to learn anything terribly practical.

Which is not to say I'm not glad I did the courses; I did learn things, to be sure (one of the maxims that hangs above my computer came from that class: Imagine precisely.), and I enjoyed the classes very much.

I just learned even more by getting my hands dirty and actually critting other people's work voraciously. Which, if you read the definitions of 'education' given above, still fits: critiquing was an activity that I did that imparted knowledge and skill - knowledge about what worked and when, and skills relating to how to employ that knowledge to make my own writing stronger. Nothing can substitute for actually writing when it comes to learning the art and craft of writing :D

On the other hand, you might not need a degree to be a writer, but there's one thing that a formal education can give you that most people don't learn elsewhere: critical thinking.

To be a truly great writer, you have to think about the world around you - about how it works, why it works, and most of all, where it goes wrong.

Some fortunate souls are born wise, but most of us have to learn wisdom along the way. I used to think my university studies didn't teach me much - but now I compare myself to the incredibly intelligent students that I'm teaching and I realise how far I actually have come. Learning to think critically erases naivety about the world, about people, and it helps to dig out the truth hiding underneath.

Would I have got there in the end? Probably, but it would have been a longer road filled with much more personal experience, and less learning from others' mistakes and experiences.

You don't need a degree in order to be a good writer, and you certainly don't need a degree in writing. What you do need, however, is the ability to think critically and for yourself. And that kind of education is available in myriad different ways. So yes, would-be writers: you do need an education. Just not the kind you expect.

Learning to Run

Today's post is late. Today's post was supposed to be yesterday's post. Yesterday's post was supposed to be about the year I had in 2009, about all the wonderful things I achieved and the ways in which I did them and what I learned from the doing.

I couldn't write that post yesterday.

I couldn't write that post today.

Instead, let me tell you about what I learned today.

I'm tired, you see. Bone-deep weary, exhausted by life. I'm at the end of a six-year stint at university, and I'm longing to crawl into a hole and hibernate until I feel like a normal human being again. Only I can't, because come January 25, I will officially be a teacher.

I'm teaching at school I've never been to before (except the front office for the interview), teaching books I've never read before, to people I've never met before, with colleagues I don't know at present from a bar of human-shaped soap.

I am, quite frankly, terrified.

I'm stressed and tired and terrified.

And I haven't been writing.

Oh sure, I picked up a pen a couple of times in December and - incredibly - hand wrote a bunch of stuff, but I'm not writing; I'm just... fiddling.

And a little, tiny, persistent part of me is wondering why I want to write. If I want to write. Because, donchano, this writing business is a hard thing, and it's stressful, and this voice insists that the only reason I want to write is for the supplementary income and hey buddy, if you're looking for income, there are easier ways to do it.

In short, I feel like giving up. I can't be bothered with anything much at the moment, let alone trying to ford a path across the raging torrent of the publishing industry.

But.

I feel different, the days I write. It does something to me, deep inside, that I can't explain. It makes me a better, happier person.

I need to write.

I don't want to write; I need to write.

Here's a theory: We give up because we're scared to fail. If we give up now, on our own terms, then we're the ones making the decision. We're the ones in control. It's us, all us - and so it isn't failure.

I'm scared about the new job. I'm scared about how I'll cope with it all - the workload, the culture, the staff. I'm scared mostly because it's all an unknown. If I knew what the workload would be, I could say confidently whether I would cope or not. I could make Plans. I could see where my free time might lie and know how much I could reasonably attempt to fit it.

I know nothing, except the limited experience I had on prac.

What if I commit to wanting to be a writer, and the necessary day job gets in the way, and there just isn't time? Time that I can make without dying of stress, that is, because technically, there is always time.

What if I decide this is what I want to do - and I can't?

What if I try - and fail?

So maybe, just maybe, this isn't me hating writing. Maybe this isn't about how tired I am, or how overwhelmed I feel. Maybe this is about me being afraid of commitment, not to a person, but to a goal.

I don't need goals I can't keep; I don't need more reasons to beat myself up.

BUT making no goals isn't the answer. Making Really Simple Easy Goals (TM) isn't the answer either. We're not in life to cruise; at least, I'm not. I'm here to become a better person, to learn more about myself and the world.

Maybe, just maybe, this is about me being scared to try, in case I fail.

And that, dear Readers, doesn't cut it.

So next week, I'll be back with my goals for 2010. I'm going to take some time to really think about them, to make sure that I achieve a balance between pushing myself forward and stretching myself to breaking point. And I'm going to commit.

Because, in the words of Natalie Whipple, there's no Game Over unless you put down the controller.

Er, Bye, October!

So, in all the fun and excitement of time-travelling last week, I realise now that I can do an October farewell! Huzzah!

...

What, you're not excited? Pah. Tough. :P

Sooo. In the glorious month of October, in which one relative had a heart attack, another surgery for a brain tumour which turned out to be cancer, another went missing and was found drowned, another whole circus were shouting death threats at each other, university was finished FOREVER, five interviews were undertaken and two jobs successfully attained (woot), a long weekend camp caused my feet to be cold and wet for three days straight and ingrained in me the desire to purchase some gumboots when they come back in season..... With all of that, what did I get up to writing-wise?

(Yes, I kid you not: all of that happened in October. o.O)

Apparently, writing is therapeutic: even with all of that rubbish going on, I managed to write a hair short of 16,000 words. Go me!

Here's the breakdown:

* 1825 on the Jesscapades rewrite, which is still mostly on hold because I know I don't have the skill I need to make this book what I want it to be yet;
* 1539 on Sanctuary, the YA fantasy; I've finally nailed the voice on this one, which is fantastic;
* 6704 on what is fondly known as 'the tiger novelette';
* Short stories from scratch now out on submission: The Cinnamon Shark (now called Calm) and Dear Santa;
* Short story from scratch, needs editing: Dragon Tuesday
* Plus various words here and there on the following shorts: Afterwards, "the velociraptor one", Rays of Time and Space, "the other Powers one".

What did I learn this month?

Mostly, that writing keeps me sane, that I write faster than I used to, that I don't need to beat myself up if I skip a day or two of writing because it'll balance out in the end. I only wrote 19 out of the 31 days in October, and I still pulled off an above average wordcount; this whole learning-to-lighten-up-on-myself thing is working really well :)

But here's the big thing I learned: I can, actually, be patient.

See, when you start writing you're filled with this obsessive drive to write-write-write, push-push-push, must-get-published, quick-quick-quick. Time matters, because even if it takes most people five to ten years to start earning 'real' money from their writing (ie, not the $5 you make from the occasional short story), so what? You're better than that, and you can do it faster!

Guess what?

Faster doesn't actually matter.

Yup, I wanna write. Yup, I am writing, and I'm writing and planning for publication and a career in writing. But I'm happy to take my time with it, and not rush it, and let my writing blossom as it needs to rather than forcing it into premature bloom that will fade rather than endure. I don't want to make the mistake that so many impatient new writers do, and send my work off before it's ready. I'll know when it's ready, when I'm ready, and I'm not yet, and I'm cool with that.

Phew. It's kinda nice not to be constantly beating up on myself for not pushing hard enough, you know? *grin* And I think my last two months' stats have shown that this shiny new relaxed attitude is actually better for my productivity than stressing over more-more-more.

I'll learn what I learn when I learn it. More than that is out of my control.

...This is all coming out ineloquently, and doesn't quite hit on what I mean precisely, but think of it like this: Act One has come to an end. Everybody, wave hello to Act Two in my writing life ;) :D

Do share: Anyone else have exciting (or boring, either way) revelations about their own writing this month? What did you all get up to? Speak to me!

And yes, I will go back and respond to all the comments I haven't responded to yet *blush* Sorry about that. O:)

Why Write?

Ta da!

*looks around, beaming, arms outstretched*

*notes looks of confusion*

What, you don't like my magic trick? What magic trick? What do you mean, what magic trick? I just beamed myself all the way from October to here! I totally skipped the first week of November! I time travelled!

What do you mean, you didn't?

*eyebrow* No, of course there weren't any posts for you last week, I skipped it. Time travelling, remember? Yes?

...No? *sigh*

Well, in that case, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you... Maybe with chocolate O:)

ANYWAY.

On to today's post!

Many months ago, before I had discovered the wonders of time travel, I wrote a post asking why we, as writers, indulge in the activity of writing that most people will agree is not entirely sane.

I mean, hello: We write things down because the voices in our heads tell us too.

If they were telling us to do anything but write, let's face it: we'd be in a mental institution.

Maybe we should retrain mentally ill people to write down what the voices say they should do, rather than to do it? Just a random idea there. And yes, a close relative died in a round about way of mental illness, so I'm allowed to say things like this :P

Ahem.

Writing. It's an insane pursuit, in an insane industry; and yet we do it. We do it because we love it; we love it because... why?

Why do you love writing?

If you haven't already, go read the post from February. I came to the conclusion then that of all the myriad reasons I write, the key ones are:

a) because it makes me happy;
b) because it provides entertainment both to me and others;
c) I can push boundaries, explore emotions; and because
d) I can explore foreign experiences and worlds.

But you know what I realised last week (in October that is, because I skipped the first week of November, remember)?

All of this can be summed up in one pretty little phrase. It's so simple, it's so real, and it strips away all pretenses of things like writing for fame or money or approval, all of which can become dangerous addictions that make the act of writing something that really is insane.

No.

I don't write for any of those reasons, although sure, they'd be a nice bonus.

Why do I write?

I write because it makes me a better person.



If you're interested in reading the full essay I wrote on this, you can! Right here.

And tell me again - why do you write? Is this the same reason you used to write, or has it developed?

Why Continue To Write?

So, you may or may not have noticed, but I’m slowly developing a trend on this blog for posting meatier, philosophical, more abstract posts on a Monday, more concrete posts on writing on a Wednesday, and fun stuff on a Friday.

I’m going to consolidate this a bit, because the next few Mondays I want to talk about something that’s come out of one of my university classes: what it means to write, and why I write. I touched on this subject once a while ago, but I never managed to reach a reason that seemed to me to be very satisfying.

Equipped with the thinking coming out of my uni class, I think that I now am.

So, let us begin: probably attacking the whole thing backwards, I want to look today at why I continue to write.

It is a fundamental fact that no one story can ever tell all there is to tell about the events it purports to describe. There will always be other aspects, other points of view, different places to begin, different places to end. When we write, we make decisions: What shall we put in? What shall we leave out? What is significant to what we’re trying to say or show? How do we know?
How readers read our text is a direct result of our decisions: if we neglect to mention that the main character’s hair is brown, some people may imagine it as blonde, or red – or blue. But does this matter? If yes, then we should probably amend the text to include that fact that the MC’s hair is brown.

What we choose to put in is important.

Equally important is what we choose to leave out.

Too often when we write, we leave things out without really thinking about them. We write from a certain point of view because that is the one that occurs to us; we choose the view of the world that will be presented because it ‘feels’ right. We write the story because that’s how the story works, without stopping to consider what the long-lasting impacts in the story world might be; how other characters might feel about the story; whether what we’re saying really does justice to the issue at the heart of it, or whether we’re over-simplifying.

Issues are complex. Life is complex. And I love writing because it allows me to ponder this. Okay, so the hero won the day and evil is vanquished – but what Mr Evil Dude’s family? He had parents, somewhere, presumably. How do they feel about this so-called hero, who just murdered their only son?

Okay, so Mr X murdered a guy, which almost by definition makes him a Bad Person. But what if he hadn’t? What if the guy had lived? What if it would have made the world a worse place, would have turned it inside out and made it chaos?

This goes even for stories which purport to subvert genres norms: Okay, so you’re writing about the bad guys. Why? What are you leaving out on the hero’s side of things?

What ‘s left out matters as much as what’s left in.

So why do I continue to write? Because no one story can ever say it all.

Why do you continue to write?