It is March now. I continue to write. I harbor few notions of the outcome, and that's a good place to be. For now. I operate in a vacuum of delusion -- that I'll write something someone wants to read.
I've asked several people to read my draft. A few have finished. I've placed an obligation on them. I'm requesting their time. And in my life, time is very precious.
One reader wrote me a thank you note. I was incredibly humbled. I should be thanking her (which I did; a bottle of wine is forthcoming). A college buddy apologized for not having started sooner. She has two pre-schoolers, and she's a stay-at-home mom. Again, I had to thank her for even saying yes.
In the scheme, they are a sympathetic audience. Reading to be nice, and often, to satisfy their curiosity. It's a look inside me, bumps and soft spots. Artists, you are a special group of fragile hearts. May I live up to the inclusion.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
72 Hours Plus 4
It's pointless to want something as luxurious as time. I sneak in the writing. I think my manuscript could be fixed in a long weekend. Three days and four hours? My husband says I can estimate the time it takes to build his drawings with scary accuracy.
However, my 76 hours would mean no showering, very little sleep, shots of espresso, creaky joints and sporadic fits of shouting. I won't get the chance. I have to operate in sprints. Fifteen mintues here; a half hour there. I've filled a couple of spiral notebooks; they are more mobile, less conspicuous than a battery-hungry laptop.
When I open the screen, the groans within the household are nearly as deflating as knowing I'll never get that 76 hours.
If I write twice a day for 15 minutes each session, my revisions will be done: July 30. Insert fit of shouting.
However, my 76 hours would mean no showering, very little sleep, shots of espresso, creaky joints and sporadic fits of shouting. I won't get the chance. I have to operate in sprints. Fifteen mintues here; a half hour there. I've filled a couple of spiral notebooks; they are more mobile, less conspicuous than a battery-hungry laptop.
When I open the screen, the groans within the household are nearly as deflating as knowing I'll never get that 76 hours.
If I write twice a day for 15 minutes each session, my revisions will be done: July 30. Insert fit of shouting.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Love in Context
Emily Dickinson wrote a line about leaving your heart ajar for ecstasy. Pretty sure she wasn't talking simply about you-know-what.
I heard the full quote today and connected it to some issues rolling around in my head about writing romance. Characters in fiction need to live and breathe and feel and think vividly, and love plays a big factor. Love of self and of life and of the tangible, and in romance, the intangible.
A reader of mine asked me a difficult question about my female protagonist. Why did she fall in love with the male protagonist? Hard question when the attractive qualities and reasons seem obvious to me. I've had to sit quiet with that question for a while and ask myself the same. Why do we fall in love? What are the reasons a person tumbles into the emotion and attachment? Save me the science. I want the ethereal.
I heard the full quote today and connected it to some issues rolling around in my head about writing romance. Characters in fiction need to live and breathe and feel and think vividly, and love plays a big factor. Love of self and of life and of the tangible, and in romance, the intangible.
A reader of mine asked me a difficult question about my female protagonist. Why did she fall in love with the male protagonist? Hard question when the attractive qualities and reasons seem obvious to me. I've had to sit quiet with that question for a while and ask myself the same. Why do we fall in love? What are the reasons a person tumbles into the emotion and attachment? Save me the science. I want the ethereal.
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