Any Whimsy

 After a week of not really writing anything or being at all productive, I churned out 16 pages of writing in one day.

After moping around for the day watching tv.

Anyways this feels sort of like deadlines and college so I'll take it.  It's hard to be ideally productive (6-10 pages a day) after working 8 hours.  So 16 pages in a week... meh.

But I'm making the push.  I'm at 128 pages now (TNR double spaced 1" margins... that always feels necessary to mention).

38,937 words.

Not quite halfway through, I think.  It's hard to tell.  I wrote eight chapters for school, and then chapter summaries to follow for a total of 24 chapters.  But I've squeezed in two additional chapters from the chapter summaries ... basically I had to stretch things out a little longer than I originally anticipated.  So it's hard to judge how far I'm in.

I'm really not sure how writing will go this week.  I'm going to Vegas Wednesday to Sunday on a business trip ... if I do any writing at all, I'm probably going to want to write about the trip.  Well, I ought to write about the trip, but I will want to write Linden.  We'll see how that goes, I'll have a six hour plane ride each way so plenty of time to do SOMETHING, but I feel like I'm usually not productive while travelling with the exception of the times I read Kushiel's Avatar on the plane ride to England and then again to Germany and back to England.

This weekend I intended to write a lot more than I did.

Here's my the track of my progress so far:

I ended the semester with 69 pages written (double spaced, TNR 12). 

I didn't really start writing until early September... unfortunately can't remember exactly when.  But this is my attempt to keep better track of my progress so I can see how my pace is... hopefully will encourage me to get more work done.

Right now I am currently at 113.

I got hung up researching things.  This happens every now and then.  For example, a few weeks ago, I was writing a scene where two characters were riding a horse.  And I had to figure out the logistics of it.  Instead of just writing something, and coming back later, I stopped in the middle of writing and spent about two hours researching and asking around.  

It totally kills any flow I had.

This weekend I was trying to calculate travel logistics... mileage, map scale... that type of thing.  I spent about two hours doing it yesterday and had to ask someone else for help.  (The timing of their journey was important).

Today, what was it?  Furniture.  18th Century furniture.

The thing is, I am terrible at searching for things.  It's a miracle that Wikipedia exists (although it definitely does not have all the answers).  It would be neat if I could hire someone to do my research for me.  Just ask one question, and boom, they're on it.  Have an answer immediately.  

For now I'm going to have to think up a strategy for what to do when these situations arise.  My plan for now is to try to write over it, write what I can but leave a note to research it later.  The problem is, with my procrastination, I end up putting it off - that's what happened with the map scale thing.  I had written in the story that they travel "X miles" and I would come in and fill the number later.  

The smartest thing to do would be research first.  But I don't realize what I need to know until I get there.

Wow. Visit down memory lane.

So I had to open up my Yahoo email in order to find my password for this account.  Yikes!  That's pretty bad.  And I had all these emails from FanFiction.Net.  If you check out my other LJ, you'll see that I was already feeling pretty nostalgic for the old days.  

Every now and then I feel this need to revisit old places I used to go to online, freshen them up and insist that I'll be more active.  For example, a few years ago I decided to revive my presence on FFN and become a Beta Reader!  what a great way to practice my editing skills, I thought.

And I didn't get any stories.

And so I completely forgot about it.  And I went off to England, never thinking for one moment that maybe I should change my status as a Beta Reader on FFN.  Then I tried to access Yahoo and FFN while I was over there, and for some reason neither site worked (probably something to do with the security controls at the place I was staying).

So I came home with a bunch of people asking me to read their stories.  I would have been thrilled, except that after going to England I had somehow acquired a life, and thus my internet life... died.  I simply had no time to do any of it, especially since the semester AFTER I came back, I was taking three writing classes, plus a ceramics class.  Artistically, creatively... I was pooped.

But now at work I am surrounded by blogs and it's making me miss my old life.

So I decided to update this whole thing.

Going to revamp it slightly.  Just start talking about the writing process in general, and see where that takes me.  I AM also maintaining a blog for work about how to make money blogging, but I'm not going to tell you the URL... at least, not yet.  Well, maybe if you ask.

But I also might talk a little bit about there on here.  This is going to be my writing live journal for all things writing related.

So just a quick little tidbit, nothing too major because I had planned on being in bed 30 minutes ago.

I am currently in the process of writing a fantasy novel called Linden.  I was writing it for my senior thesis project, and have decided to continue writing it.  Yay!   I'm having so much fun.  Last week I wrote almost every day from 8-11.  I came home and I HAD to write.  I tried to start this week off the same way, but by that time, I just felt exhausted from writing.

I was in this in between place.  I had this craving and urge to write, I had to do it.  It was that same desire I used to get when I was reading.  That feeling that you just CANNOT put the book down, you must find out what happens.  Only it was about writing.  Soooo maybe just a bit narcissistic?  But it meant I was having fun, so that's what counts.

I really miss my writing workshop group for my senior thesis project, though.  One of my favorite aspects of the creative writing program was the workshops.  I got to read all these interesting stories by my peers.  I really loved it.  Some people I think didn't like the workshops.  Well, I have to admit I was ALWAYS nervous when my piece was being discussed.  But the people I was with were so great at giving constructive feedback.  I never felt bad after being workshopped.  I felt excited, rejuvenated, ready to tackle the issues discussed and fix them.

But now I'm apprehensive about showing my work to anyone outside the group.  And I don't really talk to any of those people anymore, since I only ever saw them in my creative writing classes, and I'm too shy to ever take that step towards developing some kind of friendship or acquiantanceship or whatever, and I wish I could have but too late now, I suppose.  It's just that those people know the work, know where it came from and know the process that it went through.  And Linden is like my baby, and I only trust it with specific people who understand that.

I don't know what I'm going to do yet.  But I'll figure something out eventually.  For now I have to rely on myself, and hopefully just keep running through my head "Well what would the workshop say?" 

So that took a tangent I wasn't expecting.  I was going to write a little bit more about what I've learned about my writing process now (along the lines of how I work more with editing my piece... just spew something out and go back and rewrite and rewrite while constantly thinking about it in the back of my mind all day).  But I suppose I can something more in depth later.

So it's been practically two years. Within that time, I've gone to New Orleans, Peru, London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Cardiff (Wales), Bath, Oxford, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Stonehenge, Birmingham, Munich, Salzburg, Venice... I took a trainride through the Alps, I saw German castles: Linderhof, Neuschwannstein, Nymphenburg... I had lunch in Italy (possibly the best meal I've ever had). And all that was in Fall 2008 itself.

In the past two years, I've taken many creative writing classes at college. So mostly anything I write gets used for class, and I don't bother posting it here because I'm not too sure exactly what the rules are with that.

Also, I have taken Linden off of this LJ. Even though it was only viewable to friends, I just didn't want it on the internet anymore. For my senior writing project, I am doing a complete overhaul. Linden is getting a makeover, completely revamped. This has to do with my trip to Germany and the Alps, which greatly inspired me (particularly the Marienbrücke next to Neuschwannstein). Also after four years, I've learned a lot and personally feel as though my writing style and voice have improved, and thus Linden is being reborn. I already have rewritten the first 55 pages (TNR 12 double spaced, of course).

On a geeky note, it's really exciting for me because I have this huge excel spreadsheet with all this character information and everything, so I can maintain consistency. I love making lists in excel and charts and color coding it. It's so much easier for me visually.

Anyways, I just wanted to update and say the reason I haven't posted anything here was that it all went to class.

Sometimes I just want to write and write and write, as if by plowing through words and phrases and ideas, somehow I'll find something. Kind of like an archaeologist digs through dirts and rock to find lost civilizations. Maybe by writing I dig through my soul and someday I'll find some kind of answer...

In the heart of the African homeland
A little boy starves to death
We don’t see

In the midst of the African desert
A young girl is raped
We don’t see

In the heat of the African sun
The women walk for miles
For contaminated water
To drink
We don’t see

Our children cry because they can’t stay up all night
Or play their gameboy
Or sit in the front seat

In Africa the children cry because they need food
They’re sick
They’re dying

Who will make us see?




Make poverty history.

The room was empty when she entered – the chalkboard blank, the desks bare, and the walls eerily white. Silence bared down upon her until she felt it would be a struggle to speak. She slowly stepped through the aisles, eyes lingering on each empty desk. Empty chairs and empty tables… By nature, she glanced towards the door, eyes flurrying to the clock above. 12:01.

They would be outside, running across the lawn in exuberance – in freedom. They would fill the parking lot. Their last high school traffic jam.

Did it mean anything to them? Did they stop to puzzle what they would miss: running to class late, bragging about the A+, wreaking chaos during lunch and after school? Would they pause to catch a breath, and allow their minds to linger on what once was? Would they remember the feel of warm paper, fresh from the copier? The joy of having a substitute?

It seemed like just yesterday she had entered the school a nervous freshman: weary of upperclassmen, teachers, and grades. High school had been overwhelming and now – now it was a second home.

Today did not mark an ending; it was just the start! For eighteen years, the world had coddled them, trained them, tried its hardest to prepare them, but no amount of warning or anticipation could prevent the sudden leap into the ‘real’ world.

She suddenly felt claustrophobic and nervous; longing for a sense of home, an anchor, filled her. Fear drilled a hole into her soul that would not be filled for a long time. It almost felt as though she were being cast away.

Next fall, anxious freshman would fill the room. It would become theirs. They would take the old lockers, old homerooms. The school would move on as it always had, and though she may miss it, it would never again think of her.

Her fingers traced the edge of the desk. Her old desk – it showed no signs she’d ever been there. And then she wondered who had used it before her, whether they had cared at all. Should she care? Her friends would say no. They would laugh at her for being silly.

Once again she glanced towards the chalkboard. Black; so empty and clean.

“Blackboards should not be so clean,” she murmured, and slowly she made her way towards the front of the room.

She found a tiny piece of chalk on the floor – one the janitor must have missed. She picked it up, about to throw it out, and then paused.

The janitor saw her leave the room on his way in. He entered the room, uncertain, and immediately his eyes were drawn towards the one part of the room that was not empty – the one part that had meaning.

Cursive letters, very carefully drawn, scrawled out very neatly in white. The janitor glanced towards the door; the girl was gone, but nevertheless, he replied for the school –

“You’re welcome.”







Notes: I posted this on xanga October 12, 2004. I was a junior then. My only question to myself is --- how did I know???

There’s a monster inside me.

I try to keep her locked up. Wrists tied, ankles bound, thick tan rope wrapped row upon row down her shoulders, elbows, keeping her arms locked to her sides. She must not get free.

I chain her to the stone wall of the forbidden part of my mind. She lurks there, left to her own, gradually gathering strength and logic and emotion and hatred. Preparing for her war of self-destruction. I don’t see her behind the heavy wooden door of her dungeon. I don’t see her matted hair and her red eyes and her wicked grin.

I leave the keys under my heart and forget about them. They gather dust. The silver tarnishes and the dust sticks. Still it goes unnoticed.

Then one day, someone pushes my heart aside. They stumble over it in their distraction during a hurried email and leave behind the tarnished, dusty key. A spot gleams in the light.

It still fits in the lock. It can still twist – click – the door opens.

The monster has undone her chains. She gathers strength when she goes unnoticed.

Her rampage leaves behind salty trails and irritated cheeks. Her red eyes hypnotize me, inspire me, are lost upon me. They are my eyes, my red rimmed, veined eyes.

I caught her a few hours ago, but her destruction always leaves behind a messy trail of broken glass and stinging realization. My eyes will hurt for the rest of the night. My cheeks will sting when the steam rises from the shower water and caresses them.

But at least I know she is gone again, for now. Locked in her jail cell, biding her time.

In the meantime, I will find a better place to hide the key.

I wrote this last night. It was snowing.



~

First

He will always remember
the snow on her face
as she kissed him

the soft amber light
of her front porch
glowing behind her

her lashes brushing
his cheeks

warm lips
soft
gentle.

Her voice, her laugh
her soul
elude him

But

He will always remember
the snow on her face
as she kissed him

Outside the QuickChek on East River Street a small man was grappling with decision. His mind lost to a sea of rampant thoughts, he could not hear above the waves. He went for a walk.

The park was not far off so he turned down the streets towards that. His feet knew the way so he trusted them and walked on autopilot.

Meanwhile his mind was at a crossroad and he had no directions.

He replayed the conversation in his head.

‘I had an affair…’

Her lashes beat away tears and he couldn’t understand what she had to cry about.

‘I met this guy at the book store…’

In this mind an image of the self help aisle flashed in black and white.

‘Baby I didn’t mean to…’

Then he didn’t understand the word.

Mean.

She’s not mean.

Her hand on his shoulder. Blue eyes staring up at him.

‘Baby don’t leave me.’

How do you leave a ghost?

He pushed her hand away.

‘You’re not going to leave me?’

The color of doubt is blue; it is two shades lighter than loneliness.

‘Think of the children.’

And five shades lighter than the gray-tinted tones of desperation.

‘Don’t they need you?’

Here it was he left to get groceries.

He’d been gone four hours. He never went to supermarket. He just wandered. To the book store, to QuickChek, to the playground.

To his daughter.

She sat on a swing, looking dejected.

‘Seven year olds are not allowed alone at the park…’ he always told her.

Her feet dragged through woodchips.

He approached her.

She looked up at him with large brown eyes and she told him, “My rabbit ran away.”

She looked so sad.

“I can’t find her.”

He sat down next to her.

“I hate it when people go.”

I hate to leave.

He took her hand and said, “I’ll help you find it. Maybe Mommy knows.”

The color of compromise is gray.

But forgiveness is white.