100 words: First first first draft Saturday, May 31 2008 

100 words and writing , , , , thewritingspider 2:40 pm

A few years ago, I found a mailla folder with a small stack of neatly typed onionskin pages held together with a rusty little paperclip. The title reads “Caitlin’s Animal Farm” by Sara Duvall. I don’t mind telling you, Dear Reader, that this is one of the great unfinished works in late 20th century American literature. I wrote it circa 1989 and I am certain this is going to be one of Oprah’s book club picks very soon.

The general idea of the story is a bunch of kids are stranded on an island with no adult supervision. (Heard it before? Yes, well, mine’s DIFFERENT.) The narration is delivered via first-person point of view and consists almost entirely of descriptions of the other students. Caitlin, our heroine, is exceedingly smart and efficient in this time of distress, guiding her classmates to safety and observing the horror with the calm clarity of a person much older and wiser. Eleven pages illustrate for us Caitlin’s true leadership qualities as she divides tasks, makes plans, and doesn’t even sniffle at the prospect of life on a deserted island.

As I read over this, I’m sort of touched. This was me, twenty years ago, trying to be a writer. There’s a lot working here. But most of it is typical first writer junk. That’s a pen name up there and all the characters have names out of soap operas – Sebastion Kingsley, Milla Johannsen, Suzanne Beckwith, Stephanie Scott. There’s a LOT of telling-not-showing. Here’s a gem: “Both girls were very pretty, Stephanie more of the ditzy blonde and Suzanne more the artful dodger with a hint of femininity woven in.” HA. Brilliant.

I was obsessed with the class divide story and I was reading a lot of books featuring the poor kid/rich kid thing. Many of the kids in this piece are very well off but who is it that saves the day? Conscientious, hard-working Caitlin who doesn’t have money but makes up for it in common sense. 

I saved this because this is so much of what was going through my mind at this age. And because it’s my writing roots. It reminds me that writing isn’t just a passing fancy, it’s something I’ve been drawn to and compelled to do for at least two-thirds of my life.  I like to pull it out now and then, just to see how far I’ve come.    

 

This is not my beautiful job…. Thursday, May 29 2008 

Uncategorized , , thewritingspider 11:35 am

I have reached a Very Difficult Point at work. I like the work itself pretty well, I like the pay which is more than I’ve made before in my adult life. But this is not the team I signed up to work with. This is not what I wanted to happen. It is an exercise is dread every morning. In fact, It’s 7:30 am and I haven’t even eaten breakfast or taken a shower. Denial, anyone?

It could be that I’m just having a hard time *right now* and it will get better later. (Oh please God I hope so.) But I’ve been with this group for almost 6 months and it’s not getting better.

My problems stem from my history of enjoying something Work. PEOPLE. I’ve stayed in jobs I’ve outgrown just because I liked the people. I chose my job because of the boss and the group I would be working wth. In November I got moved to another team and it’s a whole new ball of earwax. These women are all friends. They go out together outside of work, they know each other’s business, they’re thick as theives. 

I’m having trouble coping with the fact that I cannot relate to ANY of the rest of the team on a personal level and to some extent, a professional one.  I just can’t afford to go out to dinner three nights a week and spend $75 on expensive eats and drinks at expensive restaurants in their neighborhoods. (Don’t see anybody wanting to eat at that hole-in-the-wall bar in MY hood…)

I spend 8 hours a day literally face to face with these people. (We don’t have offices or cubes…just open desks…in one bunch…like corporate sardines.) I feel that it would be in my best interests to be a TeamPlayer but I can’t connect really. Once I witnessed a 20-minute conversation on how it’s just really important to have someone else clean your house and I realized I’m out of my league. (I clean my own house…in fact, I kind of enjoy it…it makes me feel good in a way. I pay for my mortgage, I might as well take care of the house, right? I can’t say that to them. I get a look like I’ve got lobsters crawling out of my ears.)

It’s exhausting trying to smile and ask people about their new shoes or did they try that new restaurant on Third. You know what I want to talk about? Recycling. Charity work. Art. Books. Making the world a better place for more people than ME ME ME. I want someone to wait until I finish my sentence before they start talking about themselves again. I’m tired of hearing about the new SUV, the addition on the McMansion, and the prep school the kids go to. Yeah, maybe I’m a little green about not being so wealthy, but I want somebody to GET me on some level. And they don’t.

Honestly, it also hurts a lot that this feels frighteningly familiar. This is your average middle school clique on steroids. This is MY middle school clique on steroids. The same girls who were evil in fifth grade have grown up and are still harrassing me on the playground.

Husband has a very hard time with me being upset because he doesn’t understand at all. He says it’s normal to not like work, to not get along with your co-workers, etc etc. He tells me to just go do my job and get over it. Is it wrong to want to connect with one’s co-workers? Is that too much to ask?

I’m not cut out for corporate life.

I found a page online that lists ten things you can do to cope if you hate your job and I think I’m going to read that every day at work. Not publicly, of course. Maybe in the stairwell.

 

100 words: Writing a novel Wednesday, May 28 2008 

100 words and writing , , thewritingspider 11:13 am

The podcast I love, Mur Lafferty’s I Should Be Writing, talks a lot about just getting the work done. I love the interview with Neil Gaiman, one of my faves, when Mur says something like, “A lot of writers say they just can’t find the time to write.” And the ineffable Gaiman verbally shrugs when he goes, “Okay.” And then says what many other writers have said – along the lines of, “If you can’t find the time, or won’t, or whatever, maybe you shouldn’t be a writer. And that’s ok.” I cringe when I think of that because I do say I have a hard time finding time to write. I’d rather read or hang out with Husband, I guess.

But the real reason?

I’m afraid I’m not good enough so what’s the point?

On some level, I know I’m quite good enough. I’ve read the drivel out there and like a lot of writers or wannabe writers, I’ve indignantly said, “I could do better.” But the difference is…they did it, poorly perhaps, but they did it and I didn’t and it’s awfully difficult to be published with no manuscript.

I write this now in an effort to help myself understand what I’m doing and fix it. I am cutting down on the TV, which is fine, it’s just reruns now and we have DVR for the rest. I’m going to make more effort to go write instead of just rest of the bit I’ve already written. It helps to tell people that I’m writing something because then they ask me about it. Keeps me honest.

 

 

100 Words: The Kids are Alright…Aren’t They? Wednesday, May 28 2008 

100 words , , thewritingspider 2:28 am

A few weekends ago, I was sitting in our bedroom, reading, a pleasant breeze blowing through the balcony doors. The shouting started and I couldn’t tell where it was coming from or if it was angry shouting, so I went to the window overlooking the parking lot behind our condo. Turns out, our newish neighbor’s teenaged daughter and her boyfriend were having some kind of fight. I eased the sliding door open a little more to hear properly. (Yes, I was snooping, but a few months ago a woman was shot in our neighborhood and I was awakened by screaming shortly before the sirens drowned her out…I wanted to know if I should call the police or something.)

The boyfriend, a thin young man with long fluffy hair and glasses, sort of shuffled around, mumbling. The neighbor’s daughter, equally thin with long stringy dark hair and glasses of her own, was screaming at him. They got in the car and she screamed. She got out of the car and stormed across the parking lot. She screamed that he didn’t care and something about him ruining her hair and her entire day. And he apparently spilled her coke.

I went downstairs and told Husband who rolled his eyes. “Why do people do that?”

“What, scream and yell?”

“If someone doesn’t want to be with you, why get upset about it?”

That’s Husband for you.

Eventually, they got in the car together and drove off. Since then, I’ve witnessed one more screaming match, Husband’s seen one, and the woman who lives adjacent to the daughter and her father said they woke her up at 3:30 am one morning, screaming.

The father is apparently some kind of “sound guy” who works lots of odd hours and late nights. I don’t know if he knows what’s going on.

I keep chalking it up to teen angst. She seems to do most of the screaming while he hangs his head and paces, or smokes.  Screaming isn’t healthy in such large doses. But I wonder if we should say something to her dad…

 

100 words: Starting the work Sunday, May 18 2008 

Uncategorized , , , thewritingspider 3:53 am

Finally got Butt in Chair (BIC) today and got 2,398 words written in a story that I hope will eventually be a novel. When writers talk about their challenges, I know BIC is mine. I am resistant to carving the time out of the solid rock of my life.

Today,  I’m feeling good about the work I did and I think this will be a good way to start. I know the tough times are coming, but for now, we’re still in the honeymoon phase.

I believe in signs. And tonight, as I wrote the last few pages of the chapter I’m working on, I worked on a scene that involves a rain storm with thunder and lightning. Just as I neared the end, real thunder rolled across my real life sky, nearly as I typed the word “thunder” in my book world. I feel it was a good sign. Helped me get in the mood. 

 

100 Words: In My Tribe Friday, May 16 2008 

100 words , , thewritingspider 2:26 am

A few years ago, I heard a psychic talk about soul tribes. The concept, she said, is that before you’re born, your soul lives in a tribe of souls in the Great Beyond or Heaven or whatever you want to call it. You’re alike. You like the same stuff. Then you’re all flung to earth, born and spread out and far apart from each other, forced to make your way with new souls. 

It’s new age hookum, probably, but I cotton to this concept because it explains so much – why I seem to click with some people like we’ve known each other our whole lives. Why I don’t maybe fit in with my own family sometimes. Why I crave like-minded folks. And you’re the same way, I bet.

I work with a gaggle of people who are most assuredly definitely without question not in my tribe. Walking out of work today, I thought about how different I am from these people and how much that scared me. It made me feel lonely. I spend 8 hours a day at work and that seems like an awful long time to spend with people who I have nothing in common with except the work we do. It makes getting that work done so much more difficult.

Husband insists that this is the way for 99% of workplaces. “You’re at work, you don’t have to like them.” True. But I am not that kind of person! I like harmony. I like peace. I like to feel that my back doesn’t have a giant target painted on it the minute I step into my office.

 

 

 

100 Words: Travel and anxiety Tuesday, May 13 2008 

100 words and Anxiety and Travel , , thewritingspider 11:02 pm

In the seventh grade, I went to spend the night at my friend Robin’s house. I’d been to Robin’s lots of times. I liked her kooky down-to-earth family, her mom’s crazy red hair. It was the first house I was in that had that little embroidered adage on the wall ”Use it up, wear it out, make it do, do without.”

Just before dinner we were in the family room and the feeling began to well up in me. I can only explain at the time there was something wrong with the light in the den. It made me uneasy. I have to go home. I have to go home right now. Now. NOW. I’d never been homesick before but it didn’t make sense – seventh grade, you’re kind of over that right? Or at least you’d know you’re the homesick type. I told Robin’s mom I felt sick and my dad came to pick me up. My parents chalked it up to homesickness but that just didn’t feel right.

I’ve always been an anxious person. A worrier. Intense. But wasn’t until years later that I figured it out after reading and putting the pieces together. Panic attacks. Anxiety. The completely illogical and overwhelming onslaught of fear with no discernable source. For me, panic attacks look like homesickness or even just whininess in the morning. I cry. I can’t tell you what’s wrong but something is defnitely WRONG. I can tell you all the times it’s happened. Junior year on vacation with my best friend’s family when I hid in the basement every morning and bawled. The first two weeks of college. The first week of my trip to England.

If you don’t have panic attacks you cannot possibly imagine what it’s like. It looks different for everyone. I know a guy who will plan trips, need to travel for work, get to the airport and turn around at the gate. I know a woman who says time speeds up for her during her anxiety. I can’t tell you why it happens to me, but I can tell you what helps me get through it.

It’s always connected to travel.  If you know me, you might be surprised because I travel like someone who doesn’t have this problem.  Or you might remember that time I was so upset and you thought I was homesick, or crazy, or tired. Or all three.

In grad school, I went to see a counselor about it. “I have panic attacks when I travel. I’m going to India in four months and I don’t want this to happen.”

“Well, there are some really good medications available right now, ” she said.

That was the last time I saw her. Don’t misunderstand – I believe in better living through chemicals. But I wanted to do this myself.

So I flew to the other side of the world by myself to my friend’s wedding.  

Nothing happened. Except that I got to go to India and see my friend get married.

I read up on it. Without getting too technicaly, you can actually short circuit your body’s panic response. I was on the plane on the way to Amsterdam, waiting for it. “Where is the panic? Where is the crying?” I thought. It never came. Zap. No panic.

I still get anxious. Husband understands when I say, “I feel out of sorts.” But I have not had one of the ferocious exhausting attacks like those first ones in a long while. During one of the worst panic attacks, I was in a hostel in Scotland. Unable to sleep, anxiety wrapped around me, I sat in the lobby and read the books other travelers had left behind. “Feel the fear and do it anyway,” one title said. That’s what I do. I know this happens. I know how to deal with it. And it’s not going to stop me from going to British Columbia next week, or to Italy some day when I can afford it.

 

100 words: Getting up early and procrastination Monday, May 12 2008 

100 words and Sleeping , , thewritingspider 12:09 pm

I used to be such a good little morning person. I’d get up at 5 with my dad and he’d make me breakfast. Then I watched cartoons. I’ve always been the sort of person who would rather do the hard work first, the things I’m not as excited about doing. So in college on the weekends I’d get up early, study until noon then have the rest of the day to enjoy as I wished.

I think the decline of my morning person cred started with my husband. In fact, I fully blame him. I never used the snooze button until we started sharing an alarm clock and he did. Husband is a reckless and pervasive user of the snooze button, a habit which I have unfortunately picked up. I used to be the kind of person who would stand incredulously over the snooze button pusher while he (or she, in the case of my college roommate) and loudly wonder why they can’t just set the alarm for the time they want to get up then GET UP when it goes off.

How the mighty have fallen.

Writers with busy lives often say they get up an hour earlier to write in the morning. They make it sound so easy. So why can’t I do this anymore? Get up early?

I think part of my problem is that I don’t really like what I have to do when I get up. I go to a job that I don’t love with people who are not dear and it makes me want to stay in bed as long as possible. I also stay up later at night because I somehow feel that if I don’t go to sleep, I won’t have to wake up and go to work.

 

 

100 words #7: Starting a novel, the Inner Editor Sunday, May 11 2008 

100 words and writing , , , thewritingspider 6:50 pm

Following some of Holly Lisle’s advice, I started to outline what I’d like to work on in a novel. I sat down to think about characters, setting, and a vague idea of a plot. I ended up doodling all over some paper, coming up with some stuff, and then having to walk away for a bit – my Inner Editor walked in and started yakking.

“This is such a dumb idea.”

“Oh, like that’s sooooo original.”

“I hate you. And I think you’re fat.”*

“Your writing teachers would be ASHAMED. They’re all going to quit teaching if they get wind of this mess of nonsense.”

My Inner Editor’s thinks she’s so hot. She’s like Gwenyth Paltrow, thinking she’s better than everybody else. I’ve been warned about this. Somehow, I never encountered the Inner Editor as I was writing short fiction or articles or essays. But I will persevere.

In the meantime, I keep running across things for my story. I’m building something so I need the raw materials. It’s amazing how just an idea, just a little thread can wind itself into a ball of yarn if you keep collecting bits here and there. I found some ideas for characters in a news story on CNN. I found accessories for my protagonist in my own house.

 *This is a little inside joke.

 

100 Words: Starting a Novel Saturday, May 10 2008 

100 words and writing , , , thewritingspider 12:35 pm

I’ve been bouncing an idea for a novel around for a while. I think I’m ready to start. EEP. Now I’ve said it so I have to do it, right? I’ve been kicking it around for more than a year and it wasn’t until the last couple of weeks that I’ve started to WANT to write it. I’ve heard many artists talk about how a story or a subject will haunt them until they paint/write/sing about it. I do find that characters will follow me around poking me in the back, asking me to write their story. That’s great, except then I have to develop a great plot to go with my character. I’m a character-driven writer, not a plot-driven one. 

Since I’m overly prepared for things, I’m going to write an outline, get to know the world I’m writing about, and develop my characters first. This week, I’ve looked around for how other people have written novels. I’ve been reading some stuff at hollylisle.com and hope to start some preliminary work this weekend since it’s too wet to work in the yard.

 I feel that now I’ve written it down, I’ve started the commitment to write this thing. We’ll see. I always said I’d never be a novelist – short stories are much less commitment. But I feel the story I want to tell will be much larger than a short story.

 

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