A Day in the Life of NaNoWriMo

Note: A little while ago, Cait @ Paper Fury suggested I write a “day in the life of NaNo” post. This is my attempt to provide a completely factual, not at all embellished account. Ahem. (It’s written in second person, because at this point in the month, I am insane and don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Not that I ever know what I’m doing.) 

The sound of your alarm clock bursts through your dreams like an unwanted character in a story that was going so well for you until this moment. For several seconds, you deny the existence of this alarm, until you realize this is no way to live. The protagonist in your novel would never be so lazy. You need to be more like her, or you else will turn into a potato. And that is also no way to live. 

Eventually, you come to terms with the fact that it’s morning (see also, the final stage of grief), and pull yourself out of bed. You hear a sound in the other room, a sort of muted screaming, and remember two things: a) it’s NaNoWriMo, and b) the muse fairies don’t like it when you put off feeding them. You leap out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins like caffeine, and zombie-shuffle as quickly as you can to the stash of chocolate-covered coffee beans on the counter. As the muse fairies strain against their cage, you jam your hands into the un-yielding leather of your third set of gloves this month. The chewed remains of the other two pairs lie abandoned in the far corner of the room, a testament to the dangers you are willing to endure, all in the name of NaNoWriMo. 

After you finish feeding your muse fairies, you rush to the shower to wash yourself. This is a good place for you. You don’t have to hear the crunching of the coffee beans, like breaking bones. You don’t have to hear the shrieks as the fairies fight each other for more than their fair share. The shower is quiet. The shower is peaceful. The shower is safe. You can brainstorm here, under the rushing water. You can think or not think, as you so please. No one will judge you or try to chew off your toes. 

But eventually, you have to step out of the warm shower into the cold air, and it is like crossing that painful bridge between sleeping and wakefulness all over again. Then it’s time for you to eat. You toast your bagel and scoot to the far end of the counter, away from the muse fairies, all slouched against the bars, holding their distended little stomaches and wiping what looks like blood off their mouths. You notice with a sinking sensation that the number has fallen again this morning. One is missing. You were warned that this would happen, that muse fairies were not exactly….nice beings. But still, actually seeing the evidence of this for yourself has turned out to be more jarring than you had expected. And considering the number you have lost already and the remaining days in November, you are starting to worry you will run out of fairies too soon. 

At least, you tell yourself, at least the number is not dwindling because they are escaping again. Your toes ache just thinking about it. 

With this in mind, you pull out your laptop and begin typing away at your story, watching the fairies out of the corner of your eye. After you’ve written a few words, to give your mind something to think about, you brew your pot of coffee and don those stiff gloves once more. It’s time to harvest the muse fairy eggs. They look so tiny, so innocent in the palm of your hand, like drops of metallic paint. You don’t want to think about what’s inside. 

Steeling yourself, you slip them into the pot of coffee and watch them dissolve as you wonder with a sinking feeling if the pursuit of success has turned you cold to the harsh realities of the world. Shaking your head, you refuse to allow yourself to dwell on this. Instead, you grab your favorite mug, pour yourself a cup, add the creamer, and sit down to breathe in the scent of nostalgia and words. And you write. Because this is what makes you feel alive. This is what helps you forget the things you regret and the people who want to kill you. 

(You have a passing thought that maybe you are getting a little too into this story. But you stow that thought away in your mind closet with all the other thoughts you do not have time for this November.) 

After an hour or so of concentrated writing, your fingers clicking to the beat of whatever song happens to be playing in your ears, you rise to stretch your legs and get the blood flowing. As you wander about the kitchen, studiously avoiding looking at the fairies, you notice the floor should be swept. The dishes have piled up. The cat waits at the door, her eyes big with the need for attention. All these things cluster at your consciousness, nibbling away at your prospective word count, threatening you with heaps of guilt should you choose to ignore them. So you break and ply the broom, load the washer, pet the tiny animal, and dispose of the disemboweled mouse it has gifted you, again. 

While you perform these mindless tasks, you tell yourself you could be thinking about your story. Instead you find yourself thinking about anything but. You find yourself thinking about movies you want to watch, the responsibilities you have let slide, the books you own but have not read. You get the sudden urge to walk the dog, to admire the foliage, to breathe the fresh air, and most of all, to avoid, avoid avoid the weight of putting worlds on paper. Because it hurts someplace deep to take the kitchen knife of your mind and slice open the skin of your consciousness so you can explain yourself in metaphors and melodrama. Already you can read the reviews—too trite, too sappy, too shallow, too vague, too not-what-I-wanted, too never-enough. And the quitter hiding in your heart is telling you it only wants to spare you future pain by calling it a day now, once and for all. 

Instead, you drag yourself back to your chair, pull your coffee cup close, breathe in the steam, and write. Word after word. Line after line. Building on each other, towering, toppling, tracing the outermost reaches of your imagination and finding there are no limits. Somehow you convince yourself to forget, for this moment, this day, this month, that the stories you are crafting are ugly, wasteful creatures, worth printing only to shred. Somehow you write another thousand words, and another thousand, and another, intertwined with stolen moments on Facebook, on Twitter, on the NaNo forums, on the places that handle your mind with novocaine fingers. 

At some point along the way, your eyelids begin to droop worse than ever. Lunch has passed. A long lapse in the day, a long lapse in judgement, an hour, sometimes two, of nothing but you and the screen, you and the show you are watching, you and the story you bury yourself in to escape the story you must bury yourself in. The coffee never works to make you feel awake, but now it feels like it’s having a negative effect, as though every drop of caffeine sucks the life out of you and gifts it to some other creature. And the muse fairies haven’t laid more eggs today. They are odd little creatures like that. Sometimes they don’t lay eggs for days. Sometimes they lay a new batch every hour. No matter how often you let them gorge themselves on those chocolate covered coffee beans, they decide the flow of inspiration. 

You slide out of your chair and pace around the apartment, knowing you could read on the porch swing and get some fresh air, a chance to bond with the cat while refocusing your mind. But you are so tired. All your body wants is to shamble around mindlessly until the guilt once more builds strong enough to drive you back to your chair and your life. You tell yourself tomorrow will be kinder, because tomorrow you will be going into town with your sister. You will work your job while she works hers in the safety of the church that has become an extension of your ingrown comfort zone. You find focus there, friendship, fewer distractions. 

Eventually your sister gets home from work, and you sit together, eat together, watch shows together. Write together. She doesn’t help you feed the muse fairies because she doesn’t like creatures with sharp teeth. She has her own menagerie of muse butterflies in her office, but you don’t ask about those. Every writer is different. Every writer has their own private source of inspiration. During November, it helps not to compare. You and your sister will not share the same discouragements, but you remind yourself that you also won’t share the same encouragements. That is okay. 

When you finally can find no more words to pull from your brain, no more thoughts to scribble out with your fingertips on keys, you go to bed, drained but content, eager for another day, another autumn moment to paste on the scrapbook of your hard drive. And you drift off to sleep, listening to the scritch of muse fairy teeth on metal. 

Well, that’s it for today, little coffee beans. What about you? How does a typical NaNo day look for you? What do you do for inspiration/procrastination?

NaNoWriMo Prep #3 // A Cautionary Tale

This NaNoWriMo, as you strive to write however many thousands of words you hope to manage, it helps to remember: 

You can edit later. 

I have mentioned this in previous posts, I am sure, but it bears repeating, so I’m going to say it again. And again. And again. Until it sticks in your skull as well as mine. 

You can edit later. 

I know there are authors who find they need to edit their novels as they go (Gail Carson Levine, for instance), so I am not saying ABSOLUTELY, UNEQUIVOCALLY DO NOT EDIT AS YOU WRITE. But I am saying pause. I am saying consider. NaNoWriMo, at its core, is meant to help you break free from writing ruts. It’s meant to help you rip the bandaid off and get writing done, even if it feels unnatural. Because it will. You are by no means going to come away from this with a polished novel, so don't expect to. 

Story time.

You have seen me refer to to TIB, which I drafted in November 2013, as the first rough draft I managed to finish. I have chosen to consider it this way, even though I technically—very technically—finished two books before then. That’s what we’re talking about today. 

When I was twelve, almost thirteen, I was given a writing assignment in literature class. As these things go, I started writing the story and realized it was the beginning of a trilogy. What can I say? This is typical of me. I have a collection of short story ideas, and sometimes I pick away at them, but I am always a little scared I will get a seven book series from the next one I touch. This might be why I have trust issues. 

It took me almost a year to write the sort-of-rough-draft for DSS 1 (now DRACONIAN), because I wrote it chapter by chapter, editing as I went (and also because the computer broke halfway through, resulting in several months of unexpected, unwanted writing vacation). 

Even when I was that young, my mother recognized how much I wanted to become a published author, so she tailored my curriculum around that goal. On top of all my other schoolwork, she assigned me roughly an hour of writing a day. In order to be able to give me credit for my work, she read each chapter as I finished it, then made revision notes. Essentially, she guided me through writing my first novel, which is one of the reasons I don’t count it as my first official rough draft. But more on that later. 

When I tackled DSS 2 on my own, I resuming editing as I went even though I felt like it was blocking me. And I ended up cutting it off at 40K without tying up the plot lines. After that, I only made it 18K into DSS 3 before hitting a wall. 

In late 2012, I decided to attack DSS, to write a new rough draft of the entire trilogy using the original work like an outline, because I thought that would help me figure out what was blocking me. I made it about 50K in before I hit another wall. I would edit a portion, only to realize I needed to go back and reedit that section as the story evolved beneath my fingers. An editing session that felt successful one day would seem slapdash the next. It killed my writing mojo. 

Come November 2013, I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo with a new novel, a palate cleanse of sorts. I was nervous, because I didn't know if I would even be able to make the 50K, or if I would manage to write anything worthwhile. To my surprise, I ended the month with an entire trilogy (which I later cut down and consolidated into one novel, TIB). It was the most freeing thing to realize that I could power through rough drafts without getting bogged down by edits, that I could finish a project without spending forever backtracking. 

By the time November 2014 rolled around, DSS was starting to nag at the back of my head again, big time. Because it wanted to be finished. By golly, it demanded to be finished. So I picked up where I had left off and wrote the rest of the entire trilogy, a whole new rough draft, red and raw and not at all polished. Just word vomit on the page. And man it was horrible. And man it was the best thing that could ever have happened to that story. No more ripping the carpet out from under my feet. Just forward motion, like a truck plowing through a hoard of zombies. 

All told, I have been working on this trilogy since December 2009. For those of you who aren’t so good at math, that is almost seven years. SEVEN YEARS. My goodness, no wonder I feel like I’m going insane. 

It has taught me so much. Patience. Confidence and tough love. Technique. How to hide a body. (What? How did that get in there?) But the biggest thing it has taught me is the importance of maintaining momentum, of finishing a thing before I start judging it. I don’t regret the help I received while writing DSS 1. I needed that. But the point I’m trying to make here is that I wasted several of those seven years trying to force myself to use a system I knew was no longer working for me, to the point where I risked editing DRACONIAN to death (and this is coming from someone who likes editing). That is why I consider TIB my first official rough draft, because it was the first draft I completed without backtracking and getting lost along the way. It was the turning point, the place where I realized I could actually do this writing thing. That is why I love NaNoWriMo more than is probably healthy. 

So this November, as you plunge into NaNoWriMo full speed ahead, please remember this. Remember to lock your inner editor up in a cage full of disgruntled chipmunks until you are ready to sign over control once more. You can do this without the red pen. I believe in you. Be free this month. Be messy. Be brave. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Have you struggled with the urge to edit as you write? What are some of your regrets in your writing journey? What are some things you feel you’ve done right?

NaNoWriMo Prep #2 // Some Questionable Advice

Now that NaNoWriMo is literally just around the corner (no, I am not freaking out—you’re freaking out), it’s time to talk about last-minute prep. Various people have asked me to share my secrets for productivity in November, and I have shared a little before, but I figured I would cover it a bit more. If this doesn’t help you, well then, at least I’ve gathered my thoughts for myself. 

Before you jump into these tips, please keep in mind that they are more geared toward those willing to throw caution and good sense to the wind in the interest of going beyond the 50K. And because this advice comes from my personal experience, what works for me may not work for you. (Translation: If your hands fall off mid-month, please don’t sue me.) 

Dedication. Whatever your goal is, reaching it has to be the thing you want more than anything else. It has to be the thing that you choose over movies and books and other distractions nine times out of ten. You have to decide ahead of time what your level of commitment is going to be, and then you need to stick to that. It’s okay to decide that you need to bow out, but try not to decide that on day three. The first week can be especially daunting, and your mind is going to be thinking of all the reasons to quit. My recommendation is to quit only if you begin experiencing health issues (both mental or physical) and are worried that pushing yourself any harder will cause you long-term damage. Most importantly, learn to enjoy the struggle and the strain, because overachieving will not be a cakewalk. 

Rewards. If you’re reward-oriented, make sure that you set up a reward system ahead of time and, if at all possible, put someone else in charge of that system so you can have a level of accountability. In all honesty, I haven’t had huge success using any reward systems in the past, because I’m not a hugely reward-oriented person. Or rather, my reward is the writing itself. But I also know that if I let myself place a massive book order for every 100,000 words I write, well dang, I’d be at 3,000,000 before you could say, “I think Liz’s laptop just burst into flames.” 

Writing Music. If you listen to music while writing, it might be a good idea to compile your playlists ahead of time. I know that, at least from my experience, it’s far too easy to spend tons of valuable writing time looking for the perfect writing song. Don’t do that. It’s secret procrastination, and you will end up hating yourself. 

Writing Cues. In a similar vein, it’s really important to have some writing cues in place before November begins—things that will let your brain know it’s time to focus on writing. If you’re an intake learner like me, it helps to have a specific drink (in my case, coffee) or a snack that you only grab when you’re ready to write. The flavors and smells will help your brain get into writing mode. If you’re an auditory person (also like me), it helps to have specific music or white noise that you only listen to while writing. And if you have a specific location where you are consistently more productive (coffee shops and church for me), try to make sure you end up there as often as possible. 

But make sure—MAKE SURE—that you only use these cues when you are intending to sit down and focus on writing. As tempting as it might be, you can’t let yourself cave and use your writing cues while procrastinating or doing chores or whatever. They will lose their golden touch if you do. But if you keep them sacred, they are likely to help even when you’re in a writing slump. Simple behavioral conditioning, folks. 

Procrastination Game Plan. Yes, I did just say that. You are going to need to take breaks, especially if you are planning to go whole hog this November. But if you don’t plan your break activities ahead of time, your quick three-minute jaunt on Twitter could turn into a three-hour full-emersion social studies experience. And valuable learning aside, you are going to hate yourself. Make sure you have some protocols in place so that doesn’t happen, because you need to make sure your breaks don’t leave your discouraged. Your breaks are there to sharpen you and prepare you for another bout of writing, so approach them accordingly. 

For those of you who write on a computer, like me, consider taking a break from anything screen-related when you take your writing breaks. Eye strain is a real problem when you’re logging the hours to get all the words written. Don’t make this harder for yourself by scrolling through your Twitter feed between word sprints. Movies and TV shows are fine, because you’re not stressing your eye muscles quite so much, but try to keep your face a couple feet away from the screen. Also, be sure to get plenty of fresh air and exercise so your brain doesn’t turn into a bag of stale potato chips. If your phone takes dictation, maybe go on a walk and talk out some of your story. 

Have a system in place. Set timers for yourself and respect them when they go off, even if you have to drag yourself kicking and screaming back to your writing seat. 

If you’re having trouble thinking of non-social-media-related breaks, here is a handy dandy list of suggestions: 

Read. Mosey on over to the kitchen and make coffee. And because moderation is not a thing we embrace during NaNoWriMo, just give in and drink straight from the coffee pot. You know you want to. Pick flowers. Pet an animal. Talk to the animal. When I had rats, I would discuss major plot points with them and verbally untangle my story issues. (But maybe choose a kinder animal, like a puppy or a lizard. Rats can be harsh critics. They require perfection and thus are better to consult during the editing stages.) Clean up the disemboweled mouse the cat left on the patio….again. Climb a tree. Fall out of said tree. Enjoy your first ambulance ride and hospital stay. Make sure to take notes and incorporate this into your story. Go out to eat, or better yet, try a challenging, new recipe at home. Braid your cat’s hair. Treat the thousands of scratches on your arms. Clean things. Play with mud. Get into the spirit of autumn. Eat a leaf and put pumpkins on your hands. Terrorize the neighbors. Enjoy learning firsthand about police procedure and holding cells. Have fun. 

Most Importantly—Log the Hours. I know this seems obvious, but it’s the one that gets short-changed the most. When you’re writing large chunks of words, it’s so easy to get overexcited and take more breaks than you should. It’s also too easy to assume that you will always be writing at peak speed. Don’t. Set yourself a schedule, and when the schedule says write, you write. (You can find my schedule for last year in this post.) Those who wrote 3,000,000 last year logged about 19-23 hours a day. In other words, you have to put in the time. The words will not magically appear on your document overnight.

I don’t know—I feel like I give the wrong impression that this is easy, and I know that I type quickly, but like I said, this is not a cakewalk. I repeat, this is not a cakewalk. So please don’t come into this expecting a cakewalk, because if you do, you will end up quitting. (And by all means, if you hit a wall and you need someone to light a fire under your butt, shoot me a message, and I will yell at you—nicely—until you start writing again. You can find my contact form on the sidebar.) 

Some Final Words. Now that you’ve read all my extremely serious advice, please keep a couple caveats in mind. If you aim to overachieve as much as I do, and if you’re like me, you will experience guilt about making Wrimos who are writing less feel bad. You will want to share you successes with people, because you are excited, but keep in mind that people won’t always be nice about it. You will sometimes inadvertently discourage people or make them jealous.

With regards to my word count, please keep in mind that I have a high pain tolerance and a relatively low regard for my own health when it comes to competition. I will write until I can’t physically move my fingers well enough to type. I will be using wrist braces this year, but I haven’t in the past, and I am paying for that now. Don’t always do as I do unless you are willing to accept the health consequences that come with. 

In Summary. If you’re planning to overachieve this year, ready yourself for the worst and hope for the best. (And take all my advice with a grain of salt.) Remember that this is a marathon. If you lose sight of the finish line, the race will become grueling and unbearable. You will spend most of the time feeling like you’re about to vomit up your lungs. But if you don’t quit halfway through, you will thank yourself come December. So run. 

Because I’m coming for you.

What?

Well, that’s it for today, my little coffee beans. What are some pieces of writing/NaNoWriMo advice that you’ve benefited from? Are you planning to participate in NaNoWriMo this month? What are your favorite ways to procrastinate? Do you also struggle with avoiding the fascinating productivity-black-hole that is Twitter?

NaNoWriMo Prep #1 // Pterodactyl Screeches

As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, Pumpkin Spice has returned in full force, along with all the other seasonal flavors. The cooler air smells like nostalgia. Those saddled with raking leaves are cursing the season. We all know what this means. NaNoWriMo is just around the bend. 

Quick, everybody panic! 

Remain calm, is what I meant to say. Stupid autocorrect. 

Everything is going to be just fine. There is absolutely nothing to worry about this National Novel Writing Month. Please ignore the v-shaped arrangements of muse fairies migrating to warmer climates. Who needs those anyway? 

This will be my fourth NaNoWriMo, and I’m hoping it will be my best one yet. Obviously this might not happen, since I have to work Fridays to Sundays. But I managed to do pretty well last year, and I spent the first week of November packing and moving from Maine to Virginia. 

Here are my stats from the previous years:

2013

2014

 

2015

 

So let’s talk goals.

This November, I hope to write anywhere from 444,444 to 800,000 words. I realize this is a rather wide range. If you’ve spent much time on the NaNoWriMo forums (especially the Overachiever Section), you’ll know that Wrimos like to set three separate goals: a minimum, an aim, and a dream goal. 

These are what mine look like: 

Minimum: 444,444, because I don’t want to write anything less than I did last year. If I can't one-up myself, then what's the point, I ask you. 

Aim: 500,005. If I manage my time well, take care of myself, and drink enough coffee, this should be doable. I’ve found each NaNoWriMo I’ve been able to write more than I did the previous November, even though I’ve had more going on each time around, so 500,005 ought to be a reasonable goal for me. I certainly have enough stories planned. 

Dream: 800,008. I really want to make my dream goal 1,000,001, but I know that I shouldn’t. Not this year. I already have wrist issues from writing and Karate, and I need to make sure I can still at least move my fingers so I can do my custodial job. (I don’t currently own any wrist braces, but methinks I should look into buying a couple.) Anyway, 800,008 is a pretty number, and it’s still quite the challenge. I don’t need to try to do the million this year. *gazes sadly at the two Wrimos who wrote three million each last year* *single tear slides down cheek as camera zooms in dramatically* 

In case you haven’t already noticed, I am a teeny, tiny bit competitive. Because I like to hang out on the OA forums, I see all the overachievers who are doing as much as me or more. Granted, there is no reason to feel bad about my wordcount, no matter what it is, just as there is no reason for you to feel bad about yours, but when I see someone going for the Mill, I’m like a dog spotting a running rabbit. I have to chase it. It’s in my nature. 

Last year my daily average was 14,814 words. To get to 500,005, I just need to up that to 16,667, which is within spitting distance. However, if I want to reach 800,008, I’ll need to pull 26,667 a day, which will be rather more challenging. Typically my wrists start seizing up after 20K, and I’ve never done more than 35.6K in a day. Speaking of never doing more than 35.6K in a day, one of my smaller goals for this month is to write 50K in a day. Maybe not 50K on day one, because I want to ease my wrists into this, but hopefully by the midway point at the latest. In 2014, my record for words written in a day was 30K, so I know that I’m at least capable of beating my previous year’s record. 

So many numbers! Typically I don’t math. But when it comes to NaNoWriMo, you can betcha I’m making charts and getting a little crazy with the division and the multiplication. I might even take it a step further and get into addition, but probably not. I’m not that insane. Maybe I’ll relegate that to Siri, now that I have her on my Mac. 

At this point, you might be wondering what I’m going to work on this year. Well, I can’t give you too many details, since I have a long list of book ideas, and I never know exactly which ones I’ll end up tackling. But my priorities are a villain prequel to DRACONIAN, a random just-for-fun sequel to TIME IN A BOTTLE (since TIB is a stand-alone with series potential), an apocalyptic story (also just for fun), the third book in a literary trilogy I started in NaNoWriMo 2014 (I wrote the second book in NaNoWriMo 2015), a ghost story, and a Scottish Romance. The Scottish Romance (that’s totally been the stand-in title for years), was outlined as a challenge when my sister and a couple friends of mine (and me, of course) joked about each writing Scottish Romances. And even though I’m not a fan of romance, at all, I enjoyed researching Scotland and thinking about ways to make this romance as unromantic as possible. So far the outline includes a couple murders, a mad person, some broken bones, William Wallace, and betrayal. It’s been nagging at the back of my head for ages, because I really am curious to see how it will turn out. I guess I might as well write the silly thing and get it over with. (Let it be noted that I am a panster, so the fact that I was able to outline this at all is a miracle in and of itself.) 

Over all, I’ve been sitting on these ideas for longer than most of the others on my list, so I’m more confident jumping into them, but I do have fifteen decently-fleshed out ideas to fall back on if I need more material. 

I know that the wonders of editing have made me sound relatively composed and relaxed in this post, but let me tell you, I am way more excited than you’d think. I’m not even halfway through my cup of coffee, and my hands are already shaking so badly I’m having trouble typing things correctly. Also, I keep accidentally ending up on the NaNo Forums. I AM SO EXCITED. I don’t care how much work I have to do between now and then (okay, I care a little). I want it to be November now. *slams coffee cup on table* 

*bashes head against keyboard* 

A;sdjfa;lskdfjal;skdfj;alskdjfa;lsdkjf;alskdjf;alsdfja;lsdkfj;asldkfj;asldkfj;aslkdjf;asldfja;sldkfjas;ldfkja;sldfkjas;ldfkjas;dlkfjas;ldfjas;ldfjas;ldfjasd;lfjas;ldkfjalsk;djfa;lsdkfj

I am calm. 

Oh, and a few random, small observations before I leave you: I have two laptops. They have names. I have Adele 3.0, my MacBook Air, which I use most of the time. And I have Adele 2.0, which is a Dell. *laughs for an awkwardly long amount of time* (In case you’re curious, Adele 1.0 was an HP. I’m not entirely corny. It's a complete coincidence that Adele 2.0 is a Dell. She was a gift from my uncle.) Adele 3.0 doesn’t have an internal DVD player, and I haven’t taken the plunge and purchased an external one yet, so I use Adele 2.0 when I need to watch DVDs instead of Netflix. This is somewhat problematic for me. Adele 2.0 is large—about 16-17 inches diagonally. When I decided to switch to an 11.6 inch Mac, I was concerned about the keyboard being cramped. Of course, when I got the Mac, I adjusted to it with no trouble. It fits my hands like a glove. (Please don’t hit me.) Now when I have to use Adele 2.0, the keyboard is so freaking huge, I don’t know what to do with my fingers because they are not hitting all the keys. Also, it strikes me as weird that I had no trouble switching to Mac, but every time I use my PC, I literally don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t even scroll on the first try. WHAT IS HAPPENING. 

Anyway, all that to say, the J key and the Z key (and sometimes the K key) tend to fall off my Mac keyboard, because I type violently. They’re really easy to snap back on, but I am slightly worried that by the end of the month all the keys will have fallen off and gotten lost and I will have to resort to typing on a keyboard made for giants for the rest of my life. 

In other news, I need more coffee. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Are you planning to participate this NaNoWriMo? What are your writing goals? What are some NaNoWriMo achievements you’re proud of? What projects are you hoping to work on this November? Do you have any concerns for this month?

Jack Frost Roasting on an Open Fire...

...chestnuts nipping at your nose...

 

 

That’s not how the song goes? Dear me…how embarrassing!

Be that as it may, winter is hurtling toward us with icy wings outspread to engulf the world—or something equally dramatic. Days are shortening (in the Northern Hemisphere at least), and I am beginning to remember why it is that winter gets to me after a while. Sure, I like autumn; I love the colored leaves and the scented air and the tempered chill. But then snow falls. Fortunately, I haven’t had to shovel yet this season, but my body knows that, sooner or later, this will change. I get sore just thinking about it. Even with the overhead lights on and seemingly every lamp in the house glowing without the dimming hand of their proper shades, the shadows still gather in looming squadrons at the corners of my vision, about the edges of the room where even the lamps’ cold gleam can’t reach. At times like these, I wonder why I claim to love both autumn and winter. What’s wrong with summer? Isn’t spring really the most delightful season of all? (It almost is.) What on earth led my addled mind to believe I actually enjoy the cold drudgery and the weary days when even coffee takes no toll on the sluggish highway of my thoughts?

Without fail, I always forget how gross winter can be. I lose sight of the long hours scooping, lifting, shifting snow, only for it to fall anew. The process feels meaningless. I move frozen water, and it melts. All that work for seemingly nothing, since in the long run, what have I really gained? Come winter’s end, I have no lasting souvenir of all those sweaty hours torturing my arms and back as plow trucks rev their engines and squeal out of the intersection as if that will impress me. Dude, if you really want to impress me, get out and help me shovel! But I digress.

Like drudgery and misery, pain fades quickly. On Sunday, for instance, I ripped off the tip of my toe—fortunately not to the bone—and already that’s ancient history (which says nothing about my attention span). Looking back, I can’t honestly recall how much it hurt, though I know it did. Another example—after writing and rewriting last November’s project about a quarter million times, I set the work aside, spent the summer lollygagging, and promptly forgot how much effort I’d put into it. Now, my head knows it was a boatload of blood, sweat, and tears, but my emotions are in denial. So here I am, typing away, feeling as though my completed book were simply handed to me, as though it were merely dropped into my lap, as though I didn’t actually work for it as much as I should have. Stuff and nonsense.

Back to winter. Of course I remember the wonderful details:  the warm fuzzy feelings, the pleasant moments, the tantalizing smells. I tend to block the other times, the ones with tears and tissues and torment. So reviewing my life is like watching reruns of my favorite show through a nostalgia filter. It is idealized and inaccurate. Still, I wonder if that’s a measure of how we cope, if we’re meant to magnify the good times, within reason, and to lose sight of the days that ached. Just think—if the weight of every dreary winter stuck with me always, I believe I would soon learn to dread the changing of the seasons. Instead I take delight, though each year I learn anew. But alongside this painful rediscovery rests the compilation of nostalgia from all my previous experiences. That outshines the sorrow of winter and dying.

Every season is bursting with memories and happy ghosts, moments pressed between the pages of my history to rustle and breathe anew when the wind catches them just right. And winter is wind like no other. I am haunted by a thousand snapshots of icy-tipped noses above steaming hot chocolate with the sticky red of a candy cane pressed between cherry fingers. I seem to hear, even now, voices layered over each other, past choruses joining with present in ethereal harmony. Nameless nostalgic tremors seize my spine, whispers of memories filed too deeply for my grasp, but there and comforting just the same.

Some seasons trap glowing moments better than others—at least, I find it so. Spring is spectacular, and summer has portfolios of its own, but autumn and winter combined are the true archives. Perhaps that is because more events are crammed between their covers than in the other half of the year. Last NaNoWriMo (I can’t help but smile in recollection), I wrote a book. Since then, I’ve polished it to my satisfaction. This year, I finished three books and two partials, and now I have my editing cut out for me, which is by far my favorite part of the process. I can’t tell you how many wonderful feelings come from that alone. Then Thanksgiving rolls along with family, food, and fun new adventures. Christmas follows, and do I even need to elaborate? After that shines New Year’s Day, which has the added gloss of being my birthday. So I wonder if spring and summer are merely the seasons of recovery meant to prevent autumn and winter from growing old.

That’s one issue I’ve been struggling to learn, but don’t worry, because I’ll eventually forget how difficult it was. You cannot have good moments without bad; you cannot have highs without lows; dawn would mean nothing without night. For every stellar writing day, I have five lesser ones. That’s life. And trying to seize the same enjoyment every time is as pointless and harmful as trying to lift a semi. I would strain something. Consider:  if I ate ice cream every night, aside from getting fat, I would also get bored. Ice cream would stop being special, because I would soon take it for granted. But if I tasted ice cream infrequently, not even once a month, it would always be new—it would always be a highlight.

So this season, I’m trying to remember that nostalgia comes with patience and, like cheddar, it’s better aged. Happy moments aren’t fluttering birds to be caught—they are gifts dropped unexpected on our doorsteps. If I rush headlong into the holidays with the goal of accruing as many fuzzy feelings as I can, I wonder if I’ll end up disappointed. And I don’t want to wear myself out chasing something that wasn’t meant to be manufactured like that. What I am going to do is enjoy this season for what it is and what new treasures I will chance to stumble upon, knowing that retrospect will lend me the honeyed glow I crave.

I’m also going to buy seven floodlights and a lamp. Winter, beware.

Distractions

 

Status:  Just bought new writing music, so I’m good to go. 

Confession time.  We don’t actually pay for internet—pretty soon after we moved into our house, roughly four years back, we discovered we didn’t need to.  You see, the gas station across the road has a little sandwich/coffee shop that offers its customers free Wi-Fi.  Turns out the owner doesn’t mind if we piggy-back.  Granted, to get really good signal, I have to sit in the big picture window, and I probably look like a creep to all the passersby.  But after this long, I’m used to it.  Anyway, who am I to turn down free stuff? 

Of course, it isn’t always convenient.  Sometimes the router cuts out—and we can’t very well complain since we’re mooching.  Often bad weather interferes.  And remember Murphy’s law.  When I want to mindlessly check Facebook or waste time browsing blogs and stalking musicians, I many not have full bars, but the connection is fast.  Life is good then—nothing to obstruct or defy me.  But if I really need to get back to someone or deal with pressing matters or upload a post to my blog, that’s when the internet decides to go on vacation.  I especially love it when every page works except the one I need. 

But because I know the internet isn’t always going to be there, I’ve learned to enjoy it more when it is.  Seriously, there’s so much open to me.  I might start researching for a book and get distracted by one link which leads to another and then another, and pretty soon I know nothing about medieval history but everything about John Wayne and the history of the toothpick and how to make seedless strawberry jam.  There’s so much knowledge waiting to be learned, and I want to learn it.  Sometimes I wish I could access the internet through a neural interface so I could just sit back and soak up the information.  (Then again, what if someone hacked my brain?)  I can’t use Spotify all the time, so it isn’t commonplace yet.  Every time I get on, I’m excited to listen to something new, something I don’t already have in my vast music library.  The world wide web becomes a treat and not a nuisance. 

When I sit down to write, I don’t have to use Freedom—my room doesn’t have signal.  I still have distractions though.  I sit in my comfy armchair in my bedroom, surrounded by my bookshelves, and they all whisper their stories to me.  They beg to be admired and read and marveled over.  My Star Treks and my Doctor Whos wait patiently, telling me over and over ,in that matter of fact way, that I know I should be watching them instead of writing.  Good for inspiration? I reason with myself as I reach for the DVD, but then I put it back because I have other priorities.  For all the procrastinating I do, though, it’s amazing what I can get done.  (And no, I’m not on hallucinogens—I was speaking metaphorically.) 

Anyway, I’m tired—maybe that’s why I don’t seem to be making any sense.  The tea was weak today, and it tasted like old dead things.  The laptop is super warm and it’s putting me to sleep.  Plus, I have at least twenty more pages to edit in my book.  And actually, the work is weighing on me a bit more than it usually does.  When I’m tired—that’s when it gets to me.  For a year now I’ve spent every spare moment working on this novel, writing and rewriting and polishing meticulously, and come November I’ll be querying agents.  Time is running out.  I want to savor all these moments of guilt-free procrastination while I can. 

Not that I’m trying to complain.  In fact, if it weren’t for these times when I’m so tired and so muddled I can’t even think straight, I would never appreciate the moments of clarity when my fingers fly over the keys like they’re the ones creating not me.  These are the times that make the others worthwhile.  So I’ll put on my new writing music, edit ten more pages, and head outside in the fresh air to catch my breath and my perspective before I head back in for another ten pages.  And even if no one ever reads this book, when I’m finished, I will be grateful for every painful hour I slogged through when I could have been anywhere else doing anything else. 

________________

 

So, I do what I said I would—I edit those ten pages, and I give myself the promised reward.  First off, you should know I’m not at my house using borrowed internet.  Right now, I’m staying with my aunt and uncle and cousins because they are awesome, and because why wouldn’t I?  Which means when I treat myself to a trip outdoors, I’m not merely wandering through a tick-infested wonderland of dead lupines and fallen tree limbs—I’m strolling through something very like a farm (minus the cows). 

As I step out onto the weathered wooden porch, I smell the chilly wind and rub my arms for warmth.  Who needs sweaters anyway, when cold is just another sensation to experience and enjoy?  A little needle-strewn path leads under a stand of threadbare pines to a large wire enclosure I love dearly.  Chickens wait for me in a confused herd, trying to figure out if I have brought food or anything else of interest.  Perhaps I’ve come to steal their eggs.  Black and red and gold and white mix in an autumnal array of hen.  To my right, three little white goats peer at me eagerly from the next pen over, smiling in their little goat way, shaking their little goat horns at me.  I spend a while there, talking to them and feeding them leaves before I moved on.  I pass the old compost pile, neat and orderly and green, and I walk down the driveway, crossing at an angle, delighting in the feel of sunbaked rocks on bare feet.  Ahead, in a yard on the other side of the road, kids run around playing zombie wars, a very different pretend game than the ones I loved when I was that young. 

I swing back up the drive and study the waving corn stalks, empty now, and dying.  Likewise the tomato plants, harvested to scarcity, with only a few green orbs to keep them company and a half-ripe one besides.  Little multi-colored squash wait on the white-green grass. 

I circle around behind the house, past the burn pit and the four-wheeler trails to the massive sunflowers leaning against the wall.  Entranced, I step closer to view the thick stalks and the hairy golden heads towering above my own, but the drowsy bumblebees remind me it is best to keep my distance.  So I move on, meandering past sandy ant hills around the L of the building to the side where white dirt wedges between my toes and thistles prick at my calluses.  Unable to resist, I return to visit the chickens one last time, and the goats come galloping to meet me, faces eager and ears flopping.  A hen burrows in the earth, flicking it up onto her wings.  Near my foot, a single squash peel lies forgotten amongst the reddish pine-needles.  Sucking in a deep breath of autumn air, I climb the solid, wooden steps and reenter the building, saving the happiness of this fall memory to share with you.