Book to Finish--Vine Snakes, Rabid Bears, and Socially-Awkward Piranhas

Today has been one of those dreary days, played through a filter of sepia like an old-style photograph. Somehow autumn and summer seem to have become confused and mixed themselves with winter, and it’s the best sort of writing weather—all cozy and close. With the fire burning high and the sun burning low, my inner editor grows tired and sluggish, which means I can enjoy some peace and quiet. Lately, you’d think I’ve been preparing for a Broadway musical, the way that taskmaster screams at me to get everything just perfect:  “Not a syllable, not a vowel must be out of place!”

I gaze out the giant picture window overlooking the gas station across the road from my house. My own fishbowl view. Rain speckles the horizon and drizzles down the glass. I dreamed of floods last night. It must have been the rain whispering to me in my sleep. Now the whole world seems turbulent and wet. Just through the bare-boned, emaciated trees, I see the churning river heaving choppy white-caps up at the shale-colored sky. It’s a scene right out of a book. Poe could have captured it.

I’m getting antsy again—it’s cabin fever time, I suppose. Somehow all I want to do is get out and travel to a million different places at once. In fact, I don’t much care where. This is because I am editing, and I turn procrastination into an Olympic sport. It takes me a while to get into the swing of things. Like an old, run-down train, I’m practically at my destination by the time I start picking up speed.

But I find that list-making helps (or maybe that’s just what I tell myself). So let me give you an idea of what my life has been like over the past few months, starting with October.

 

·         I’m eagerly awaiting NaNoWriMo, pacing the floors and counting down the days on my fingers and toes until that fateful moment when it shall rain sunshine and roses and bolts of inspiration. With ducklings dancing round and muse-faeries raining sparkles on my prose, this will surely be a month of wonders.

 

·         November arrives with all its sarcastic glory and plunks me down at my seat with my fingers poised aching over laptop keys. I am beginning to realize, rather dimly at first, that the sunshine and roses have been canceled due to lack of funding. The baby ducks have all grown up into jaded adult ducks who don’t believe in miracles. And the muse-faeries were hired out by all the French novelists who got there first. Funny how I don’t remember this happening last year.

 

·         I ride the rollercoaster of 30,000 word days and 6,000 word days, greater days and lesser days, brilliant days and mediocre days. Sometimes I hold it in; other times I puke and scream like a baby. (Okay, not really. I just didn’t want to let the rollercoaster metaphor die before its time.) Somehow I survive, though how I manage that is up for debate.

 

·         Christmas season follows hot on the heels of November, and I buy presents and pretend I’m with it enough to know what day of the week it is. Soon my obituary begins showing up in the newspapers because my friends have not heard from me in approximately 7.2 eternities, at which point they have begun to assume the worst.

 

·         After Christmas comes the dreaded moment when I pick up my rough draft and begin the read through. To give you an idea of what this feels like, let me offer a practical example. Upon returning from a long and tumultuous vacation, you step into your room, remembering that you left it somewhat messy but expecting the damage to be both reasonable and manageable. In fact, it is neither. What you find, instead of a rumpled bed and a littered floor, is a giant sinkhole with rubble raining down from what was once the ceiling. Poison-green vines stretch across the walls, and some of them are acting like snakes. You also suspect there might be a bear living in your closet, but you hope it isn’t hungry enough to eat you…yet. Oh yeah, and you only have an hour to clean this place before guests arrive—namely, the queen of England and her entourage. Good luck.

 

·         In order to survive edits, I coerce my mother into buying two giant boxes of Earl Grey tea. My lovely sister, home from university for the month, proceeds to drink the entirety of said tea. (We send her back promptly.) This is not a very promising start. Plus, the grizzly in my closet is getting a tad restless. It also appears to be rabid.

 

·         After this preliminary read through, which feels like a form of torture probably outlawed by the Geneva Convention, I sit down to actually begin edits. Unfortunately, that is when the delicate structure of my brain chooses to collapse into a pile of marshmallow goop. Marshmallow goop is not known for its high IQ.

 

·         Summoning all my courage, I edit the first paragraph. I drink coffee. I move onto the next paragraph and drink more coffee. Already, I think you can see the pattern developing, and it’s only downhill from here. (After the start of the second page, I don’t really remember much of what happened. Either Louis Tomlinson proposed to me or I started hallucinating. The jury’s still out on that.)

 

·         I spend my time playing Temple Run and checking Facebook because they “help me think”. On Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I vow to rise at my typical 4:30 AM—even though it’s vacation—in order to get a proper head start on my editing. Instead, I decide to spend some quality time with my feather pillow, since the two of us haven’t seen much of each other lately. This might rule me out as a potential military candidate. But the rain is lovely and my dreams are pleasant, so I can’t complain.

 

As you can see, my novel is coming along swimmingly. Despite the discouragement that comes with facing the bugaboo of my rough draft, I know that I have done this before. I have braved the swamps of my consciousness in order to clean my room, and I have wrestled the rabid grizzly bear that is my inner editor. It stands to reason I should be able to do all that again. Of course, I may lose my sanity—as well as a few limbs—along the way. Still I think, in the end, it will be worth it. When this is all said and done, I will have over-listened to several dozen songs. I will have grown fat on the spoils of the land—namely coffee and brownie mounds. And I will have written a book that no one will appreciate as well as I will. (Which, come to think of it, is not helping my argument any.)

Still, it’s too late to turn back now. And if you’re in the same boat, welcome aboard and keep your fingers and toes inside. The piranhas are not as sociable as I am.  

Overdue Rebellion

Status:  Final NaNo word count—404,404

Mental State:  Not quite as exhausted as I would have expected—close though. Mostly I’m just sad it’s over. *sniffles*

 

So, I’m sitting in my room with my feet propped up drinking tea, not that anyone really cares. In fact, if I took a picture of myself right now and posted it on the internet, I doubt anyone would give it more than a passing glance or go out of their way to Google it. Maybe a couple friends would like it on Facebook. No biggie. But, if I were—say—Louis Tomlinson, almost every thirteen year old in existence would probably stare at my photo for a good solid five minutes. Its Facebook likes would number in the thousands (at least). Probably a few creepers would print it out and post it on their wall (yes, you know who you are). Big difference huh? Just…change the person, and you change everything.

While you may not care about what I had for breakfast or what my favorite color is (green, by the way) or the number of marshmallows I can fit in my mouth, you probably would if I were someone famous. And I get that, so don’t think I’m griping. Isn’t it at least a little bit intriguing, though, that if Louis posted a video relaying those exact details, a couple hundred thousand individuals would probably watch it at least once while I might get two views?

But what’s the difference between him and me aside from the obvious things like gender and facial hair? Well, he’s famous, yeah—a heartthrob. What else though? Is he a better person? Maybe. Since he’s rich and all, he can give gobs of money to charities, and he has significant influence he could use for good. That’s not really what I’m talking about though. I’m not referring to morality or talent. Actually, I’m talking about him…as a person. And me too, as a person. And you.

Countries like India have caste systems where those at the top are rich and privileged, those in the middle less so, and those at the bottom untouchable. Other countries, like the United States, are a little more covert about this—we have our upper class, our middle class, and our poverty stricken lower class. Granted, that’s a broad generalization. But the people in these different levels—it’s not like they’re some different species. They are all human beings—made in God’s image just like you and Louis and I. Both fame and obscurity can do nothing to change that.

So what makes some special and others not? Well, Louis is a halfway decent singer (some would disagree—but I wasn’t asking). Also, never underestimate the power of great hair and good looks. Those can often go farther than a decent batch of brain cells, but I digress. And I’m not like the haters. Don’t think I’m going to stand here and argue that Louis has been handed fame and fortune and adulation without just cause, all the while trying to mask my own jealousy.

Sure, he’s famous—that is something. But even if you’re not famous?—doesn’t mean you’re any less than he. Some day you may have the spotlight. Or perhaps you prefer the shadows. You know what though? Maybe the singers and the actors and the writers and the politicians are the ones we end up remembering at the end of the day. But the lady at the cash register who says something nice to the depressed teen? I think that puts a platinum album to shame.

Louis’ popularity—and the popularity of others—has nothing to do with worth. Like Louis and like me, you are a person. And we are all equal, no matter what anyone says. Granted, you might pass your evenings calculating pi to the millionth digit while I spend mine progressing my campaign to burn every math book on the planet. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. While Louis can sing, maybe you can’t carry a tune except to take it out back and bury it. Or perhaps he can’t make a decent soufflé while you can. Then comes the whole issue of appearance:  fat or skinny, tall or short? What does it matter? What do these things say about you—you as a person?

Living in this world, seeing all the gorgeous Hollywood people and the stick-thin shop window dummies and the talents everyone seems to have aside from you, it can get pretty depressing pretty fast. So here comes the point where I say something controversial. Before you shoot me, though, allow me to explain. This culture—it makes self-esteem a thing of the past. (Just so you know, that wasn’t the controversial bit.) Correct me if I’m wrong, but I doubt there’s any way you can look like the gals and the guys on the magazines. With all that airbrushing, they don’t even look like themselves. To try would be to drive yourself crazy, or worse. But people do. I do. And that’s a mistake.  

I’m not saying it’s wrong to look your best or to work out and be fit. Those are great things, just, not the most important. Rather than trying to live up to the lie that is the tabloid, the lie that the actors can’t even seem to live up to without collapsing on set or whatever, why don’t we try something else? Why don’t we rebel? Seriously. Who sets these standards anyway, the ones where you have to kill yourself to be pretty? Who made the ruling that beauty is something you put on your face instead of something you wear on your heart? I think it’s about time we stopped letting them pull this one over on us. I think it’s time we let them know how sick we are—us girls and guys—of being held to unreal standards. Why don’t we just let ourselves be human for once, stop trying to be gods? You do realize, don’t you? Things like this only happen because we let them, because we just accept the lies and don’t speak out against them.

So my challenge? Measure the thickness (not the width or length—the thickness) of a magazine cover. Sometimes that’s as deep as outward beauty goes. Why not find out what it really means to be pretty—on the inside? Age will take that face from you—what will you have left when it’s gone? And to help free ourselves, why don’t we message our friends and tell them how wonderful they are, the bits about their personalities that make them unique and special, the traits that make them better than a shop window dummy. Why don’t we rebuild our culture from the bottom up on a stronger foundation, one where we all have a little more room to breathe and actually be ourselves.

 

Note:  Please don’t misconstrue this post as a slam on Louis Tomlinson. I assure you, it is not. I just figured that using someone like Taylor Swift would come across as criticism rather than mere example. As for Louis, I do still intend to marry him some day. *grin*