How did my NaNoWriMo go, you ask? Let me tell you, it went better than I thought. I realize that sounds anticlimactic, considering how disappointing last year was for me. If you’ll recall, my goal was to write anywhere between 50K and 100K words. I ended up with 121,121. Definitely not something to turn up your nose at. Compared to last year, when I felt like I was digging words out of my brain with a spoon, this NaNo was a cakewalk. Even in the best month, not every writing day is going to be amazing. Most days are just average. But this month was full of more amazing days than I think was my fair allotment.
I’m going to cover this NaNo update with two posts, because I worked on two major projects, and I have a lot to gush about. I also figure I’ll share a snippet or two per project, because I’m feeling magnanimous.
You might recall that, way back in November 2016, I drafted a story I have oft referred to as my Super Secret Novella Side Project (SSNSP). My plan had been to whip that thing into shape and share it on my blog, back when it was supposed to be, you know, a novella. Then I got sick, and it sat untouched for a long time. When I finally picked it up and started working on it again, it was only as (brace for it) a side project, something I pulled out when my main WIP was stalling. Somewhere along the line, I decided that while it would make a decent novella, I also wanted to expand on it and explore how it would play out as a novel.
I may have, from time to time, referred to SSNSP as GITM, though I can’t remember. Either way, GITM is a meaningless title, a stand in with little relevance to what the story has become, so feel free to forget it immediately. When I began drafting it in 2016, I’d wanted to write a story with a glitch in the matrix sort of feel, so that’s what I called it, but it very quickly veered off course to something I like a whole lot better. Right now, it still doesn’t have an official title, but I’m changing the stand in to HIRAETH, which is a great deal more applicable.
When I started work on it this November, it was a feeble, 20K word story, gap-toothed and malnourished. I already had a chunk of it edited, but my main challenge was to beef it up and give it a good, thorough scrubbing.
About halfway through the month, I finished the draft, which is a weird sort of draft 2 hybrid. Let me clarify. My first draft was 100,000 words or so of mayhem, in which I drafted the story multiple times, back to back and in no particular order, trying to get a handle on what I wanted to say. Then I went into an editing frenzy and hacked away at it, keeping only the scenes and, in most cases, paragraphs that I thought had potential. I had the gall to call it a second draft, but it was only an 8,000 word, semi-coherent, extra-detailed outline. That round included zero editing, only chopping, so it doesn’t deserve a draft number, in my opinion. Then I started adding to it and editing as I went, that being the process I finished this November. I’m choosing to call this completed draft a second draft, because that’s how it looks chronology-wise, but I’ve been told it’s very clean for a second draft, and it certainly feels that way.
Currently, it is still a feeble book-thing. It weighs 42,000 words soaking wet, which, translated into normal-people-speak, is not even 200 pages. I love it. I love it to pieces. I have already read it twice through, just for fun, and I don’t normally do that sort of thing, because it’s hard not to see flaws everywhere I look. This book has been the easiest, most painless piece of writing I have ever pulled from my brain box, and it’s a breath of fresh air on the heels of DRACONIAN.
I still need to feed it some protein powder to give it muscles, because it’s a scrappy little thing, and my goal has gone from being a nice person and sharing it on this blog, to seeking out traditional publishing. I’ll need to insert some scenes, at least 8,000 words worth, (which feels like coming full circle) and I have some anxieties about that, because the pacing feels tight, and I don’t want to throw off the balance I think I’ve achieved. But I also have to make the science in it accurate and sufficiently nerdy, and I’ve got some ideas. I’m ruminating. I already got one set of beta feedback, which made me cry happy tears.
Here’s a quick rundown on what it’s about, without giving too much information: The crew of the Hiraeth, the most advanced spaceship Earth has ever produced, is tasked with terraforming a planet lightyears from home, but soon the mission devolves into chaos as the ship begins to break down, and, one by one, people start to go mad.
I could gush about this thing forever, but I think I’ll end up turning into one of those moms who talks up their snot-nosed little Johnny so much everyone secretly hopes Lassie will push him into the well. So I’ll just leave you with this snippet.
—
Objectively, you know that there are six thousand windows on the Hiraeth. Until recently, you had not realized exactly how many windows that is. It is a staggering number. You can avoid them a great deal during the day, if you stick to the inner portions of the ship. Where they present the most trouble for you is when you are on the flight deck, which contains the largest window of them all, and when you walk to your quarters at night. For whatever reason, the ship’s designers thought the captain would want a view of the outdoors, and so they built your quarters on the outer ring. You must walk along a corridor of windows to reach your room, and once inside, you are faced with another. It is almost as if they thought you would want to look out at the stars.
Over the past couple nights, you have considered relocating your quarters, but for a long list of reasons—the first being convenience and the last being your desire to maintain an appearance of normalcy—you have decided not to do that yet.
With every window you pass on the stretch of corridor, like an endless house of mirrors, you feel eyes on you. It’s subtle. If you force yourself to focus on other things, you can even forget it for a while. But then, inevitably, you remember—you feel it again. It’s less a sense of being watched and more of being observed. Not like being seen, like being looked at. So there it stays, in the back of your mind, an adrenaline drip building up in your blood.
—
That’s it for today, Coffee Beans. If you participated in NaNoWriMo, what projects did you work on? What are you excited about (writing or otherwise)?
How? How is it almost NaNoWriMo already? Of course, NaNoWriMo is awesome, and I can’t wait. But how so soon? TELL ME. I’m still having trouble realizing it’s only a few days away. I’m not prepared.
*takes deep breath* I am calm.
It occurs to me that I never updated you on my last NaNoWriMo and how it went. I mean that not in an “it just occurred to me” way, but more of a “this occurs to me on a regular basis and I have already drafted multiple posts as a result and then failed to publish them” way. Since work on my current main project is reaching a period of semi-burnout, which I would like to keep as brief as possible, I figure it’s time to take a break and tend to my sorely-neglected blog. There are so many posts and updates I want to finish and share with you. My Out of Coffee, Out of Mind drafts folder is starting to feel like a diary of sad dead ends.
Before we discuss this coming NaNoWriMo, let’s deal with the previous one, since that’s what’s been bugging me the most. Last I spoke with you on the subject, I had plans to write a ton of words, albeit not as many as I have in NaNoWriMos past. In case you didn’t notice, I didn’t succeed. Or rather, I hit 50,000 words, so in all respects, I did win NaNoWriMo. *throws confetti* I don’t mean that in a disparaging way. I am not trying to be down on myself for the number of words I wrote. There is nothing wrong with 50K, and those who write only 50K are still winners in every respect. But for me, it was a sad achievement because I have done better in the past. I was used to overachieving, I enjoyed it, and I had looked forward to doing it again.
Last November was hard. It was sandwiched between difficult months. On one end, I was struggling with the leftover brain fog from my last bout with an eating disorder, and on the other hand, I was fighting another relapse. Almost as soon as November began, I realized that I was too close to a complete mental burnout to try anything more than the minimum needed to win. In comparison with what I have done before, it felt like I barely participated. When I saw all my fellow overachievers from years past going pedal to the metal, I’ll admit, I did cry a little. I had been part of something that meant a great deal to me, and I had lost that, even if it was only temporary. There was this huge gap between what I wanted to create and what I was able to create. The muse just wasn’t there; my vocabulary felt stunted, my attention span limited. It was like a bruise that I didn’t want to poke. So that month, taking care of myself meant taking a step back and only writing what I needed to keep up my winner’s streak.
That’s not to say I didn’t love what I was writing. Over the course of the month, I fleshed out several ideas, drafted a bunch of blog posts, wrote some poetry, and ultimately, did whatever I could to get the creative juices flowing. I didn’t finish a novel, or even come close. That would have been asking too much of my brain, especially given the story ideas I had chosen. My biggest triumph that month, aside from choosing to take care of myself, was drafting the beginnings of a story that, while emotionally difficult to write, felt more rewarding and more promising than anything I had worked on in a while. Funny thing is, it came to me while I was watching a video on poisonous mushrooms, and it came all at once, in a deafening rush. Even though I have yet to tack down the nitty gritty details, I have all the bones of the thing—I found its skeleton, hidden in the back of my mind, complete and tangible. Actually writing it was surprisingly difficult, given the existing framework, like moving sand with tweezers, but it was difficult in a “I am trying to paint what I am seeing and I am trying to paint it well” way, and less of a “I don’t know what to paint” way. I picked it up yesterday, fleshed out more ideas, got excited and bought a writing journal for it. Every time I touch it, I get an electrical shock.
As for what I’ll be doing this November, I’m not sure. Naturally, I know that I’ll try for at least 50,000 words. Over the course of the last month or so, I have developed a routine where I try to read for an hour each day at a coffee shop. During November, and the days leading up to it, I plan to turn that reading time into additional writing time. Since I’m working forty hours a week now, I don’t know if I will have as much time to overachieve as I have had in the past, and I don’t know if it would be healthy for me to try just yet. This has been a hard year. So I don’t know if I’m going to attempt more than 100,000 words.
With regards to what I’m going to write, I don’t know. I have several options. I might cheat this NaNoWriMo and edit an existing project instead of drafting a new one—I have several novels I’m trying to polish, and I’m not excited about setting them aside completely for a whole month, although it might be good for me to take a vacation from them. I could also pull out my trunked novel and, for nostalgia’s sake, give it a complete revamp. Last November’s promising story is still begging to be finished, so that’s a possibility. There’s another novel I really want to work on as well, one that’s begging for a complete fresh start, beginning with a new rough draft. Those are my options, I think. I have so many balls in the air already, I don’t want to add any more just yet.
But I doubt I will know for sure until November first.
Note: I was given a digital review copy of THE CRYSTAL TREE by the author.
First things first, I am so late in getting this review up. Even though I haven’t marked it on Goodreads yet (I am also way behind on updating my Goodreads), I finished reading THE CRYSTAL TREE, by Imogen Elvis, more than a month ago. I’ve been in the process of moving for the past several months, but now that I have the chance to sit and catch my breath, it’s time to take care of everything I’ve been neglecting.
Imogen Elvis is a great person. I feel like I can’t launch into a review of her book without first talking about her. Normally, I know, book reviews shouldn’t be personal. At least, that’s a rule I try to follow, but it’s more for when I’m writing a one star review, in order to keep myself from saying something mean. This is totally different. I like Imogen a whole lot. If you haven’t read her blog yet, you should do that. She is always sweet and kind, and though she hasn't posted in a while, all her old content is great. She’s one of the people who makes the blogging community feel less like a sterile nothingness, a place where you scream into the void, and more like a home, where people listen. So when I saw that she wanted reviewers for her novel, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
One of the first things I noticed about THE CRYSTAL TREE is that it has a similar feel to the Great Tree of Avalon books by T. A. Barron that I read growing up (I guess they’re now just known as the Merlin series). It made me nostalgic and cozy, like I was diving back into the safest parts of my childhood. Maybe I’m weird, but any book that makes me want to reread my favorite books is a good book.
I think one of the issues I have with knowing an author to any degree is that I see them as more immediately human, which means I expect them to be nicer to their characters. It’s kind of like, but I knew that serial killer, he was a great guy—how could he be a serial killer? Not going to lie, Imogen definitely surprised me here. She doesn’t pull her punches (not that I’m complaining, except WHY IMOGEN, WHY? You know what you did). So while Imogen is not a serial killer, I think maybe I should take her characters away from her and put them somewhere safe, at least for a while.
Of course, this review wouldn’t be complete without at least a mention of the magic system. Normally, I’m not a huge magic person, because most magic systems feel stale at this point, like people keep using and reusing the same concept. The magic in THE CRYSTAL TREE is refreshingly different, at least to what I’ve read. The idea of song as a means of working magic? The idea that we all have a life song that someone else can interact with and/or manipulate? Sign me up. It is vivid, beautiful and, at times, frightening. It fills the book with urgency and depth. The main character, Briar, can heal people with her song, which is super cool, but I especially loved her limitations and how they affect her.
And finally, at the risk of sounding spoilery, I like how sometimes the girl saves the guy. That one hundred percent earns you points in my mind.
If THE CRYSTAL TREE is any indication, Imogen has great potential as an author, and I am excited to see what she’ll do next. But I’ll stop talking now so you can go read her book.
Note: Long story short, I’ve been extra busy over the past couple weeks, traveling and getting ready to move. So instead of writing a fresh post for you coffee beans, I’m pulling one from the wasteland of half-finished pieces I’ve had knocking around in my Out of Coffee, Out of Mind Scrivener file for ages (call it stale coffee). I wrote this one over a year ago, when I was working for my former church under my second boss there. (I guess you will have to wait a little longer to read posts from Liz, the new-and-improved edition.) If it’s got a couple typos here and there, I apologize. I’m trying to edit, but for whatever reason, after drinking less than a cup of coffee, I can barely see straight. Also, it’s summer, but my apartment has been so cold, even with a blanket and a hoodie, I’ve somehow managed to catch a chill. Call me bulletproof. But yeah, I wanted to get this post up for you today because I won’t have another full day off until Thursday.
Here I am, in line at Starbucks. I’ve just finished work at the church, where my hours have been rearranged so I have more time off on Sundays. This is a big deal. Until recently, Sundays were one of the hardest days for me; I was on my feet, go-go-going from six in the morning till nine or ten at night. Mondays tended to suffer as a result. Having chronic pain makes stuff like that difficult for me, so this is a load off my shoulders. Anyway, I’m waiting in line, patient and peaceful. If I were Todd in THE KNIFE OF NEVER LETTING GO, my noise would be quiet.
I want to buy a sandwich, order some coffee, sit down and write. I have ideas and almost-ideas swirling through my brain. If I can get them down, it will make my afternoon.
But…
Yeah, the woman in front of me is one of those people who never quite got past that toddler stage—you know, the one where you’re the center of the world and people don’t exist when you’re not interacting with them. Technically she’s in line ahead of me. Like, she’s not ordering, but she’s close enough to the counter that I would feel rude jumping in front of her. She’s taking her sweet time reading the nutrition facts, the ingredients, the wrinkles in the bread, for crying out loud, on every single sandwich in the case. It’s getting old, but I’m still pretty chill. Waiting in line is one of my superpowers. *puffs chest*
Finally, FINALLY, she chooses a protein box and pounces on the poor barista. I start to breathe a sigh of relief. Now that she’s ordering, I won’t have to stand here much longer. Those chairs are looking so comfy.
Nope. Nopety nope nope nope. She starts her order off with, “This is going to be complicated.” Let me tell you, she was not lying. The barista is great, though. He interacts with her intelligently as she gives the most complicated coffee order I have ever heard (and I thought my orders were complicated). It involves multiple shots of espresso, a pump of mocha “approximately the size of a quarter”, coffee terms I will have to look up to understand, and a five minute discourse on how “people of color are now doing more for themselves.” Her words. She uses the barista as an example, since he’s putting himself through college with this job. Go him. But seriously, lady, wrap it up. Just. Stop. Talking.
She moves over, telegraphing like she’s starting to walk away, enough for me to feel justified in sliding over to the counter with the sandwich I chose while she was picking her protein box, eons ago. Those were the good old days, back when I had faith in humanity. I’m hoping setting my sandwich down will stake my claim, silence further conversation on her part, and rescue the poor barista from having to fake one more smile.
Sometimes losing your naiveté can be a lengthy process. Because she’s not done. No, she’s remembered ANOTHER thing she wanted to say, which is even more condescending. It’s pretty clear that no one else in the growing line, in the entire bustling shop, exists to her. She doesn’t stop talking until both her coffees are almost in hand. If I started stabbing myself in the eyes with a straw, I think she’d just keep talking. I’m tempted to test that theory.
In all fairness, I don’t think she’s intending to be rude or an inconvenience. She’s older, maybe set in her ways, maybe from that era where people were taught different ideals. She’s not the kind of person I would want to live with, definitely, but I shouldn’t judge. I don’t know what her life’s been like, don’t even know her name. Also maybe she has no peripheral vision. I know people so oblivious, mugging them would be the easiest thing in the world (if I were, you know, planning to do that *hides*).
When I finally have my food and my coffee in hand, I sit down at one of those little tables, sandwiched between two other occupied tables. They’re one-person tables, mind you, lined up in front of a bench with little room to spare between each one. For the sake of convenience here, let’s call that tiny little space between tables “privacy room”. I can’t see your computer screen—you can’t see mine. Nobody has to feel like their space is being invaded.
The lady to my right has been staring at me since before I sat down, but I’ll forgive her since she hasn’t tried to shank me yet and also because she has a cool accent. Only a couple minutes after I get comfortable, though, she invites a friend over, who decides to sit right in my privacy room. I angle myself away from them as discreetly as I can, considering that I’m, you know, writing about them. However, that has my computer screen facing the girl to my left. She’s minding her own business, but that doesn’t stop me from turning my screen brightness down almost all the way and making the font so tiny I can barely read it. I like to think of myself as a smooth operator.
I love coffee shops. Often I get my best writing and editing done in environments like this, with the smell of coffee in the air, the sound of ice being scooped, of beans being ground, the background chatter. I have to grin and bear with the handful of people who gossip loudly (you know they want you to hear them), the people who video chat right next to you, the noisy ones who follow you around the shop for no specific reason so you can’t get a moment’s peace. You never know what’s going to happen in a Starbucks, in any coffee shop, really. One time someone drugged my coffee, and I’m about 99% sure it was the barista, since I never leave my drinks unattended (he doesn’t work there anymore, so we’re all good). It’s a jungle out there.
There’s a certain magic to being in a place that exists primarily to serve coffee. Yes, it’s overpriced, and sometimes I forget to tie up and gag my common sense, and I end up horrified at how much I’m spending. I don’t know how I’m going to extricate myself from this little table without sticking my butt in someone’s face. My anxiety is never a fan of situations like this. As a consequence, I prefer to sit where I can have eyes on everyone coming in, in case someone decides to shoot up the place, not that it would really help me that much in this sardine can.
I spend my coffee shop time balanced precariously between intense concentration and the steady voice in my head saying, “Let’s leave, let’s leave, let’s go home where it’s safe and cozy. You can watch Good Mythical Morning and read Shakespeare’s Star Wars. Maybe sister will be there and we can watch Firefly together. Why stick around here? This isn’t as fun or as peaceful as you thought it would be.”
For a host of reasons, I keep coming back. Probably it’s the sense of community. I can pretend the girl to my left is writing a book, likewise the girl two tables to my right. Everyone here with a laptop is a novelist, I tell myself, and we are all a part of something, so I’m among friends. The baristas know me by face, if not by name. Sometimes I think I come here to counteract the loneliness of my solitary church job and my living situation, so I don’t go crazy, locked in my head all day every day.
I should wrap up this post. It’s getting long, and people are staring. I have other writing to get done; I hadn’t even planned this post before coming here, and now I have to switch tracks, even though I’m already feeling like I want to go home. Also I have artichoke stuck in my front teeth, which is very distracting. Remind me not to smile at anyone on the way out.
Hey, it's newer me again. *waves awkwardly* It was weird editing this post, trying to stay true to my older voice. It was even stranger to see how anxious I was, how lonely. I saw it then, but I didn’t see it the way I do now. I think surviving that situation meant not realizing how bad it was until I got out. I’m at a place where anxiety is almost nonexistent, where I can generally chill in a coffee shop for hours and be sad to leave.
I’m still one of those people who clears corners when entering a building, who sits facing the doors or better yet, where you can see people coming in but they can’t see you. Although I think that’s just good sense.
Change is good. Sometimes you’ll end up in a stage of life you think will never pass. The nearly two years I spent starving myself were miserable, and I felt trapped, but it's over. I won. And even though it damaged my health in ways I’m not sure I’ll fully recover from, and the temptation to relapse still tries to sneak up on me, I’ve learned some things. I’ve grown as a person. I don’t really know why I’m sharing this post with you today, because when I read it, I find it especially easy to judge myself. But, you know, sometimes I get discouraged, and the best fix I’ve found is a change of perspective. Maybe this will help someone.
Now it’s your turn. What are some coffee shop experiences you would like to share?
