Process Protocol

I've been writing for twenty years. It began with GI Joe fan fiction. I don't remember what the stories were about, but it was all about Snake Eyes. Fortunately, those stories, and there were only two or three of them, no longer exist in this realm. If they exist in some other realm, well, then there's something about my writing I just don't know about. I don't think I want to know either.

Then there was the short story assignment in sixth grade. I wrote a sci-fi stories in which a tomboyish girl pilot got partnered up with a pretty girl who seemed more interested in her perfect hair and make up than anything else. I don't recall the details exactly, but the story was a hit with the teacher and the class. And thus a monster was born. I kept writing after that. Horror movie spoofs called Saturday the 14th, cop stories, sci-fi stuff, poetry. All of it really bad. All of it practice. Do you expect the first pie you ever bake to be perfect?

There's a cycle to how my creativity works. You would think I'd have figured this out a long time ago, but it's only been in the last two years or so that I've really been able to see how it works. Writers block, until recently, was something to fight, not to ride out. I still insist on attempting to be creative in some way when I can't write, but I'm not as concerned about forcing words out. If they aren't ready, they aren't ready.

So I'm coming out of a block now. At the beginning of the month, I wrote a little fairy tale murder mystery thing, and the manner in which I wrote it, 10k+ words in two days by hand, wasn't healthy. Not for my hand or for my creativity. I put so much into working on that story that when I was done, I couldn't do anything else. I managed to crank out a few more short fables, but nothing of signifigance was happening. But the story had to be written that way. Had I stopped to think about it and tried to plan out who had done what to whom and lay out red herrings and carefully plan every step, I wouldn't have written it. I trusted the story. I was right to do so. Now, I can't judge the quality of the story, but I'm pleased with it. It sits, awaiting editing and readers and will then gather dust as I agonize over the lack of publishablity of such a story, which is another issue.

Last week, a particular image struck me as a starting point for another story, so I started. I had no idea what I would find. As I've worked on the story, again by hand and now well past 10k words, it's clicked into place bit by bit. And I love it. Two days ago, I went to bed with an aha! moment in my mind. I was horrified when I couldn't remember what it was. Fortunately, it was one of those things that was too good not to stick somewhere. I read over what I was writing and found my aha again. It was quickly followed by many more aha moments, and now the whole story seems less puzzling than it was when I first dropped one of the characters on the ground, presumably from somewhere up high, told him he'd been in a fight and then took his memory away. There will still be surprises along the way, but the basic idea is now set. Some things will have to be fixed when I go back to type it up, but that's to be expected.

Now side stories are developing. Stories that detail things that happened in the past that ultimately lead up to the current situation. This is a common thing in my writing. There are always side stories. All of the fables I've posted on my live journal are side stories for Once. All of the stories on live journal under the lable Pale are side stories for what I'm doing for NaNoWriMo this year. It's almost an annoying habit until I realize why I do it.

My writing process is organic. Stories grow out of images, lines of dialogue, song lyrics or whatever. Then characters take root. Then plot sprouts. Then more stories bloom. Characters have histories. They have lives before the moment I've chosen to document their adventures. Sometimes, I need to write these stories out. Other times, it's enough to know what happened and keep consequences in mind. I find myself writing short stories rather than making notes for the most part, unless the snippet is too small, and they sometimes are. For instance, in Seven Breaths, I knew there were some things I wanted to do with certain backstories, but I didn't write stories for every event. Some I did. But some of them weren't enough to make whole stories out of.

I think that if I could force myself to use an inorganic method of plotting, filling in background and developing characters, I might avoid the ebb and flow of my writing process. If I outlined or used that evil snowflake method, I might even be a better writer since it would allow me to avoid the sloppiness of not knowing all the details before I start writing. But, as I said, if I knew all the details, there'd be no point. If my writing were all about plot, then I would have to outline. My writing is all about characters, and characters are people. Even after closely observing these people captive in my imagination, I don't always know what they're going to do. Like I really didn't know that the homicide detective in the story I'm writing now would admit what he did to the Agency detective. It didn't change anything, but it added another layer. The victim was another Agency detective, and now the one left to solve the crime is realizing there's a whole lot about his dead partner that he didn't know. I couldn't have planned that. Other writers maybe could have. Better writers would have.

Now that I know more about my writing process and recognize what it is, you would think I might be used to it. I'm not. It's still frustrating to be standing on the shore at low tide thinking I should be knee deep in story while story needs time out at sea. It's slightly annoying to have to deal with side stories. I think I'm a lot more comfortable with it than I used to be, but I still have a long way to go before I accept the constraints of this kind of process. I would like to be able to write all the time without worrying about being blocked or not. It's never going to happen that way. I don't think I want it to. It wouldn't be the same. There's a certain freshness and a rush to this approach that I won't get without planning of any kind. It may drive me crazy, but it works.

Personality Quiz

raven took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Seeks the determination and elasticity of will nec..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

These results frighten me. How the fuck can they get so accurate with simple color selection?

English Genius You scored 92% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 86% Advanced, and 100% Expert!

You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go! Thank you so much for taking my test. I hope you enjoyed it! For the complete Answer Key, visit my blog: http://shortredhead78.blogspot.com/.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 30% on Beginner You scored higher than 49% on Intermediate You scored higher than 17% on Advanced You scored higher than 95% on Expert

Link: The Commonly Confused Words Test written by shortredhead78 on Ok Cupid

Wow! Who knew I was so fucking smart?! Especially at almost one in the morning. It amuses me that I did better on the harder questions than on the easy ones, but that's just like me. I know a lot of things that I don't give myself credit for. I'm not supposed to be smart. Shhh! Don't tell anyone.

Adventures in Typing or the Difficulty of Reading My Own Handwriting

It's a good thing I know how I must have been thinking when I scribbled out Masquerade. Some bits are just really hard to read. Other bits just make no sense. Nothing a bit of editing can't fix, and I still find it strange that I have any desire at all to edit this thing. At the moment, though, I'm merely deciphering and typing. The first day's work totaled approximately 6,589 words. I say approximately because I added missed words, probably dropped some in typing, and Word insists on counting the X I'm using to separate sections as a word. That's still a pretty astounding count for one day of longhand work. No wonder my wrist still hurts. I gave it no time to recover before diving into the second day, and after that, I moved on to working on other things without allowing my hand a chance to rest. The second day's work is shorter, but I'm thinking that my estimated word count of 8,000 to 10,000 words may have been conservative to say the least.

I'm not sure if it's any good or not, though. I'm thinking of putting it up in chunks in locked posts on LJ for perhaps a little feedback. One thing is very obvious in going through this. The story knew what it was doing long before I did. I even noticed today that one thing I never really explained, the animosity between two characters, sort of explained itself in a minor detail I was thinking of editing out. Now I see why that detail was included. I understand why the characters dislike each other. It's never explained in the story itself. I must have thought I didn't know. I don't think I'll add the explanation in. It doesn't matter.

I'm also starting to realize how much easier it is for me to write longhand than to sit in front of my computer and type. It's not always practical to handwrite. The main reason I turned to composing on screen was NaNoWriMo. There was no way in hell I was going to count 50k words of my sloppy scrawl. Before my first NaNoWriMo in 2002, almost everything I did was longhand first. I wish I could go back to it full time, but it's not healthy for me. Not only do I tend to not listen to the pain signals, I hold my pen too tightly and press down too hard, which increases the liklihood of pain. I can only hit a keyboard but so hard. And I do. I also don't wear my brace like I probably should. However, I have discovered the joys of Tiger Balm. I used to attempt to use Icy Hot, but something about Icy Hot made it difficult to get it off my hands after applying so that my hands got the icy part, and it was terribly uncomfortable. Tiger Balm does the exact same thing as Icy Hot, but it doesn't stick to my hands that way.

But this wasn't supposed to be a post about Tiger Balm. Or was it? If I start off talking about my awful handwriting and trying to type it, Tiger Balm almost has to come up somewhere. Because there's an awful lot of pain involved in this process. It's too bad that Tiger Balm can't be applied to minds and hearts.

Ignorance, Bigotry and Percussion

I enjoy research. I like the chain of discoveries. I like learning things I might not have known before or learning more about something I've long been interested in. I find that I often get peripheral inspirations from research. My bookmarks menu is a fucking monster because of this. I also like finding that a choice I've made on a character and things I feel him doing in the novel I'm writing for NaNoWriMo this year are completely in line with what little I now know about autism and with the themes of language and communication that are important to the story. This is preliminary stuff certainly. I'd like to know more. Most of what I found were resources for parents detailing treatment options, how to cope and so on. It was a while before I even found an article detailing symptoms, but I did, and it all works.

Of course, I had a general clue about autism before, and I do know a boy who has autism. He's the step son of a friend of my husband. I think he's 12 or so. I don't see him very often, but when I have, I haven't noticed the kinds of things I thought I would notice in an autistic child. Then again, I don't know how he is in school or in day to day life.

I've always been interested in the learning process. How things get to be the way they are in our minds. How is it that I know what I know? How do you teach someone things? How do you teach someone who has trouble learning? What happens when there are breaks like that in the processing of information and thoughts and physical stimuli? On some level, I don't understand the world I live in. I wouldn't say I'm poorly socialized, but I would say that I don't do well in social situations. I had serious serious trouble with math in school, but I excelled greatly at reading and studying literature. I think when I was in second grade, someone may have been on the verge of stamping me with a learning disability, but it never came to pass. Which is good, because I didn't have a learning disability. I was bored out of my skull. But with that experience in mind, I can relate to milder forms of autism. And it fascinates me. The brain is a wondrous thing, and the fact that we know so little about how it works or why it works makes it even more intriguing. And when it doesn't work, it's interesting to look at the differences in what we call normal and in what we label as a disability.

The title of this entry comes from a short blub I found on brainbank.org. The program is involved in signing up people with and without autism or Asperger's Syndrome, a very mild form of autism, to donate brain tissue upon death for research on the disorders. This donor was a young man with Asperger's Syndrome. It was a coherent little thing but for a few wrong words, and for some reason these wrong words really drew me in. He used faults when he meant false. Identify for identity. Percussion for persecution. The first two I could almost pass off as typos, but not that last. I've been going over that line in my head since I read it. "Since I live in the Neural Typical world, I have to constantly deal with ignorance, bigotry and percussion."

I think because the other major motif in Pale is music, I was drawn to this misuse of the word, especially since the main character is a guitarist, which in case you were unaware is considered a percussion instrument (it's in the way you play it, not the fact that it has strings. A piano, also, is percussion. A true string instrument is played by drawing a bow across the strings).

I have a lot more I want to look at on autism, but I feel that it's really going to work for the character I've chosen to afflict. I'm curious how it's going to affect the other characters. I already have vague ideas. I'm starting to feel much better about Pale than I did a few weeks ago. An opening scene is working itself out. Now this research falling into place. Doesn't mean I'll hit the mark or finish the story, but it's good omens.

You'd think ...

I'm no Rushdie or Gaiman, but I think I'm a decent writer. I may even be under the delusion that there are people out there who enjoy my fiction and other works. I've sort of overcome my publishing phobia by working with the Piker Press. Although, writing reviews is vastly different than writing stories. The challenge is different. It's a good thing to have under my belt, and I'm enjoying it. My reviews seem to be going over well. As far as I know, no hate mail has been sent regarding what I've written, and that's my goal. No hate mail. So, yeah. Good.

You'd think that I wouldn't get these irrational attacks of "I suck" any more. Or at least not with the frequency I used to. If anything, it's more frequent than it used to be. I read the stories in the Press. I think whatever I think and then, "My writing doesn't belong here in any form." I'm not sure where I fit in. We have literary fiction/romance writers, we have horror/vampire writers, we have dark humor, we have sci-fi. So where would anything I've written fit? Or is that not my call? I'm having a serious "I suck" attack right now. Of course, I haven't submitted any fiction. Mostly because I have the habit of throwing it up on my LJ. And the rest of my reason is that whatever genre I end up in, I end up with yaoi. Okay, okay, so I'm not going to dig into the smut notebook and send that to the Press. I'm not even putting that shit on my computer! Not like some of the things I've posted haven't been ... um, suggestive (to put it mildly), but I keep the hardcore, ultra descriptive stuff in the smut notebook where it belongs. And of course, as I type this, I think of a few things I've put up that have been little more than porn. But anyway. My odd penchant for boysex is not the point.

There's a point? You'd think. But you might be wrong. See, I tricked you into reading this far. Now you have to finish. Don't worry. I promise something cool will happen at the end. Maybe not as cool as putting the sun and moon back in the sky or finding people in a clam shell, which really was a highly cool thing. But it will be something cool nonetheless.

So right now I suck. I am in my ebb, and writing has been really hard lately. After I wrote Masquerade, it's been a slow recovery. Muse has been awfully silent except for planting bits and pieces of Pale in my head for November and of course the fables and Once. I wonder if Masquerade would be a suitable Press story once it's polished and clean. There's no overt sex of any kind. There's a suggestion of an encounter in a closet (because I could not resist going there), and there is kiss between the sleeping prince and his ... prince charming, although I'm not sure charming is a word I'd use to describe that character. In that immediate situation, he's actually kind of a jerk. A funny thing happened on the way to the end of that story. A female minor character, Lady Serena, ended up being my favorite character to write. That never happens.

I also have two poems and a story I want to submit for the month of dead stuff. Previously posted to LJ several months ago, I think The Color of Death would be nice for that. Voodoo was intended to be for Halloween, but I still can't bring myself to look at it. It would be insensitive to continue it with a hurricane in the backdrop and to think that even a minor storm wouldn't trigger post traumatic stress disorder in those affected by Katrina. Move it to another city? But New Orleans has that voodoo mojo. I think I'm going to start that story over again anyway. I think it's approach is too wide. I mean, the POV is Casidhe's alone, but it's not focused enough on his perceptions of the situation. The Color of Death works because of that kind of focus.

Okay. Here's the really cool thing I promised. You know what? I think I'm going to shut up and just submit the stuff. If it sucks, it sucks. Now here's the shutting up part.

Antedelluvian Delusions

First of all, if you have not donated to the Red Cross or some other organization, do so. Please. If Eagles diva receiver Terrell Owens can sell his NFC championship ring and donate the proceeds to the relief effort, you can write a tiny little check or use your plastic online and give them something. And I don't wanna hear anyone say that this doesn't affect them. It does. 'Nuff said.

I have strenously avoided coverage of the disaster in New Orleans. I've read a few stories here and there, but I refuse to do much more than that. I can't. The grief I see in the people's eyes causes in me a real, physical pain that I can't handle. It started during the first Gulf War when I was in high school. I remember sitting at the dinner table and hearing Peter Jennings announce that our country was at war. I remember watching the nightly bombing raids, sometimes uncertain if what I was watching was real. At some point, I realized that people were dying as I was watching. Something happened to me then. I've always been very observant. I've always been able to read people's moods. I feel vibes. It's not Miss Cleo and friends psychic powers. It's something empathic. Who knows? Maybe it is something beyond the scope of what we think of as human abilities. Whatever it is, it's no joke. The feeling is more than the lump in my throat or the sting of tears. It's something crushing deep inside my chest. Something that isn't sorrow or pity. It's something I really can't quite describe. Physical pain from others' grief. They don't even have to be in the same room as me.

From what I've let myself take in, I think the actual storm was the least damaging part of this disaster. It's everything that's come out of the aftermath that's really mucking things up. Not to downplay what mother nature did, but had the funds to complete those levees not been divereted elsewhere, the pumping out might have begun much sooner. Hell, if those levees had been completed, we might not be facing the gargantuan task of rebuilding not only a city but millions of lives. I have also gotten very sick of the public bitching about the response from the government. Voters put Bush in office for another term and agreed to the public's anal raping by his administration for another four years. So stop complaining. If you're outraged, donate money, time, whatever and help make it better. Become an advocate for disaster preparedness. Whining in your blog about how poorly the government has dealt with this is not going to get anything done. Get your own hands dirty. Don't expect a government like this one to roll up its sleeves and be there for its people. We the common people of this country have no government.

I knew one person who many years ago, after a divorce, moved to New Orleans with two dogs and a cat who knew how to shake hands. Last I heard, the older dog, Whiskey, who was a collie-wolf mix, was terribly afraid of the firecrackers during Mardi Gras. Whiskey was old then. I suspect she's passed away. Cookie, an Australian shepherd with one brown eye and one blue eye, would be ancient by now if she's still around. The cat, Biscuit, a Maine Coon mix (this means he was a very large cat), would also be very very old. Older than my old mutt cat who recently passed away at 16 years old. I remember the animals better than I remember the woman. Her name was Yeddi. She was from somewhere in New England. I don't know if she was still in New Orleans or if she moved on or what. I hope she's safe.

But it doesn't matter if I knew anyone down there or not. It doesn't matter if I have a physical reaction to this kind of thing. It doesn't matter that the government fucked up. What matters is that people have lost everything. Can you imagine that? What would you do if you lost everything? Your house and everything in it, every possession that you couldn't pack into a car, every piece of precious junk you ever accumulated. It's all gone. What do you do? How do you move on? At this point, just moving on is an amazing feat. It doesn't matter if it's not done gracefully. Not at this point. But the rest of us can help.

So lastly, just as firstly, donate. Do something. Because I still have designs on a barstool and screwdrivers down there at some point. The life of a lush writer ...

No Plot? No Problem!

I just finished reading Chris Baty's book No Plot? No Problem!. Baty is the founder of National Novel Writing Month, and this book is his guide to getting though the month long challenge with some sanity in tact and a 50,000 word book to boot.

As we saw in my last post about the Snowflake Method for writing a novel, I tend to balk at writing methods. I wasn't reading this book for advice on how to write, though. I know what NaNoWriMo means for me as a writer. I wanted to know what the guy who came up with the crazy idea thought.

Baty offers advice on everything from how to get ready to how to celebrate when you're done, and he does so in a friendly, amusing tone. It's more like reading someone's journal than reading something like, say, John Gardner's book on writing fiction. These aren't rules so much as general advice. If you're nuts enough to do NaNoWriMo in the first place, chances are you don't need much advice. That doesn't make the read any less enjoyable. There are sidebars full of tidbits from actual participants. There's such enthusiasism in Baty's writing that if you haven't done NaNo, you want to. And if you have done it, you can't wait to do it again. Despite the fact that I found myself disagreeing with Baty's tips and tricks on pulling 50,000 words out of your ass in a month, I can't argue with the basic concept. Write because it's fun. Feel free to write shit because you can always fix the shit later if you're so inclined. The line that sticks out in my head the most is this: "Write your joy, and good things will follow." Truer words have never been written.

Baty's effort has another thing going for it that isn't quite as obvious as the text inside. According to Baty, No Plot? No Problem! is approximately 50,000 words long. I doubt he did it in a month, but that's not the point. Pick up the book. Flip through it. Heft it a little. That's the feel of 50k words in print. Lovely, isn't it? Makes you want to see your own 50k words in print, doesn't it? Well, first you have to write them. Read Baty's book then throw all the advice out the window. Wait impatiently until November 1st rolls around and then go for it.

Other books on writing that Raven recommends:
Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
Stephen King, On Writing
Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird