Reporting In

In the voice of Sheriff Andy Taylor: "Whoo wee, I've had me a time!"

For those of you who know me, or are on my Facebook page, you know what I'm talking about. Two kidney stones less than a week apart. The second one causing a U.T.I.  I did something mysterious to my back during the last kidney stone exit that had me pretty  much bed fast for over 2 weeks. 

The chiropractor traded in their Honda for a Lexus.

Ha, just kidding. Sorta.

My poor  massage therapist's hands are wore plumb out.

I have missed four Sundays worth of church, and didn't see my Mother for nearly that long.

She wasn't very happy about that, she's used to seeing me at least once a week. 

I missed meetings and fun stuff, including celebrating my 34th wedding anniversary and my 65th birthday. 

Well, the birthday miss maybe was a good thing. Maybe I can ignore it happened.

I obviously haven't blogged. I haven't worked on the novel I thought I'd be progressing nicely in. 

You know you're in bad shape when you cancel the cleaning ladies because you can't stand the thought of noise and people, so you'll just live in the dirt. 

Dirt is easier to wallow in, anyway.

But I'm better now. Still not 100% as they say, but hopefully headed that way.

Who knows? I may start ripping through that novel soon.

Is There An Editor In The House?

As I am about 90 pages into writing my next novel, and haven't touched it much in a few weeks because of hospitals, blah,blah,blah, I found myself a little confused about the timeline of the story.

Of course the rational thing to do is start reading the manuscript, clean notebook pages to the side for notes; and while you're at it, might as well get out the dreaded red pencil.

Well, the red pencil has been hard at work. I knew in the back of my mind I was going to make a major change regarding language, but really, really dreaded going back and making those changes.

At any rate, I'm plodding through it.

The good news is, I think this is a pretty funny book! I like it! 

Now, if only you do.

If I ever finish it, that is.

Cross your fingers, say a prayer and root for me, okay?

Thanks.

Carpel Tunnel Rules!

Raise your hand if you have Carpal Tunnel.

Ha! Trick question. If you have Carpal Tunnel, you can't raise your hand. (well, maybe some of you can, beats me.)

It is one of the minor ailments I have, but after working on my book yesterday and getting eight pages done, Carpal Tunnel wasn't so  minor.

If you are a writer, contemplate this: How easy is it to read eight pages of a novel versus to write eight pages of a novel? And, no, don't send your therapist's bill to me.

It's like comparing having to floss versus a root canal.

Don't be a writer unless you just hafta.

But the trip is exhilarating. You go into 'flow' and don't know where the time goes. One has a great sense of accomplishment when the rush is over. As  you read what you've done, edit as you go, and then let it get 'cold' for further editing, it does feel like you are on top of the world.

That  may not last long; however. Like when you go back and read it after it's 'cold' and you say, "What the heck does that  mean? Can I really not spell anything correctly?"  Etc.

Still, this past week I have accomplished a great deal. Searching all through this stupid computer to find hidden poems, essays and short stories that for some reason were filed in a hundred different places; compiling them into one file and printing them out so I can actually see what I have was very satisfying. As was working on my current novel. 

Who knows? Someday you may be forced have the privilege of reading this load of junk fascinating collection.

Until then, somebody get  me the ice pack. My arm is killin' me.

EEEEEEEE Books

So, like, this old dog (me) is trying to learn a new trick.

Woof.

I had a very generous young man attempt, with more patience than you can shake a stick at (can you shake a stick at patience?) to teach me how to convert one of my novels to an e-book.

Easy! You say. People do it all the time! You say.

Those may very well be true statements. I don't really know. I am almost positive they are true statements if the people you speak of are under, say forty.

Ever since they entered the workforce, part of the "force", is being forced (or as far as they are concerned, insert play for force) to use technology. It's second nature to those in their mid-thirties downward.

I hatessss them all, my precious.

Well, except for the nice young man who has, with more slow speaking, repeating language than a kindergarten teacher with a room full of just-off the-turnip-truck students. Who maybe don't speak the same language as the teacher. Plus, they are wearing ear plugs.

Sigh.

However; believe it or not, progress is being made!

I converted my novel into an e-book! But the format was all wrong! Too much empty space! Nothing should be centered on the page! All fonts should be the same! The indention for each paragraph was too big! No page numbers!

So, my font is now uniform. I have cleaned up empty space through Chapter Eight. Also,through chapter eight, things are not centered, the paragraphs are the correct indentations.

Ah, but the page numbers? No, sir. I click on remove page numbers. I hear laughter. Ain't gonna happen, not no how, not no way.

I guess I will be calling my patient young man again.

He told me to, anyway, as soon as I got all that mess cleaned up. And I will finish.

Eventually.

The Long Or Short Of It

Here is a little preview of something I've been working on.

My questions are:

1. Is it worth it?

2. Beginnings of a novel or "just" a nice short story?

Who knows, as I asked the other day.

Here goes:

          As he put the car in a lower gear to climb the ever steepening rise of the road, the whole town came suddenly into focus. It was as if a magician had pulled back a curtain and revealed a hidden secret.  And with its appearance, every memory he had hidden from himself for the last twenty years rose to the surface, much like the town had done.

          He took in the bridge, the steeple and the old houses in one swift gaze. Beyond, the entire town was surrounded by the mountains that were at this moment in all their autumn glory. The evening sun shone on them, lighting them with fire from within.

          The little town was where his parents had been born and were raised. All his family had gone there for holidays and summer stays.

          He could never imagine actually living there, but he could not imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

          So many good things were there, including his first love. He could smile and remember how it felt to hold her in his arms. Their first kiss still made a sharp pang zing through his heart.

          Some friends were gone. One lost to a raging storm off the coast, another to a raging storm inside his own body.

          Ready or not, he was here and prepared to stay.

          At least for a while.

Whadda ya think?

Home Alone

I am almost never home alone. Husband is retired (as am I), and Daughter goes to school locally and lives at home.

But today, Husband is gone out of town and Daughter is gallivanting, as youth are wont to do.

I opted to stay home instead of go with Husband, which is a rare thing. But going to the movies last night sort of did me in, and I thought it would be nice to have some of that alone time everyone is so in awe of.

It's been pretty nice, actually. I've eaten when and what I wanted (but I'm hungry again), I've done a little cleaning (very little), I've played scrabble on line, I've worked on my novel and right now, as soon as I finish this masterpiece, guess what?

That's right.

I'm taking a nap.

Talking to Myself...

I was on my knees, bent over the faucet in the bathtub washing my hair. I was thinking, and said aloud, "Oh, no!"

I didn't know anyone was around until I heard Husband say, "Do you need my help?"

I laughed and said no, I was talking to myself.

You see, it started out innocently enough. A name struck a chord within me and a short story evolved. At least I thought  it was a short story.

I had it all tied up neatly, a cute ending, everything just so.

And suddenly, the next day, while I was washing my hair, a second "chapter" if you will, started forming in my head.

Musta been cause I was turned upside down.

My just finished novel isn't even cold. It's in the proofing/editing process, not ready to offer as a sacrifice to my publisher yet.

And here I am, my brain hearing characters hollering around at each other in my poor head.

It's sort of like having a newborn and finding out you're pregnant again.

I'm not ready.

Like that  matters.

A Year Later...

Last January I started writing two different stories. One progressed faster than the other, and I had written twenty plus pages when the other story took hold and took off.

Last  night, a year later, I finished this story. It is just over two-hundred pages long. As you can imagine I am quite excited.

Today I got it printed with a three hole punch done to the side and put it in a binder so I can begin to proof and edit.

This is hard work. It is annoying. It is frustrating.

Before I'm through with it, I will be sick of the book.

And then, when I think I've perfected it as much as humanly possible, someone else will look at it for me and find all sorts of errors.

And after they finish with it, someone else will read it, and find more mistakes.

I will let it sit "cold" for a while. Then I'll go back and read it again, and you won't believe this, but I'll find more errors.

And sure as shootin', after the story becomes a real live book in print, I'll read it proudly for the first time....and find an error.

It never fails.

Diana Gabaldon, one of my favorite authors, says when one closes the cover of a novel the errors reproduce.

I believe it!

But for now, the printed pages lie pristine between a binder's covers, full of hope and satisfaction.

Just waiting on me to begin.

The most perfect time for the book, because it is newborn.

I can hardly wait to hold it.

The Home Stretch

I can see the end. I am on the home stretch. Within about fifty pages, more or less, I will probably be finished with my first draft of my next novel.

I think, for the moment, it is going to be about a two hundred page book, which is a good sized read.

Although for me, when one of my favorite authors writes a really big novel, I get all a'quiver inside because I loooove big books.

That's reading them, not writing them.

In my experience, a book writes itself and will be as long as the story it has to tell.

I know you have read books where there is obviously filler, or the ending of the story just stops, or is lame.

I've read very good books until the last chapter or so, or even the last few pages, and the author makes ruination out of something that was pretty good.

I hope I never do that.

Anyway, once the first draft is complete (or I think it's complete - I thought "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" was finished three or four times), the hard work begins.

Proof reading. Editing. Yuck.

And after I've done it myself, ad nauseum, I humbly ask others to do the same for me.

I would never send something unpolished to the publisher. I want it neat and complete.

I will hope not to get grumpy, not to become obsessed, and just be focused on the job.

Yeah. Right.