Ain't nobody got time for that.

After putting another 1200 words on "paper" this morning, I was perusing my news feed on Facebook when I came across this video.  I absolutely love this woman's attitude about getting sick.

After coming off the sinus infection train that has wiped out nearly my whole town over the past few weeks, I just want to share her optimism.  Maybe we all have a thing or two to learn from Sweet Brown.

Bronchitis:  Ain't nobody got time for that.

It's my new mantra.

I'm trying to wrap up this semester at school, but I'm completely lacking in any sort of motivation.  After deciding to change my major, I feel like a fool wrapping up my courses on Education.  The finals involve questions like, "Now that you've learned about the different philosophies of teaching, explain what your philosophy will be in regards to your own classroom?"

Or the ever-popular, "What are the most important things you will continue to learn throughout your educational career in regards the dynamics in your future classroom?"

And I'm thinking, "Jeez, lady, didn't you get the memo?  I'm not going to be a teacher.  I've changed my mind."

But they don't seem to care.

On a positive note which I'm certain is somehow related to my lack of motivation, however, the novel is coming along well, but the writing is sort of an addiction.  How do you keep yourself sane when you are working on a novel?  How do you not let it consume you?  Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly happy for the wild nights of writing abandon, but I'm starting to fall behind in the rest of life.  

Happy writing!

Busted: An A to Z Dropout.

I have no idea what letter of the alphabet I'm supposed to be using as today's prompt, but that's okay.  I'm sure somewhere in this post I will include each individual letter anyway, so let's just call it even.

Quiet, zebra.

(Covering all bases.)

The blog took a dive for a few days when I was sick, and bouncing back can be tough to do.  Of course it doesn't help that I continue to smoke when I'm sick.  Yes, I'm one of those people, hacking their brains out (from the sinus problem) while kicking back with chest-Vicks radiating throughout my passages, while lighting up.  I'm fairly certain a fruit fly has more common sense than we who call ourselves "mankind" (or "womankind," if you're into that sort of thing).  It's quite ridiculous.

In the meantime, another common mistake made by folks who swear they're "starting to feel better," I moved the living room furniture out to the porch AND planted a vegetable garden.  Not at the same time though.  I may be a domestic wonder, but I haven't figured out how to multitask that well yet.  I also changed my whole life's dream around, changing majors a mere month before I was to begin my bachelors in Education, but I feel really good about it.

Much to my dismay, getting a degree in Education became like pulling teeth.  And not just like pulling teeth, but pulling teeth and then going out and buying yourself some $2000 toothpaste.  Suddenly you look in the mirror and have that moment of, "Why?  Why am I doing this?"  The $2000 toothpaste tastes great, but you've got no teeth.  Similar concept.  I graduated with my AA last summer, then decided to go into Education, only to find I still needed four classes to get into the program I'd wanted:  Middle Grades Language Arts.  So I register for those four classes I needed and then come the classroom observations.  They make it sound so easy.  "Here, just print up this letter and take it around to each school you want to observe."  Fine.  Except it's like pulling teeth to actually get in to observe.  I found a way to beat the system was to simply "volunteer" in the classroom and write my observations later.  The schools are always looking for volunteers, because they are in dire need of assistance.  What they are not in dire need of, apparently, are people to sit in their classrooms and simply observe.  Point taken.

To top it all off, I found that out of the three grade-level schools at which I "volunteered," the one I disliked the most was middle school.  I remembered middle school English as analyzing the great classics.  Stephen Crane, Jack London, some Wordsworth thrown in for good measure.  Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, William Faulkner.  Instead, I sat in an 8th-grade English class where they read a piece of crap story from their piece of garbage textbook and had to answer some questions.  The story was something about ladybugs.  Non-fiction.  WARNING:  MIDDLE SCHOOL HAS COMPLETELY DUMBED DOWN FROM THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE THERE.  It was an embarrassment.

So now I'm stuck paying for four classes out of pocket because I am not considered a "degree-seeking student" because I'm not yet enrolled in the College of Education because I needed these four prerequisites before I can apply, AND, as if that weren't horrible enough, I just found out I've got no desire to teach 8th-grade students to read, or how to find the main idea, or John please turn off your iPod.  That absolutely was not what I'd had in mind.

I've got a son in 2nd grade.  There is a program at my school for Early Childhood Education, which would allow me to teach anything up to 3rd grade.  Okay, maybe I'll give that a shot.  Well guess what.  Now I've got another seven prerequisites I need to take before I can get in.  Thanks but no thanks.  That's not going to cut it, either.  I cannot go to school full-time and not receive my GI Bill.  Someone's gotta live around here, right?  I mean, I've got vegetable gardens to build, for crying out loud.

I put my thinking cap on and came up with a plan.  If all goes well, I'll be double-majoring in Homeland Security and Criminal Justice.  My fingers are crossed.

So yeah, maybe it wasn't the sinus garbage that kept me from blogging.  Maybe, in addition to writing my novel, I just got a bit too busy to pay attention to what letter of the month it was.  There's always next year.  For now, I'll leave you again with my thought for the day:  "Quiet, zebra."

Good zebra.

The Letter of the Day is L.

I wanted to write a whole post about lentils, but I know nothing about them so I decided to write about something that doesn't require a ton of research, and that's lovvvve.  In honor of L day, I'm pulling an old blog off my livejournal site.  It's about Poker Night, which has a P and an N but still no L, but be patient.  It's there.   :)


From April 19, 2010.


I love when my dog sits down while eating her breakfast out of her dish, as if the whole standing thing is just completely overrated, and also, exhausting.  

I'll be the first to admit that there have been times in my life when I've been quite cynical.  I've never been a relationship-basher, necessarily, but I've found myself in enough bad relationships to know that, sometimes, a person is better off alone.    

Then someone comes along that changes the whole perspective, and it's wonderfully scary.

Better still is when the one who comes along is nothing you were looking for, nothing you were planning on, yet they come into your life and from day one, you can't get them out of your head.  Even better than THAT is finding out they feel the same way about you.

There's a saying or something that says that the right person comes along when you aren't looking, or when you least expect it, and it's the truth.  It's the premise to almost every sappy romance movie out there, but I'm beginning to think that maybe those writers had it right, after all.

You're in a relationship with a guy who doesn't seem to care, and you reach a point where you've given up as well, but you just need to play out the last hand and make it official.  It's a Saturday night, and you'd planned on going out with this guy for a few drinks, some lively banter, and a few more drinks.  Typical.  Only, as is also typical, he calls you at the last minute and bails.  Something about being tired.  Again.

You're dressed and ready to go out, literally.  Pants and make-up are on, your hair is just right.  And then you remember an invitation.  Your best friend and her boyfriend had invited you and YOUR boyfriend down to their place for poker night.  It had been a well-received invite to you, but you'd written it off as something your part-time boyfriend wouldn't really be interested in, so you'd closed the door on it.  Now, however, it's a different story.  You wonder if you could still go solo, despite the late hour and the long drive ahead?

This internal decision takes minutes, so you're still standing in your bedroom when you call, feet planted in the very same spot you were standing when you got the voicemail from part-time boyfriend.  Your best friend answers the phone on the first ring.

Trying to hide the desperation in your voice, you ask her if poker night is still a go.  You tell her about the fucked-up voicemail from the part-time boyfriend, and she gives you directions to the new house you haven't yet been to, seeing as you've been busy wasting your time with other things.  The best friend isn't truly certain you're going to make it, which makes you that much more determined to go see her.  You Mapquest her address and you're out the door.

After an hour's drive, you arrive at best friend's house, and there he is.  He.  Him.  In a room full of people, he's there alone.  Your best friend doesn't yet notice your attraction as she introduces you to everyone.  Richard.  His name is Richard.  You tell yourself not to forget that.

You pick up bits and pieces about him, sifting thru the other information you're getting about the other people who, at this point, barely exist.  He's sitting alone at the poker table.  Not alone as in he's the only one at the table, but he's not there with anyone.  Richard.  You can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time, because you're feeling something.  And you're telling yourself that you shouldn't be feeling something, because technically you have a sometimes-boyfriend.  But, then again, isn't that just a technicality?

A few times, Richard asks you if you're going to come play poker.  You're standing in your best friend's kitchen, you might've even been in the middle of a conversation, who knows, but eventually you say yes.  Yes, you'll come play poker.  See you later, best friend.  Wish me luck...and I'm not necessarily talking about the poker game anymore.

Now you're sitting next to him.  NEXT TO HIM.  And your best friend is right...he really is cute.  He's from Alabama, you got that.  It makes sense with that accent.  Oh my God, that accent, and those eyes, Jeez.  You still can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time because your heart starts beating fast, it's this physical connection that you can feel, and it's making you crazy because you don't even feel that way toward your own boyfriend, so what the fuck is really going on?

When the night is over and all the money's been won, you're out on the porch, smoking, and you don't want him to leave, but his friend is leaving and he's got no ride.  For a moment, you share a look, it's all you can risk, you can't possibly ask him to stay, that's crazy, but you give him a look and in your head, you're thinking over and over and over "Don't leave.  Don't leave.  Don't leave."  And you think, just for a split second, that he can hear what you're thinking, because he's hesitating, too, and the night is over and there's really nothing left, but you don't want it to end.  And you keep thinking it over and over "Don't leave" as you're telling him goodbye and that it was nice to meet him, and then he leaves.

And no sooner does he get out the door than you say to your best friend and her boyfriend:  "Your friend, Richard, is lucky he left."

"Why?"  They both respond.

To which, you honestly reply, "Because if he hadn't, I think I would've made out with him."

They both raise their eyebrows in unison.  By God, you've just given them a mission.  Imagine your surprise when you find out the next day that Richard hasn't stopped talking about you, either.

:-)

Later days, people.  A trip to the store is calling my name.

Kinetic energy: In other words, poised for take off.

I used to blog in the afternoons, and it showed.  Since starting the April A to Z Challenge, however, I'd taken to blogging first thing in the morning in order to get it finished, allowing me to write in my free time throughout the day.

It only took me until yesterday, Day J, to realize that I was no longer happy with the blog output so early in the morning.  Turning it into a task was unfair, and I apologize to those of you to whom I've spammed the crap out of such trite reading.  (This would be you.)

This morning, I rearranged my schedule to allow me to work on my novel at 6am.  This was good.  I haven't reached the part in writing yet where the ether has worn off, so I'm happiest when I'm with "my peeps."  (Not an Easter pun.)  Before I knew it, 12:30pm had arrived.  No shit.  I greeted it with the same no-nonsense attitude, as in, "Twelve-thirty?  No shit."

I had made my way into Chapter Five, which is where I decided to stop for today.

After the baby went down for his nap, I gave myself the ol' pat on the back.  Investigation Discovery was showing a rerun on Guatemalan baby selling, you read that right, but I didn't have the mental energy to change the channel.  I ate my Dole's Pound o' Salad for lunch (that's not really what it's called) and over my crunching, I couldn't hear the television, anyway.

I pondered chapter five and realized that the minor bit of difficulty I'm having here lies in the fact that I'm introducing a character for the first time, and I think I need to spend a bit more time getting to know her before I proceed.  She's important, but she's not quite speaking to me yet.

I plan on getting her tipsy tonight and playing "Spin the Bottle."

Wait.  Those were my plans for the husband.  Right.

But it's there.  It's all right in front of me.  The majority of the story is written out longhand in my notebook.  The chapters are outlined (in a 6,000+ word outline, which says something, I think, about where this book is headed).  I've organized the actual timeline of the book by starting chapters, writing a brief blurb about the action that will take place within each.  It's actually happening.

Part of me is so angry for not trying this before.  Why, for the longest time, did I simply "want to write" instead of just grabbing this bull by the horns and doing it?

If you'll excuse me, it's time to put on a pot of decaf.  My friend is coming over, you know, and I need to get to know her.

Happy blogging!
Cherstin

Jabberwocky, and other assorted jive.

I have the feeling I'd be hard-pressed to find a reader who wasn't familiar with Lewis Carrol's "Jabberwocky" poem in all its nonsensical glory, but stranger things have happened.  In honor of the A to Z Blog Challenge, then, please allow me to take a moment to fill you in.


JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.



I memorized at least the first stanza when I was just a wee kid, and I remember belting it out while running around my house in my Underroos, thinking I was somebody.  I had no idea what the poem was about, and probably mistook the nonsense words as being words I simply wasn't familiar with at that age.

Where was my vorpal sword?

Yeah, Underroos were awesome.

Which leads me into today's thought for the day.  Lewis Carroll did it, as countless others have done:  suspending the readers' disbelief.  Lewis Carroll did it so well that readers can imagine exactly how that terrifying Jabberwock looks.  Smells.  Sounds.

I began an account at Goodreads dot com, where I started rating books I've read.  I noticed, across 90 books, my average rating is 4.19 out of 5 stars.  Logic tells me there are not that many great books out there statistically.  How did I get so lucky with my reading choices?  I'll tell you.  Because if a book doesn't grab me out of my chair and pull me into the pages within the first five minutes, I'm done.  And, of course, those that I simply walked away from, I don't have the heart to give a permanent one-star review.  Maybe that particular book or author just didn't resonate well with me, a mere one person out of a planet of 6 billion.

What is your strategy for making it through a book that doesn't grab you within the first few pages?  And writers, when building your novel, how close to the action do you begin in order to set that hook?

Thanks for reading!  Put on your Underroos and let's write.  Together.

There is no I in Team.

"I" is for ... well, it's turning out to be a tricky little turd.  When the alarm clock went off this morning, stumbling to the porch I came, notebook, outline, Nook, and pen in hand.  In doing a little soul-searching of words beginning with the letter I, one thing and one thing only topped my list of subjects to ponder today.

I'm assuming we're all on Facebook, correct?  From my mother, stepfather, son, guy that sat next to me in College Algebra two or three semesters ago, I'm pretty sure we're all somehow connected through Facebook.  Well, I happened to be perusing my news feed yesterday morning when I came across a post from LitReactor.  I am a huge Chuck Palahniuk fan, and LitReactor is a great place to go (or to follow on Facebook) for all things Palahniuk-related.

One of his literary techniques that resonates so deep within my happy place is his use of the first-person, and one of his essays on the subject was reopened yesterday, entitled, "Submerging the I."  Throughout the short essay, he talks about how to write in the first person without the reader being bombarded with I-this and I-that.  He sneaks up on his readers, if you will, and by the time they realize they are listening to a character narrate the story, the reader is already completely submerged.  The last thing on their mind now is turning around and getting the hell out of there; they've got to see how the whole thing turns out.

It's brilliant.

Brilliant, but extremely risky.

(And a huge, HUGE disclaimer here, folks.  If you're considering clicking this link to read Chuck Palahniuk's essay, "Submerging the 'I,'" please do so at your own risk.  Chuck is, well, Chuck.  The content of the short story included with this essay--the short story he has written and is referencing throughout the article--is chock-full of things that will keep you up at night.  He is the king of "body horror."  Do not click this link if you are easily disturbed.)

Click here to read Palahniuk's essay, Submerging the "I"

(That being said, he is one of my all-time favorites for the way he uses words to grab hold of the reader.  He'll take you on one helluva ride, that's for sure, but click soon.  Link will open in a new window, but it's only open for another four days.)

Although I've got two or three chapters of my novel down so far, I'm still having a hard time trying to figure out which character's point of view I want to use to tell the story.  It's been fun trying to figure it out.  I think back to things I don't like when reading, and this includes a technique that Stephen King has employed in the past:  the "book within a book" idea.  He used it in Misery, when we read what Paul had been writing for the next book in his "Misery" series, and I believe he used something similar in Dolores Claiborne, or maybe it was simply chapters of flashback that were in that one.  I can't remember.  I just know that I don't want to do that.

It does work for ol' Stephen King in his Dark Tower series, however, when he tells the story of Susan in book three, Wizard and Glass.  The difference, however, is that he begins a new chapter with the premise of Roland telling the story to Eddie, Jake, Oy, and Susannah in the present.  It works.  It's not just a flashback, or even a "story within a story."  It works because it becomes a part of the present-day story.  It's smart, in a nutshell.  It's smart, and it works.

So yes.  I'm one week into writing my novel, and now I'm rolling up my shirtsleeves and getting down to the business side of things.  I'm still scratching notes down on paper, I'm still writing some scenes, but now I'm getting to the fun part of taking what I've imagined and building it into something that is going to work.

Short stories are much easier to find your narrative character and decide from which viewpoint to tell the story, but I'm finding this novel business--when I'm faced with 3 relatively important characters, subplots that exist outside the main timeline of the main plot, and the problem that, initially, the three characters are unaware of each other--becomes a little more difficult to decide how to get each of their stories told without confusing the reader.

But, the point is, I'm learning.  I'm researching, I'm trying new things, I'm bending the rules, and I'm learning.

The things I've now learned thus far:
1.  Start with a small idea and a small bit of organization.
2.  Make a timeline, if that's your thing, but don't carve it in stone.  It's going to change, but it's a good way to keep in mind the point at which you'd LIKE your novel to end, and it allows you to see how your character is going to have to change across plot.  It might allow you to set up some stumbling blocks for your character if you have some idea which direction he or she is headed.  Again, a timeline or an outline is not set-in-stone, so don't treat it as such, but it might help you as mine have helped me.
3.  Once you have taken notes and have a pretty good idea of what is going to happen to these characters along the way, now is the time to get out the hammer and nails and start to think about structure, along with other literary-related topics.  No longer WHAT do these characters need, but now HOW are they going to tell their story to the world?

Wishing you all a terrific day, and happy writing!

Cherstin

Hark! It is the sound of a Novel being born.

I want you to know I've never done this before.

I'm just a girl who started with an idea and ran with it.

I hated English in junior high and high school.  As a matter of fact, I failed English two semesters of 8th grade, but passed with a D, thanks to my grades in the other two semesters.

It wasn't that I couldn't do it.  I could.  But there was so much I misinterpreted about the lessons being taught to me by my 8th-grade English teacher.

I thought I was being forced taught to believe that writing was cut and dried, black and white.  I thought that's what he was trying to communicate to me.  When it came time to study symbolism, for example, we went over the short stories of Stephen Crane; an excerpt from one of his novels, The Red Badge of Courage.

We learned that the color red always stands for blood.  We learned that any character with the initials J.C. is an automatic representation of Jesus Christ.  We memorized the concept that nature always meant "the unknown, something to be feared."

I misunderstood.  I thought that meant always always.


I began to imagine those early writers then, no longer just telling a story, but trying to force some sort of hidden code on me.  It cheapened writing for me.  My misinterpretation came in because I never picked up on the fact that symbolism is nothing more than a literary criticism of a work.

I began trying to decipher everything I'd ever read, and suddenly nothing made much sense anymore.

At 13 years old, I probably weighed all of 85 pounds, and I'm fairly certain I gave my English teacher a bit of hell those two semesters.

I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I'd muttered this is stupid under my breath fifteen times in a single class period.

Because I didn't want writers to have an agenda.  I didn't want writers to have a formula for their work.

Formulas were for math, not English.  Enough said.

Fast-forward to the summer between 10th and 11th grades, and there I sit, in summer school because I failed to complete a book report in my 10th-grade English class.

I'd read this wonderful book.  I can still remember the title:  Reindeer Moon.  It's been 22 years since, and I can still remember how much I enjoyed the book.  What I did not enjoy, however, (and what I refused to do that landed me in summer school) was to pick apart someone else's work with a fine-toothed comb, and lay it out for everyone to see.

Dissection was for biology, not English.  Enough said.

I walked around with a chip on my shoulder regarding English until I started college.  It was my 21st birthday, and rather than going out and getting shitfaced with my friends, I sat in my first-ever college class.  Biology, from what I remember, but I also took ENC 1101 that semester, and 1102 the following semester.

And I loved it.

I loved it, but I had no idea what to do with that passion, other than jump back into reading.

In 2009, I went back to school to take a few courses in Creative Writing.

And now, I'm writing my novel.

Just a woman with a dream.  An idea.  A start to something.  And I worked it, like Play-Doh.  Or maybe a sick pair of heels.  Whichever.  They both amount to the same.

How to Write a Novel:

Step One - Prepare to piss off everyone you know in different ways.  Maybe they're pissed because you're no longer answering your phone.  No longer doing the dishes.  No longer changing your clothes.  Trust me, it's not that that will bother them.  What they really don't understand is why now?  Why the sudden intensity?

Yesterday, you were someone's wife.  Best friend.  Confidante.  Shopping partner.  The person they sat next to in class.

Today, you are a novelist.  There is a difference.

Step Two - Be prepared to put the rest of your life on hold.  Sure there are certain things that can't wait, and taking care of the baby is one of them.  But others?  Let the dishes pile up.  Same with the laundry.  Your characters are not going to mill around in your mind forever.  Eventually, they're going to get bored and they're going to get back to doing whatever it is that they do.  Your mind is the trap, and you need to lure them, get them there, confine them for a bit, write about them, then let them go periodically throughout the day.  When they come back again, lingering, capture them again.  Write about them.  What is different about them since this morning?  Get it on paper, then feed the dogs, water the plants, go to the bathroom.  Whatever it is that you do.

Step Three - Welcome the changes.  You have a brilliant idea, obviously, or you wouldn't be reading this.  You think your idea is completely set in stone.  You have a point A and a point B, and all you need to do is fill in the details, the in-betweens.

Wrong.  Maybe.

Be prepared that things might change.  You're going to have other ideas.  Your characters may not act as well as your children do.  (Or maybe they do.  Parents?  Raise your hands.  You're the first to know that plans are for the birds.  You try to stick to a timeline, telling your friend you'll meet them for coffee and a play date at 11am.  When you roll in at 1:30pm with a lollipop stuck in your hair, a bee sting swelling up the left side of your face, a donut tire on your left rear passenger wheel, and your clothes are on backward, you realize those were the cards you were dealt.  That fiasco was what was really in store for you that day.  You roll with it.)  You now have your 1:30pm play date, an ice pack held to your face, and the play date is much more interesting now that you've conquered all these unforeseen circumstances, right?  Right.  Now write that way.

Step Four - What, you thought there was more?  There's not.  Not yet, anyway, not from me.  I'm only on chapter three.  But you?  Enjoy the creativity.  Enjoy the language.  Enjoy the brainstorming.  Enjoy it all.  If you aren't, put it down for a while.  Catch up on that laundry, those dishes.  Keep a notepad handy for those seemingly random thoughts that will hit you at the most inopportune moments (think:  bathroom-related).

It's all about the journey.

Enjoy it.

Til next time,
Cherstin