- This week will be the week that I FINISH MY CURRENT WIP’S FIRST DRAFT. Listen. That is cause for celebration. This year has been busy and noisy with doing all the preparing and work for the part that comes after the writing. Committing to the intent of seeking literary representation to publish. But the writing? It falls away. Slips through the cracks. Writing something new while still living with one foot somewhere else is like balancing yourself on a line that doesn’t stop moving. It’s clumsy and full of stop and starts and gets pretty dark and dangerously close to feeling impossible.
So, this month has been about detoxing. Stopping my hand from pouring energy into unproductive places and instead focusing what’s here on my burners. What I can tweak, change and taste. Getting to know Ana Maria, all her friends, and walking around this coastal, diverse, blue-collar town has let me reconnect with the writer who stares out windows while stitching together words. That’s where I am now. I’m writing and threading this impossible string through this story about townie girls falling in love and figuring out what it means to be in the part of life between when the first thing ends and the rest of your life starts. This is the story cut from a rib. Spanish dialogue without italicizing, complicated girls, best friends and a little bit of magic?
- And speaking of falling in love and remembering how to finish a first draft again, I’ve had help. I’ve had old school help in the form of a device that only does one thing.
I’ve made myself put down my spaceship phone, step away from the control center computer and pull out the classic iPod and ALPHASMART.AlphaSmart 3000, bitches.
It clicks and clacks and it’s just that greenish screen and me. The geeky 90s girl in me will always delight in these relics. These big, clunky techy pieces with their sturdy plastic and singular function. I write and I write and I don’t get hung up on details, and then I plug it in and watch the letters flow. Literally. I hit Send and the words just pour into Scrivener and the word count climbs and is this magic? Cause it sure feels like it.
- By that earlier picture you can see that I’m still watching Parks & Rec, and no I will not disclose how many times I’ve gotten to the end in that elevator and come back around to them worrying about the pit, but I am fitting new Fall TV into my diet and so many shows have fallen away to the place where I’ll binge them sometime in the future, but one that I HAVE to watch live is Doctor Who. After last week’s episode I’m firmly back in the TARDIS with the Twelfth Doctor. I was unsure, I’ll admit it. But because he’s been so unsure. Clara is getting to be a character instead of a mystery now, but she’s got a boyfriend drawing lines and projecting his crap on her, and I didn’t want her to become another man’s canvas. (A dude asks you, “We clear?” and you GTFO.) This impossible girl deserves more, and suddenly I saw it in this adventure with this Doctor. Her Doctor. This grumpy, hyper, posh Doctor who is trying to figure out this regeneration as hard as we are. I fell in love with this season on the Orient Express.
I love the young ones. The whimsical and dashing ones. The pained ones. I ship them all, waving my fangirl flag without shame as I bury it in the TARDIS and claim it as my own. But here we’ve got someone dark, carved and mysterious. And there’s no unringing this bell.