Hair pulling and James Patterson

I want to pull my hair out. And not fist fulls of hair. Just one strand at a time to prolong the frustration.

What a frustrating process. I am beginning to wonder why I started writing in the first place. Grrr. Nothing is magically flowing from my fingers to create anything, well...magical. Grrr.

And by the way while I am ranting. I hate James Patterson. What the hell? Has anyone noticed how many books a month that man puts out? Seriously. Every time I open Amazon peruse new kindle books there he is right on the front page NEW JAMES PATTERSON NOVEL.

Does he have an army of minions caged in his basement being forced as slaves to write for him? How does he do it? Really, I want to know. In the time I have been writing alone he has published FIFTY NINE books.

Yeah you read me right. FIFTY NINE BOOKS since December 2009. Son of a bitch!

How??? I don't understand. I cant get one out. It makes me want to cry. I wonder if he leases his minions? But that probably costs a very shiny penny. All of my pennies are kind of ugly and have stuff stuck to them.

Don't get me wrong now, I am thrilled with how my book is starting. And that's the problem. The beginning is great. But it's a new tone and that leads to different plot developments. So while I have a beginning that I am excited about I don't know where to take it...and thus the one strand at a time hair pulling.

I hate plot development. It sucks.

I believe that there are two kinds of books out there. (If you wonder if I make this shit up as I go...I do.)

There are what I call 'surface books' and 'involvement books.'

Surface books are books that if you don't look too closely or spend time analyzing them they are a pretty good story. But once you look beyond the surface (get it?) the story is week and unsupported.

Involvement books are stories that no matter how involved you get, the story stands up strong and you can look as deep as you want and nothing falls apart. Think Harry Potter or Game of Thrones.

Sadly I am currently in the former instead of the latter. So my little brain continues to mull until the answer comes. So if your talking to me and I look like I am not paying attention. I'm not. I'm thinking about more interesting things.

Back on the rant. I like George R. R. Martin so much better than James Patterson. The last book George published was five years ago. That is a much more realistic timeline than the Evil James Patterson. And the worse part about the all mighty Mister Patterson is he doesn't publish crap.

However there is a twinge of bitterness with George. I happen to be enjoying Game of Thrones and I wish he was more like Mr. Patterson and published the last two books by the end of September. Hear me George? I don't like waiting. Patience was never my favorite virtue.

Okay. Deep breath... 

Maybe some day I will write something about kittens, and flowers. But not today. Today its bitter and angry. Today it's Evil James Patterson. Maybe tomorrow...But I wouldn't bet on it.

Reading and Writing

Again I have been a bad blogger. Slap the back of my hand and send me to the corner.

But I haven't been posting for good reasons. I have been busy writing and reading.

I have been working on expanding my horizons. I have been exploring more genres. Stepping outside of my comfort zone and reading book I never would have expected.

Case in point:

I recently finished Beyond the Highlander Mist. Okay, I will wait while you skip over to Amazon look it up, read the synopsis and let your mouths hit your keyboards...

Tap, tap, tap. Look at imaginary watch on my wrist. Roll my eyes impatiently, scratch my head and heave a great sigh.

Back?

Yes, I know. Shake your head, blush for me and squirm appalled in your seat. I read a romance novel cover to cover. It was very lusty and there was lots of purring. But all in all it was a good book.

This was the debut novel for Karen Marie Moning. If you have been with me this whole time you will have read my review of the Fever Series. This is same author that took me down the romance isle at Barns and Noble. I was curious what her version of a romance novel, was considering Fever was not close to lusty yearnings.
To her credit it was completely different. BHM was sort of a prequel to the Fever series and shared a few of the same characters, which was a surprise. I had no idea.

Another reason to read BHM? It was a debut novel. It was a great learning experience to read the first book an author published and the most recent. If you know what your looking for you can see the author learning and evolving through their writing.

Moving on. I have never been a fantasy reader. I find fantasy novels to generally be more complicated than 'As the World Turns.'  But several people insisted that I read Game of Thrones.
So bravely I did...and what a pleasant surprise it was to find myself getting really involved with the characters and the story.

I will admit there are some parts that aren't for the happy go lucky readers. Bad things happen to good characters  and some ceremonies will make people put the book away in a deep forgotten corner never to be picked up again. If you are not easily offended Game of Thornes offers a lovely ride of adventure through politics, war, betrayal and yes, incest. Gross. My kindle tells me I am only 61% through. So I will be a bit for a thorough review.

Now on to my writing. It's going so well!! Some of you will be shocked to know that I have shared the first twenty thousand or so words with people that have previously never read one word from this particular story. The feed back I have received has been more positive than I could have hoped for. This is good, very good.

I am so please with how well the story is evolving. There are a lot of rough patches that need to be smoothed out and holes that need to be plugged but that will come. I have no fear. I finally have a publishable story!!

I have also taken the stress out of it. I am not working on it every day either. I am letting it come. I am letting my thoughts and ideas work themselves out in my head before I put fingers to keyboard. That was a hard thing to do. Not sit down with it every night and force a few words out. It was like weening myself off an addiction. There was headaches, frustration and sweating...or maybe that's the humid heat I hate so much? Anyway, the story is coming freely and easily. Yay!

Now for an announcement. Drum roll, breathless anticipation, eager bodies waiting not so patiently. I officially have a title! Isn't that great!!  It took so long to find a title I really loved. A title that sets the right tone. That brings you into the story before you open the flap to read the synopsis. This is a title that grabs you, and keeps you. (I hope.)

Bet you want to know what it is, don't cha?

It is so not easy

It's harder than you think. To write a story. To create an entire world. Even if it is based on this reality.

Writing a book is creating a life inside your head. A life full of complicated relationships, and problems.

To say that your going to sit down and write a book, story, article or poem because it's easy is nearsighted.

I know because I said that and it's difficult for others who don't write to understand.

My poor friends. I will go to work and say things like, "I changed my main characters name."
After writing five hundred thousand words with her original name. Some of them look at me and are encouraging. "That's great. I like the new name so much better."
Others roll their eyes and I can see the question on their faces. "Why cant she just finish the book and get it over with?"

I wish it was that easy. I wish I could just finish it and get it published.

I did it again today. I changed the name of my main character. It was stale and too young for the turn that my story has taken. I got the same looks and same encouraging lines. Except for A. I know I have said it before, but my writing buddy needs to be blessed for putting up with me.

I have made some serious changes, and added a whole new level of darkness.
What people have a hard time understanding is that it's a process. The basic story has stayed the same, but it has evolved beyond anything I could have hoped for.

Each time I make a change I hope it's the last but I know it wont be. If I don't adapt to the story it will die and never be published.
So I've started to think of my writing like working in the kitchen.

Some times there are a lot of dirty dishes and messy spots that need to be cleaned up . Some times it's like trying to catch water in a colander. Sometimes it's like putting chili on the stove and letting it simmer, taste testing it. Adding spices and tasting again.

Other times it's like batching a giant batch of cookies. Putting a dozen in at a time checking the temperature, and making adjustments.

One day the chili will be spicy enough, the cookies will bake perfectly and I can plug the colander.

I will get published. I will have a well spiced, perfectly baked, nonleaky book. Someday...

Her name was Hilde

I see weird shit at my job and I work in one of the strangest towns.

Case in point:

I was doing my thing. Standing at my computer screen, watching the monitor flip from facial view, to over view every two seconds. I saw the van approach. It was a monster. One of those seventies fifteen passenger vans. It slowly pulled up to the speaker box and I greeted the woman on the phone.
I asked her what she wanted, she asked for three tickets cause she had a gold card. Okay, whatever.
She's on her phone trying to figure out what to order while the cars are stacking up behind her and I am fairly impatiently waiting for her to pull it together and order.

That's when I saw it. A fuzzy long curved up neck. 

The screen flipped to overview before I could confirm what my crazy brain processes the image, cause there is no way I saw what I thought I saw.
The screen flipped back to the woman and she starts ordering and I am sure I was imagining things cause whatever it was was gone. I'm confused, she's confused and we're having a hard time understanding each other. She's on the phone trying to figure out what she is supposed to be ordering and I am going, "NO WAY!" In my head over and over.

She ordered, and ordered and I saw it again. 

"There is a llama in the back of that van." I jumped pointing to the screen as it flipped to overview. Everyone at my store looked at me like I was crazy. I'm not offended, they do that a lot.
I got a few, "Ha, ha, yeah rights" and "It's a dog." Nope. I'm sticking to my guns. It was a llama.

The screen flipped back and again the llama is gone. I looked at everyone again.
"I swear to god, there is a llama in the back of her van."
Still stares of craziness heading my way.
She finishes her order and pulls up to the window. By now there are several people behind her waiting to get through.

Sure enough the old brown and gold van stops at my window, and there it is. A llama, wandering around the back of the van that has been customized (I can only assume for the comfort of the llama) so that there is just space in the back of the van.
The woman has a conversation with me as if the there is nothing odd about what is going on.
I asked about the llama, who I don't think liked me very much because it kept showing me it's recently shaved rear end.

The woman told me the llama was one of her babies and she took her every where.
And if your thinking why not get a dog to cart around. She had one. A poodle, that was sitting very stately on the front seat staring at me is if I was the bane of it's existence.

The woman took her coffee and drove off like any other normal day. And I am left standing there saying, "There was a llama in the back of that van."
Course when I turned around to face my coworkers I wasn't the crazy one anymore.
By the way, her name was Hilde.

Okay I know...I'm lame.

I will admit that I haven't been a very good blogger as of late. But my poor little brain has been over worked. I have been stressing about my lackluster writing and my failure to strike the right tone. 
But then I had this conversation with my mother. You might have read. Then I joined a few writing fourms.

There are some amazing writers out there and I have had the wonderful opportunity to read pieces from people who are far more intelligent than I.
Then I began to write a satire. It's going well, there are fear farts. And then...I was driving to meet my girlfriend and I was thinking about the tone. I was actually seriously considering tabling the entire manuscript for a while. Let my brain rest, take a little R and R.

Then I was thinking I needed to rethink the entire plot. Keep the characters the same, but do a massive overhaul.

And then it happened. An entirely new beginning came to me. A whole new version. Different place, different writing style and a vision popped into my head.

I sat down at the coffee shop and told my girlfriend that I was going to set my story aside and give it some time, all the while my brain kept playing the vision over and over. She looked at me surprised but accepted my decision.

So I did. I put it aside, I didn't think about it. I shelved it...for about thirty seconds.
I wrote the vision, and then I wrote some more. Then I went home and I continued to write and write and one week later I have over nine thousands words that feel good. Really good. Like I want to share it good.
Someone is going to get to see it other than the two people that have already read it. My sister, hated it so I know I am off to a good start.

And now I'd like to say stay tuned for a playful little story about Poot. The Wobbleweeble.

I cant believe you just said that!

I have been in a little bit of a writing slump these last few weeks and I have been itching to write something, little did I know all I need to do was call my mom. Poof. A short conversation was born for one of my side projects. Now the actual conversation I had with my mother included ‘other things’ that I really didn’t want in my book. As inappropriate as I can be, (Shock? Shouldn’t be.) there are just somethings that I am NOT going to talk about on my blog, or in my books.
Crap, I am showing restraint…I’m not going soft I swear! No really!
Don’t look at me like that. Pot calling the kettle black. Yeah that’s right, you know who you are.
Anyway the following is something that I will most likely include in my book about a girl named Willa Cross.
　
Today sucked. Bottom line.
Whenever I am scraping the bottom of the sucky barrel and need a little perspective on life I call my mom. She never fails to disappoint.
“Hey, mom.” I sighed into the phone when she picked up. Big surprise, she’s distracted.
“Oh, hi honey.” At least she’s happy to hear from me. “Remember don’t wear your panties tomorrow.”
“What!” I cried. I actually let the phone fall to my side and I blushed with my eyes squeezed shut. I took a deep breath and put the phone back to my ear. “Why wouldn’t I wear panties tomorrow?”
“What?” She turns her attention back to me.
“You just told me not to wear panties tomorrow.” I said.
“Oh, honey.” She sighed as if I should know better. “I was talking to yours sister.”
“What!” I cried again. My younger sister is so innocent angels look to her for inspiration.
“We’re trying on dresses.” Mom told me cheerily.
“And why are we not wearing panties?” I pinched my nose. I’m getting a headache. Suddenly my problems don’t seem so bad and I would rather wallow in my misery than learn why my virgin sister isn’t wearing panties tomorrow. But I’m an idiot and I asked anyway.
“Why not?” She asked.
“You know what, never mind.” My eyes hurt from rolling so much in such a short period of time. “I gotta go.”
“Okay.” Mom is missing my thoroughly annoyed tone. “No, no, no. If your going to do that wear that red one, the one that looks like the devil.”
“Huh?” I am so lost in this conversation.
“What? Oh, you didn’t hang up? I was saying if she has to wear underwear she should wear the red thong-”
I hung up. Slumping down on my couch, I realize yet again, my life isn’t as bad as I thought.

Untitled Poem

Do you know what today is? Most likely not. We remember our past presidents, the brave military boys that died for us, we remember heroes, tragedies and victories. We celebrate them by giving them a day and we mark it on the calendar. We drink to them, we feast to them, we remember them. But today? It’s not even a blip on your radar, is it?

May Fifteenth was designated as National Law Enforcement Memorial Day by President Kennedy in 1962 and this is how I feel about it.

Is it quiet in the locker room? Is their friendly banter?

Do they think of their wives? Do they look at pictures of their children?

Or do they hum the tune to their favorite song?

Do they know if tonight is the night they will pull the trigger as the gun sinks on their hips?

When they don the uniform that binds them as brothers, do you know the weight they feel?

It's not the undershirts that keeps the sweat away, or the ballistics vests the keep their hearts safe.

It's not the blues, greens, and black

Colors that signifies unending bond. Or the belts with their tools of the day.

Their guns, tasers, capsicum spray. The handcuffs, the back ups, the magazines that keep others bullets at bay. The batons, the knives, the gloves.

Even with all that, all that they carry, do they feel the weight?

It's when they button their shirts, straiten their badge does the weight fall.

It's their life they feel so heavy.

You spit, you spray.

You shout, you scream.

You accuse, and point.

You cuss, you threaten, you kill them with your eyes.

It's their fault you got pulled over. It's their fault you disobeyed. It's their fault that you were caught.

You blame them, you fight them.

You take their lives away.

And when the true evil touches your lives, when it grazes the cheeks of your sleeping child

You pick up the phone and call

Beg them to save your precious possessions, and your expensive things.

You forget the threats, you forget the dead.

You just want them there. With their badges, their guns, their lives.

How easily you forget the sacrifice they make. Not one day, not ten, not a thousand days, but every day, They come.

They come when we want them, they come when we need them,

These hero's of the night.

When you cry out for help, and when no one is brave to aid, they will come.

When fear makes you run, they will come.

When you shoot at them, when you throw bottles, knives, bats alike, they will come.

They run to your side, and not away. Protect you with their bodies.

Do you really know who they are? Do you really know what they do?

They foot pursue down the dark dangerous ally. They creep along, heavy wooded lines looking for what they cant find.

Into drug filled houses, with what the dogs and cats leave behind. Children sitting in their filth for a time.

Into fire fights, into domestic fights, into bar fights.

Into the world of the rich right down to the poor.

Don't judge the ones that will stand without fear for you.

You drive by them, ignore them. You tell them what to do.

When will you be ready to take their place? When will you stand for needles to the face?

Will you spill your blood? Will your spouse's blood?

Will you stand in the way?

They are thousands strong, yet losing every day.

Do you care? Do you stop, take a moment and feel the loss

of a father, mother, brother, sister?

How certain are you that the one you love will come home tonight?

How certain are you they wont be shot at? Knifed? Or Spat at?

How certain are you that drunks with diseases wont bleed all over them when they get into a fight?

What horrors does the one you love see when they go to work?

Do they see children without a chance?

Do they see lives devoted to drugs?

What would you do?

Would you go and protect the one I love? Into a house stuffed with guns?

As my lover walks away from me each and every day. A small voice inside asks me,

Will today be the day? Will I get the call? Will there be a knock on my door?

Will I lose my partner, my friend, my husband?

Will I lose him to a drug deal gone bad? Or a shooter gone mad? Will I lose him for his badge? Or will it be he was just standing there?

Oh, blessed relief when I get the call. "I'm headed home."

"I love you." I say, biting the tears away.

"I love you too." He'll say.

He kisses me when he comes home, and I know

We survived another day.

ã Kyla Kristine, 2011

It's like getting sand kicked in your face.

How absolutely horrifying!
Imagine, you have a story that is unique amongst all the millions of stories told and your perusing Amazon.com trying to find a new book to download onto your kindle. (Yes I love the kindle. Bite me purists! I live on the dark side and I love it. **A** That is just for you!) And you come across a synopsis that is strikingly similar to the one you have been pouring your heart over. The character even has the same NAME! Oh, how awful. Imagine the cuss words that came to my mind! I was pissed. I am unique, I am special. Why is some one else in my head??
So what do you do when you come across the same plot line?
You buy the damn book.
I did. For a dollar.
I am so glad I did. It has become such a learning experience.
First and foremost. I was relieved that there were only two similarities with the story and One is easily changed and gave my novel a bit richer feel, the other isn’t important. Oh so happy. The cuss words are still flying in my head though.
First lesson: Change my characters name. Why? It is a common name and every strong male hero has the same name. I didn’t like that. Even though he will always be that name to me, I realized that I needed a name change. After a few hours of reading names I found one that is unique and fitting. Lesson learned and change made.
Second lesson: Recognizing my own writing style in the published one. As I am reading the book, that shall remain nameless, I see many things that I do.
For example: Using the same descriptive words over and over again. Such as, softly, or gaze. I need to make sure I expand my vocabulary and be conscience of my word choices. Lesson learned and change made.
Third lesson: Useless information. The author includes a lot of useless information. If two characters are having the same feeling, say that. Not this character is feeling this, then move to the other character and explain the same feeling. Or perhaps all of the characters are doing the same thing, say that instead of explaining each individual characters actions. Or over hammering home points constantly. There was also a lot of cheek chewing. All the characters did it. It was annoying. If one character did it then that is a good character trait. But if all of them do it, the act loses its meaning. So I need to make sure that I am being more effective with the information that I am sharing about my characters. Lesson learned and changes made.
Forth lesson: Important development. There are two main characters. The heroin is a life loving, tree hugging, hybrid driving, recycler. The hero kills people for a living. There is a brief passage about the heroin discovering the hero’s big secret, her accepting him and that’s it. No explanation, no reasons, no emotion about what happened and how she learned to live and accept the hero. Not okay. That is huge for the heroin to accept. Why isn’t there more about this? Why cant we visit the day she discovered the truth and what her thought process was. How did he feel about it? That is an important development, why was it so brief?
I need to make sure that things that are particularly important to the development in the characters in the story is clearly told so that my readers understand the decisions that are made and they are easy to accept. Lesson learned and changes made.
Fifth lesson: Delivery. Characters were telling other characters ‘secrets’ because it was ‘okay.’ I understand the authors need to deliver the information but do it in a probable situation. The heroin was terrified of flying. Absolutely terrified. Okay I can understand that. However, later in the book there was an entire conversation about her brother dying in a plane, after it had crashed. That was in no way tied to the irrational fear of planes until the end. So I need to make sure as my characters develop I deliver the emotions, decisions and actions in a way that flows and is believable. Lesson learned and changes made.
Sixth lesson: The end. Suddenly at the end of the book the heroin is an assassin, cause she made a couple of lucky shots under ridiculous conditions. If the delivery and development of the character had been better I could believe that. But there was one mention of the heroin going to the range and firing five rounds. Hardly makes anyone an assassin unless they are unbelievably talented, but that was never developed and the delivery sucked. So I need to make sure that I end my book in a believable way. (My sister hates the end of my book. Actually she wouldn’t talk to me for a few days. That is only because it was a cliffhanger and there was no closure. That is because there is a second book.)
This is the only place I feel that I have succeeded. (When considering the above lessons.) I love my ending, it’s a great ending. Does it need work? Yes, but it ends exactly the way it needs to in a believable yet *Gasp*Shock*Awe* way.
This last lesson is one that is not learned from the book that I am reading, but one I learned in school. How bizarre is that? I swore I would never use anything I learned in school in the real world. Now here I am publicly announcing that I am using something.
Reading aloud.
Stupid teachers and being right. Yes, that is dripping in bitterness and sarcasm.
I started reading aloud to find errors and improper wordings. And the stupid thing is, it works.
Damn it. My mom is going to love this.
I have cleared up so many problems, simply by hiding in a dark corner, so that no one can hear me, and reading aloud to myself.
Since deciding to write adult I need to make some subtle changes in the beginning of my story. Reading aloud is helping me identify where those changes can be made.
I need to be careful though. Not only do I NOT want to look like the crazy person in the corner, (Shit, I think I may have already failed that one.) I want the beginning of my story to stay innocent and young since that is the place my character is at in her life. Sadly for her she goes off the deep end. That is where I want the writing to get darker and grown up.
So here’s to reading aloud. Clink. Gulp. Burn.
There it is. I am learning, developing and growing myself. I am admitting my weaknesses and getting stronger.
Okay in writing only. I have no weaknesses anywhere else…(yeah that was sarcasm too.)
If you think I am being overly critical with my critique your right, I am. Not because I am judging the PUBLISHED author, when I am not. But I am taking those lessons and applying them to my own writing. I am being far more sever on myself than I am on her. This can only make me better…right?

Love, Passion and Writing...

Yesterday I posted my latest dilemma and I am sitting here wondering why this is so important to me. I have not expressed in words why writing frees me.
Why is writing my novel important to me? Why is it important that I write it?

There are things in my life that I love.
I love my husband. I love waking up and seeing my husband next to me. Many people I know have thought of marriage as a scary adventure. Promising themselves to one person for the rest of their lives and making that commitment permanent. I found marrying my husband calming, a peace that I needed so badly. Knowing that he would be with me through everything, through my imperfections, my mistakes, my pain was the most exhilarating feeling in the world. I know that I will stand with him where ever our lives take us. He is mine and I am his. It hasn't been easy. We are two strong, stubborn and different people. We argue, we fight, but at the end of the day I love him and he loves me.
It's like riding a see saw. We are two ends of a board, different sides, different opinions but connected and balanced.
I love my baby. What a thrill she is. What a terror she is. I didn't get the model that sits and plays quietly. I got the model that tears trim off the wall and is proud of herself. She is smart, clever, and at nineteen months she knows exactly what she is doing.  She never stops, she laughs more than she cries. I admire her. My baby girl explores, investigates and has the desire to discover everything. The world is new and fresh to her. Watching her learn teaches me. Shows me that things small and simple are fascinating and hold more than first glance will give credit for.
She shows me everyday that there is so much more beneath the surface. So much more to me. I value the time I spend with her and I will not trade it for anything, so don't offer.

I love coffee. I might change my drink every few weeks or months but certain standards stay the same. I love my coffee hot. Not really warm, not just hot enough. I love it hot, hot, hot. I love the first sip. I love the way the heat starts on my tongue, burns down my throat and ends up in my core. Not my stomach or my tummy. But my soul. The right cup off coffee and the first sip will set my world right. If I am exhausted it awakens me inside. If I am sad that first sip gives me the moment to think about my emotions. If I am lost it lets me find myself. It is more than a liquid in a cup. It is a drug just for me. Catered to my needs, designed specifically for my body and soul.

There is a difference between love and passion.
People pass through my drive through everyday and I ask every time. "Are you up to anything exciting today?"
It is rare that the answer is "Yes!" Most of the time I get "Eh, work." Eyes drooping, shoulders sagging as they drive off to their dreaded routine. They have loves in their lives, but no passion.
Nothing that lights the fire within them.
Writing is my fire. My computer is my fuel, my mind is lighter fluid, my fingers my kindling. And when I sit down and let my mind connect to my hands, I ignite the fire and it roars.
I write to create. I write to investigate, to learn, to free myself.
On bad days, the days that I feel trapped and tethered, I write and a whole new world is open to me. One that I influence, one that I command. Giving me wings to fly. I feel the air rushing past me, the sun supplying my energy. Breaking though the barriers that confine me, and snapping the tether keeping me to the ground.
On good days I flow like a river, tumbling and cascading over rocks and boulders. Nothing can stop me. Like water, I meet a dam with force and break through it shooting out on the other side.
I want to write every day. Page after page or word after word. I have story to tell. I think about my story. I think about how to tell it. I think about how my world around my influences my writing and the directions I take. I have such a passion for it I will burst if I cant write it down. If I don't tell it I will regret it for the rest of my life. Will it take me years to completed it? Perhaps. I have no timeline set. I will take exactly as long as I need to complete it.
My passion drives me. I make an effort to constantly search for new writers to learn from, new inspiration to draw from. My story follows me around. Like the little devil on my shoulder whispering in my ear. He's an inappropriate little devil and I love it.

So that's why I do it. That is why I write.
Does that bring me closer to making a decision? Maybe.
I am exploring many emotions that I am uncomfortable with, it distances me from my story. Maybe to reconnect me and continue to explore and investigate I need to write more like me, that would mean taking my age group from Young Adult to Adult. This would also mean I would be writing a fine line. Teetering on my butte. Making sure I don't lose sight of my story, making my characters cliche or drenching my story in overdeveloped emotions.
This is one avenue I have not travelled with my story. Maybe I should at least go down that road and see where it takes me.
Hmmm...interesting...

Standing on a Butte

I feel like such a fence sitter.
Actually I feel like I am standing on a great butte in the south west.With blinding sun, scorching desert, winds whipping at my hair and sheer drop offs. Like in the movies when the main character is alone, abandoned and isn't sure what to do next and in a beautifully played cinematic move the character is suddenly flashing to a desert to symbolize solitude and the strength it will take to survive.
Okay, maybe I am not that bad. So I guess I am back to being a fence sitter.
Indecision...an awful place to be when writing a three, potential four, part series.
In my life I don't sit the fence. I make a decision and I live with it good or bad. I have been lucky in my life to have mostly made the right decision. But as a human I am fallible. (Yes, I know. I just admitted I am not perfect. Don't be too harsh on me.) I make mistakes. I don't want this to be one of them.
I am not sure what to do next. My dilemma? 
Do I stick with the Young Adult genre or go for the full on Adult?
Does this mean I make it one of those sex books? No.
Maybe I will write one of those when I am old. Wouldn't that be a kicker?
But there is a deep dark path I can take my novel. Really let my characters stretch and grow. Investigate feelings that are complicated, difficult and dangerous.
I love it when a book goes dark. It means there is light on the other end. Happy ending or no, it always ends in light.
It's been a lingering question for a while.
There are pros and cons to both sides. So how do I choose?
Young Adult: The book already has a young adult feel but I don't feel as connected to it.
Adult: The book is more open to intense situations, it can get darker, grittier. I can entertain darker emotions and dilemmas.  But in doing that do I lose sight of the story I want to tell?
How do I decide? Which will be the more interesting story?
I am only twenty seven pages into my latest rewrite. I feel that I need to make the decision and run with it.
This is by far the best rewrite I have done. I know that my new beginning, my new point of view is what I have been striving for. Two crucial points have been met. Now I must decide the last.
Flip the coin? Might as well.
When I say I am sitting on the fence I mean it. I'm not even leaning from one side to another.  Both pulling equally.
And so the adventure continues. I feel like those books I used to read as a kid. I cant remember what they are called, but at the end of the chapter there is a question.
"To follow Mark into the cave go to page seven. To follow Mark down the path turn to page forty eight." Yada, yada, yada...
I decide the fate of my book. So, page seven? Or page forty eight?

Henery Higgens is stuck in my head

My Fair Lady is one of my favorite movies, ever. I am prone to the classics.
I know all the songs and I sing along in bad tunes. But recently Rex Harrison has been singing one song in my head.
Right now he's chanting in my head. "By Joe, I think she's got it!" Over and over. But I have been watching Family Guy for too long and Rex Harrison looks like Stewie Griffin in my head. That alone brings up so many issues about my sanity.

Evolution has happened again, and I think I got it right this time. That's why Stewie is screaming at me with Rex Harrison's voice and Audrey Hepburn is staring at me as if I stole her show.
After my Bikini post I began to seriously think about my plot and what was wrong with it. And then this crazy idea popped into my head, as many of my ideas are.

Writing a novel is a funny thing.
I had never really understood about books and documents being a living thing.
But the bible and other religious writings speak to the people that are devoted to them. We are told in school that the Constitution is a living document, it changes, adapts and supports our country and foundations with it's words so elegantly scripted.
My novel evolves. It lives in a Frankensteinish sort of way. Even though I know what direction I want it to go, the writing dictates how it gets there. Things I desperately want to happen, and things I want my characters to say just don't work. They wouldn't do that or they wouldn't say that so a different direction I go. I follow my characters, they lead and I just write in their wake.
My story wants to survive, it hasn't given up on me and I am not about to give up on it.

And boy did I really go a different direction.
I started a whole new rewrite, a whole new perspective, a whole new beginning in a completely different part of the story line.
For the first time I love it. It feels right. That all the crap that I have written before was just clarifying back story. Setting tone and direction. Giving me the foundation to write the story that is interesting and cryptic adding a whole different element I had never thought about including before. Now there is intensity and purpose. The adventure starts right away. And then this really weird thing happened. I'm not sure how I feel about it.
I actually wrote a romantic scene and it was good, better than good. It was great. My sister even liked it. (That is saying something. She was so stinking cute. I gave her one version and asked for an opinion and she didn't really like it and she totally felt bad about it. I told her an honest critic gets books published. Telling me what I want to hear doesn't. So I rewrote the version and let her read that one and she liked it a whole lot better.)
Is it perfect no? Not yet. Is it a whole hell of alot better than anything else I have written? Bet your bottom dollar it is.
I no longer feel trapped by my stupid brain and my small computer. (Which needs a new battery. My power cord is my life line right now.)
I feel an evil laugh coming on, but I will spare you.
Some day soon I will shut Stewie up in my head and have a manuscript to send out and then maybe, just maybe I will walk into a book store and there it will be, my book.

So...lets talk

I am not a complicated girl. And when things get complicated I get bitchy.
Knowing that, how do you think my conversation with Comcast went? Bout as well as a rabbit trying to explain vegetarianism to a fox.
My husband and I discussed getting rid of most of our services with Comcast, because they suck, and just sticking with Internet. So I called them several weeks ago to find out when our promotion was ending. The woman on the phone told me April 23. I said great and hung up.
Now I am not a stupid girl either. I have been dealing with Comcast for years.The truth is as elusive to them as the Giant Squid is to biologists. I promptly redialed the number and hit all their stupid buttons and got to another young girl and asked the same question and low and behold she gave me the same answer.
Weird right?
Getting the same answer out of two people! I was floored and gave myself a good old pat on the back for good work. Same answer twice, no need to call back. The stars aligned, the wolves were calling to the moon, time to buy a lottery ticket. So I put it in my phone to call April 22 to cancel the services we would no longer require.
Monday night my husband asks me why Comcast withdrew $210 out of our account. My jaw actually hit the ground. I had no idea. The little bastards lied to me. Both of them.
First thing Tuesday morning I called their customer service "Home of the Customer Service Guarantee." Yeah right, they can kiss my rosy white Irish ass.
The first guy I talked to listened to my story and looked through my account,  verified my information asked me a million questions that have nothing to do with the reason why I called then apologized about the mix up but our promotion ended MARCH 23!
I said no, no, no. I told him I called. I told him twice.
He apologized again and said that there was no record of me calling, once or twice and there was no record of me calling for six months.
Well how the hell did that happen? How is it that I called twice and neither of the little jerks accessed my information and BOTH of them giving me the same date?
I demanded as much from the guy and he apologized again (they think that makes it better. It doesn't.) and tells me that he has no idea. Jerk.
I ask him to credit our account since we were told that it was April 23, not the month before. You'll never guess what he did.
He apologized AGAIN! And told me no. I asked for a supervisor. He said sure, I think he wanted to get rid of me.
So I started all over again. I have the new guy my story, then the same million stupid questions that have nothing to do with anything and I a m no better off.
The only thing this guy knew how to do was repeat everything back to me that I already said and finished every sentence with 'there.' I am not kidding. I couldn't concentrate on anything he said. (Not like it mattered he was just saying what I had said.) In the end I stopped listening and started counting how many 'theres' he said. I stopped counting at 35. No joke.
This guy also refused to help me. Probably because it was outside of his vocabulary. He refused to credit my account, he refused to offer any help. But the 'there's kept rolling in. Anyone higher on the food chain was going to call back in a few hours. Already bit that worm once and got dragged out of the river, not going to do that again.
Would I change Internet providers if there was someone, anyone else that provided out where I live? You bet your last dollar and the lint in your pocket I would. But alas we are stuck with them.
Will someone please provide Internet out here so that I can lose Comcast?
I hate calling them. I hate talking to them. I hate getting five different stories every time I call. I work in customer service. I could out customer service them any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
Actually lets make a challenge.
I bet Comcast cant beat me!
Any takers?

The trees have bikinis!

So I was mowing my lawn today and I got to thinking. How? You ask. Well I don't have a gas guzzling, air polluting, energy sucking lawn mower. My mower is me powered. I push, blades rotate, grass lies dead at my feet.
Sorry, let me get off my evil soap box.
There. Now since there is no motor it's a quiet affair when I mow my lawn and it affords me the time to let my brain wander. Which is a dangerous thing, who knows what I will come up with.
I started making lists in my head. And then this image popped in my head.
The Starbucks that I frequent to write and take some me time has two trees outside that someone so kindly dress up with bikinis. One is pink and orange and the other is yellow.
How ridiculous is that? But is it? We dress our pets, (well I do) We dress our houses, lawns, lives. A tree wearing bikini isn't so odd.
Believe it or not, that whole conversation led me to this.
Categorizing my writing and taking note of what I have learned about me. Because what I am about to do is both ridiculous and odd.

Problem: I have learned that the two stories I have been working on that are in the first person are way more interesting than my third person. (Two of you out there want to know two? Haven't told ya bout the other one yet...moohoohaaa haaa haaa! okay evil laugh gone.)

Solution: Consider writing my third person in the first person. This thought makes me feel like I am leaning over the edge of the Grand Canyon without a sign to stop me. My third person story is the one that I have been working on the longest, that I have agaonized over and rewritten so many times. Now facing another rewrite is depressing, yet oddly settling.

Problem: I can not write young adult. I cant do it. I cant do it so that it is interesting, funny, emotional or suspenseful, at least not in the way I want.

Solution:  I am losing the Young Adult audience and speaking to my me audience. This decision is the most freeing. I can write the way I want to and not feeling like I am been shackled to the floor.

Problem: I suffer from TMI. Not in the way where you find out more about me than you ever wanted to know, but from a readers perspective. I, for some ungodforsaken reason, feel the need to tell my readers everything about every character. How they get places, all the subtle things they do, every single detail.

Solution: You don't need to know. Well okay, some things you do need to know, but the rest if fluff. It's too much it holds the story down, makes it boring. So weed out the TMI.

Problem: Going hand in hand with TMI I have a transition issue. I cant just leave my story in one spot then promptly pick it up at a later time. For example. My character is going to leave, drive home, make a few turns, has a few thoughts then get home go to bed and wake up the next morning.

Solution: 'Waking up the next morning she had a thought.' Look fluff gone. Do that more.

So where does this leave me?
Another rewrite. Sad but true. I recently read an article titled 'A Million Words of Crap' and I feel I am nearing the end of my crap and verging on the real story.
What am I going to do?
Well some of you are just going to wait to find out.

Look at that I was suspenseful!

Review: The Fever Series

Here's my thing about reviews. I hate reviews that tell me what happens in the book. If I want to know what happens, I'll read it. What I want from a review is why the reader liked the book or didn't.
Was the plot good but the writing bad? Or the other way around?
Does the reader fall in love with the characters, or just loves to hate them?
I don't want the plot. I would have enjoyed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone so much more if no one had told me that Harry becomes a wizard. (Don't get me wrong, I can practically quote the whole book.) But it's the journey the characters go on that make it for me. I love how things happen, not why.
So when I review that's what you'll get. Take or leave it...

 I stumbled across this book on Amazon. I wasn't looking for an urban fantasy, actually I wasn't looking for any sort of fantasy. I was, however, looking for a good series. I love reading good series, trilogies, sagas, what have ya. They let the author really get into an entire world and dramatic plot line. Really develop the characters. They let the readers fall in love with the characters, or despise them. Or even better have one of those love hate things.
The entire Fever Series was that for me.
A simple southern girl's life is turned upside down by her sister's murder. Seeking revenge and closure she heads to Dublin to get answers. Mac, our heroin, starts out being innocent, naive and gullible. As the story progresses and the dangers increase she evolves to survive in a world teeming with Fae, both pretty and not so pretty.
I loved the sassy writing, and wordless conversations. I loved how well illustrated the world of Mac is. The journey is filled with twists and turns, no one to trust and no answers that give real truth. Mac has to decide for herself what is best for her survival and ultimately humanities survival.
Some of the characters I adored, some of them I hated (rightly so) and some of them I just wanted to package them up and take them home.
What threw me for a few chapters was when the point of view suddenly changed from Mac to Dani. But after going back and re reading it made sense. Dani continues the story and gives the reader answers without making the Mac do something stupid just so certain information gets passed to the reader.

Now here's my reader beware:

I loved this book. Now if you know me that means I had no problem with the F word being thrown around regularly or the moments of intense sexual situations. (It wasn't roses for Mac, actually it sucked for her.)
But if you don't want to read a story with cussing, compromising positions that even made me blush (and I don't really do that, ask most anyone.) then find something else to read.
If you do love a good journey and a heroin your rooting for through good decisions and bad mistakes then you wont be left disappointed. You will be left wanting more.
Good news, there are five books, and three more in the works, and I am interested to know what the last three will be.
Happy reading! Please pass on books you loved. I am always on the hunt.

In response to Guinevere's Square Table

Since my writing knowledge is minimal at best I make the effort to meet with a friend (**A** author of the blog Guinevere's Square Table )  a couple of times a month. We run ideas past each other and read each others stuff to make sure that we aren't crazy or not crazy enough.
It's funny how similar our processes are. While her ideas explode in her head while she is driving and has no means to write them down, mine come to me while I am in the shower.
Ideas, plot connections, segments of conversations, perfect descriptions all fall together in one place. The shower. Why? I have no idea.
Is it the writing gods mocking me? Giving me wonderful ideas whilst I am in no position to write them.
Hermes is having a great laugh at my expense.
The worst part is the ideas blossom at such a rapid rate that I can rarely keep them all contained. The second I start writing them down the others that I don't get to evaporate, like steam from a hot spring.
Why???? Why cant I hold on to my thoughts and process? Why cant it happen when I have my computer open and ready, or my notebook with my pen poised?
This sucks.
Are there writers out there with better methods? Better coping techniques? Or know a good support group for the writing insane?
Help...

A trip to the book store...

So I am not above discussing personal embarrassments, especially when it is funny.

I am currently in the middle of the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. (This should have been my first clue. The authors name.) I was almost done with the third book and I was pretty much freaking out!
The writing is wonderful, the story is well thought out, creative and captivating. It is most defiantly an adult book. How adult, I did not know.
I had to go on line while reading  the climax of my book and find out if my favorite characters live.
Yes I am one of those people. I have to know or I wont finish. If want a good cry, I'll read the news.
One of the reviewers said if I have to know, just read the last page of the last book.
And that was exactly what I was gong to do.
My husband and I dropped baby off at my in laws to go out for a much needed dinner for two. During the meal my husband suggests that since we will have some time why don't we go to Barns and Noble.
And I am like Totally! ( Yeah, now you know how old I am.)
So we went.
First I went to the Fantasy section. The basis of the story is a girl's sister is murdered in Dublin and she sets off to seek revenge, only to find out that Dublin had been invaded by Fae or Fairies, that aren't the cute and cuddly kind. They are evil and ugly. (I am telling you now, it's a great series.)
I looked and I looked and yet there was no Fever series in Fantasy. So I went to fiction, and nothing. Now I knew that it wouldn't be in young adult. So I went to the guy. ( You know the guy that waits in the middle of the store for the lost souls wanting to find the right book, that guy.)
He looks it up and says, very discreetly I might add. "Oh, right over here."
At this point I was surprised because I was convinced that they didn't carry my new favorite book.
Don't worry they do.
Imagine my mortification when the guy took me to ROMANCE!!!
Blushing a little I said thank you, and he was gone. Quickly. But me being me. I picked up the last book and read the last two pages right there in the romance section.

Here's why I am surprised. In the first two books and most of the third there were some explicit scenes but they were nothing romantic. Even when I finished the third book. (The last two pages satisfied me and I will be reading the last two. I totally cant wait.) When the third one ended and there was sex there was nothing sexy about it. If you read it you'll see why.

None the less. I stood in the romance section for about five minutes thumbing through the last two books.
Yup, that's me weird girl in the romance section. Oh by the way I was wearing my four and a half inch heals while I was reading...

Writing Fearlessly

I have a problem. I cant do it. I know what I want to say, I can see the sentence formed clearly in my mind. The emotion of my characters, the pain that needs to be portrayed.
It's a pivotal moment. The moment when the characters reach a new level of understanding, their relationship progresses. It's terrifying and painful.
And yet here I am. My fingers gently tapping the keys feeling them, but nothing is being written. No letters string together to form words.
The scene plays in my head over and over and the fingers refuse to obey and write.
This is the part where I growl at my computer. It's my computers fault. It wont listen to me. Bastard.
But the bastard is really me. I am stopping the words from being written.
Why is it in my day to day life I open my mouth and the truth comes out fearlessly. I sit down to write and my fingers freeze.
Am I thinking about my audience too much? The thought of them is poised in the back of my head and when I get down to the grit and grime of my story the evil audience rears it's ugly head.
Am I afraid of what the people I know will think of me when they read what I have written? Yes. That was easy.
Now here's the funny part. The zombie comedy that I am writing as an outlet for the one that is yet to be titled, I have no problem sharing. It's crude, and perverse. It's blunt and rubs certain issues in people faces. I have no qualms about sharing that one.
In fact I tell people I cant wait for them to read it and have sent pieces to friends.
But untitled? Nope. Only two people know the story. Two that I trust. I have giving my husband an over view, but its not really his thing and I wasn't expecting much when I told him. He's supportive, but he's about as interested in a love story as I am.
How do I unblock myself? How do I write what I want? Why is it I cant do it?
How do I write fearlessly?

Titles mean everything

If you read my previous post don’t think that I have succeeded in titling my book.
The title to which I am referring is the title to my blog. It came to me as Writing is a Bitch. The title to my first post. But I didn't think it was a good idea to make that the official title.
So I wrote Writing's a witch. My writing buddy agreed and there you go, but something else happened.
It reminded me of my sister.
She tries so very hard to swear and when we were younger she would say in a hushed whispered. 'You know' look around to make sure no one is listening. 'rhymes with witch.'
I would laugh and burst with BITCH.
We are very different, my sister and I. While we share similar physical traits (If you point that out in public we deny it. Vehemently.) We are vastly different.
I am the black sheep, she is the white sheep. It's cute though because she wants to be spotted.
One spot maybe two.
I am a realist. I see the world as it is and most of the time it's pessimistic. Don’t confuse me with the bitterly depressed. I'm not.
She is constantly optimistic. She always sees the good in everyone around her and if she cant see it at first she pokes around until she finds it buried deep beneath a facade.
When she meets someone she's pleased as punch. When I meet someone I wonder if they are dangerous.
Don’t judge me it's a crazy ass world out there.
There are very few people I trust. She is one of them.
Does she drive me insane? Duh. She's my sister.
So out of respect for her I decided not to name my blog Writing’s a bitch, and fell back her good old stand by. Writing’s a Witch.
I think I see a tiny white spot…crap…

Writings a bitch

I was poking around on Writers Digest today and there was a writing prompt.
The question was asking when you sit infront of your computer, does it speak to you?
This is what I wrote, and a blog was born.
I will be using this blog to work out my issues. Should be pretty funny.

This is my computer. It is small, maybe eight inches, by six. It has a full keyboard and is connected wirelessly to the internet. It is a baby when paired with my writing partners monster. We look like the odd couple when we meet at Starbucks.
My computer never speaks to me. It mocks me. Bastard.
I use the internet for information and to give my brain wandering time. Otherwise its soul purpose in my life is to keep the thoughts that I store in my head a place to live.
Every day I write. I write a lot, I write a little. Sometimes I leave it more frustrated, other times I am so self satisfied that I have to do a little dance.
When I sit before my computer and I am staring at the story before me it starts to taunt me.
Why did you write that? That was dumb. it says. I could write a better story than you.Son of a bitch. I’d love to throw it out the window some days.
I contain so much information, use me. But you don’t. you trap yourself in your little brain only limited to the universe you set yourself up in.
You write the world inside your head, it could be anything. It could go anywhere. You are the master of this domain and yet you fail to use it.See? Dick, right?
The worst part is I know its true. I know that the possibilities are endless for my characters and my story could be great, but instead of being the best book ever written it is trap and bound to my brain.
Every day I write, that haunts the back of my head. this could be better. Why aren’t you making it better? Stupid girl. So what do I do now?
Keep writing.I keep writing, and deleting and writing. I gnaw and chew, and mull everything. I question everything. Is this right? Is it perfect? Can it be better? Should I make it better?
Maybe I shouldn’t touch it at all.
Some days the vision I have for my novel is clear. I know exactly what is said, done and undone. Some days it is murky, swampy. I don’t know what I am doing.
Besides a few high school classes I have never had any formal training. I don’t know everything. I don’t know enough.
What is worse. I chose to write a love story. Not a romance novel. It is much more complicated than that.
The characters are complicated, and diverse. They all have secrets and problems and shame.
But that’s not the worse.
I am not a romantic person. I don’t pine for a lover to take me to a bed of roses. I don’t long for devotion, lavished attention and gold upon my body.
I am a simple girl. I wear who I am on my sleeve and I am not ashamed of me. I can be crude, crass and rude. I know that.
But I am also understanding, compassionate and patient.
I don’t stick to the traditional rules of relationships.
The only thing I require from the man that I love is his presence. We go from there pretty nicely.
Well, not all the time. Both of us are strong, stubborn, and can be real asses. But I love him and I know he loves me.
We talk about stuff that most couples wont touch with a ten foot pole. We have conversations that men wont have with their wives.
I am comfortable with basic feelings. Love, anger, sex and whatever.
I am not comfortable with deep down longing for someone unobtainable.
I am not comfortable with loving from afar, or pining.
I am not comfortable with romance.
But here I am writing a story with all of those emotions that I struggle to define.
This story has been in my head since I was in high school and very few things have stayed the same.
I have written this story a thousand times.
The original story was centered around a woman and how she got to where she is. But that story wasn’t interesting.
What was interesting was the two sub characters that I began to write.
It’s the basic boy meets girl. They fall in love. And that is where basic ends.
Boy meets girl falls in love and the shit starts to fall around them.
She learns his secrets, horrible secrets. Secrets that should make her run screaming from him, never to return again. Instead girl loves boy and stays with him helping him on his journey back to life.
It’s a good story, it’s a great story.
So why cant I write it?
My vocabulary sucks. My writing is basic. My feelings are muddled and awkward. And I spend countless hours thinking and thinking and thinking about a book that I want to publish so that the world can see what I cant.
So how do I fix it?
I have started paying attention to the books that I am reading. Is the writing good? Is the story good? What would make it better? How would I write it?
I started paying attention to action, and vocabulary. Seeing how other writers use them to serve their purposes.
I start to see how they use their magnificent brain to write a creative story and spellbind those who choose to read it.
Does it help?
Yes for the most part. I feel that my writing has significantly improved over the last year.
But why isn’t my book better?
I am trapping myself. I know it. I feel so restrained by my book and setting parameters.
Why do I need to do that? Set parameters.
I have no idea. My mind is vast and never ending. I can be extremely creative, but usually its dirty. I have a very dirty mind.
Is that a problem? No, not really. I enjoy that I am comfortable with a natural part of life. Sex. It’s natural. Its healthy. No one wants to talk about sex and when they do its with innuendo to avoid having to say sex, penis and vagina out loud or its extremely scientific and there is no fun about scientific sex.
So where is the problem?
It’s a young adult novel. My kind of mind really shouldn’t be writing a young adult novel.
Don’t get me wrong. I have a zombie book that I am working on that I have no restrictions. It’s me in a book. Ha! Bet there will be book burnings for that one. God I hope that there are.
My zombie book isn’t where my heart lies.
Isn’t that ironic?
I have a hard time writing a book that has become so ingrained that it is a part of me, yet it is everything I have a difficult time with.
My zombie book flows out of me as if I am puking it up.
The other one, chokes me.
The book about boy meets girl is yet to be titled. Another problem for a later moment.
The characters are real to me. I know them better than I know myself. I know their pain, their heart ach, their struggles, and their joy.
I know why they do what they do, I know why they make the decisions they do.
Another question. What do I do about all of this?
How do I solve my problem?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
I don’t know how dark to take my book, cause I want it to be dark and passionate.
But I don’t want Fabio to grace my cover.
I don’t want it to be cheesy or lacking in the development in the characters.
That was my biggest joy with Harry Potter and my biggest irk with Twilight.
Harry develops, he changes, he becomes the man he needs to be to save those he loves.
Bella doesn’t do a damn thing. She lets her lover fight for her and she doesn’t stand for herself. Even in the end when she ‘fights’ she doesn’t really.
I want my characters to grow. Evolve. Change. I want my readers to read my book, finish it, go back read it again and see the progression.
The title.
I have no title for my book. I think that the title sets the right tone and expectation for the reader. The reader reads the title and opens the book expecting the content owns up to the cover.
I have probably six or so pages of potential titles. Some are close I think, others are just pathetic. My poor writing buddy has been sent dozens of potential titles and she accepts them, telling me what she thinks.
Bless her. No really. If anyone needs to be blessed it’s her. She puts up with me. We meet as often as we can and have become dependent on each other for honest opinion. And I love making her blush, it’s hilarious. It’s adorable when her cheeks turn pink and she holds her fingers to her nose and I know I hit the mark.
I digress. a lot. But back to the title. If and when I ever set a title for my novel it might free some boundary and open the flood gates.
How do I do that when I am not confident in my story?
I don’t know.
New favorite phrase. I don’t know.
　
I have written, read, rewritten and drowned in it.
I have gone back and reread this rant a few times and I am impressed with myself. It’s pretty good. Actually it’s really good. It’s the kind of writing that I am good at, me.
Am I stroking my ego a little? Yeah. Can you hear it purr?
I guess in the end I just keep writing. Writing is a bitch.