Anatomy of a Bad Mood

Just one of those days, I say to myself. I don't know why I'm like this, but I have problems verbalizing my moods; a knee-jerk reaction, maybe? So I say 'just one of those days' to absolve myself. I feel bad for being foul-tempered. I feel like it's something I need to apologize for. I feel like I'm something I need to apologize for.

Thoughts seem to travel many miles through me, and by the time they reach my lips they've corrupted into foul things. I'd like nothing better than to hurl them outwards like so many knives. I feel the vague urge to destroy; something useless, of course. Something that wouldn't be missed. But watching something splinter apart and knowing it was my hands that did so is the most satisfying thing I can imagine right now.

I'd hurl some kind of guttural yell outward, also.

A flash of pain lances through my skull. Of course; it wouldn't be a proper foul mood without a headache. It's to the point where I wonder if the headache is the cause of the mood, or vice versa? Or maybe it's an infinite feedback loop of pain and irritation, annoyance and discomfort.

Everything annoys me. Watching people smile, the sound of laughter. The din of innumerable conversations. The throbbing in my temples. I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed and avoid the world, just for today. The fact that I can't makes it even worse.

When I'm upset, I see the world in a different way. Everything is discordant- I see the lines intersect and tangle, I hear everything as an insistent pulse against my ears. It's much like an orchestra sounds as they warm up; there is no sense to anything. It's cacophony, chaos. Everyone is screaming and nothing makes sense. It's all too loud, pressing against my eyes, my bone cage.

I come home after a terrible rehearsal. I had a list of things I needed to take care of, but I really just couldn't be bothered at this point. Now I want to write; it's the only thing positive I've been able to latch onto all day. And trust me, I've been clinging. It became a mantra as I watched the minute hand on the clock slow to a crawl; get through this, write. So of course when I actually sit down to do so, I can't organize myself. I've been totally frayed by my mood, I've mirrored the chaos outside like an imprint in sand.

I feel like a kid whose just been told that Santa isn't real; this is the worst kind of bait and switch I've ever felt, and it's made all the worse because I was the one who fooled myself. If I'd been in my right mind, I'd have known this toxic mood would become a barrier between what I see and feel and the ability to put it to words.

I've had it. I've crossed that threshold; the act of giving a shit is now impossible. I don't yell, don't scream. I don't smash anything like I've wanted to all day. I just . . . take a breath. Pull it in deep and then push it out; an act of violence itself. And every breath I take I'm one bit lighter. Every exhale puts the world into sharper relief, until all that chaos swirling around in my skull has slid into harmony. Not quite calm -- there's too much going on for that-- but everything is in unison. You can't imagine it.

For the first time today, I feel that undeniable fervor twitching in my fingers. I feel that fire. I sit down to write, and I am unchained.

Provisions

So I finished all six of the how-to-write books I purchased. I'd say all of them are good resources, but The First Five Pages by Noah Lukeman was especially helpful. Concise and succinct, a lot of really helpful hands-on solutions to tightening up a manuscript and crafting excellent tension and a killer hook. I've dog-eared so many pages in that little book, and I plan on re-reading, this time with a highlighter and a notebook.

The Breakout Novelist by Donald Maass was really helpful too. There's practically a whole workbook of exercises; another good book to work through with a notebook and a highlighter. It also offers some pretty amazing and enlightening insights on the publishing industry as a whole, and at this point, any info is good info. I feel like I have a much more solid grasp on what's to come.

Anyway, one of the exercises (I forget from which book) suggests you make a list of your favorite books, and then explain why you like them. Re-read them and study the prose, the structure, the rhythm. Analyze WHY you like it. For a re-reading addict like myself, this is something I can latch onto.

So here's my list:
1) The Book of Flying by Keith Miller. This is one of those books where you feel like you can just sense the words. You're not just reading them, you're inhaling them, bathing in them. The prose is so beautiful and lyrical at times it sounds like a song. I would describe the writing ultimately as lush, and I want to be able to create that when I feel it serves the narrative.

2) The Postmistress by Sarah Blake. I loved this book. I wanted to live in between the words. The prose manages to both be minimalist and evocative; there is not one word out of place. I think being able to emply the sparse aesthetic that Blake does is a worthy technique, because in passages of tension and drama, using prose that almost manages to disconnect, to focus on various sense brings it even closer. It's more deeply felt.

3) The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. This is one of my favorite fantasies. Rothfuss is another fantastic sensory writer, but his prose is more luxuriant. At times, I become aware that he thinks his words are amazing, and that's distracting. So I put this book on my list both because I like it, and because I want to avoid what Rothfuss did. I don't ever want the reader to be so aware of the craft of the prose so as to be lifted from the story.

4) The Dogs of Babel by Carolyn Packhurst. I adore this book. For one thing, the story is beautiful and beautifully written. It's a poignant portrayal of love and grief, and the space between the two. However, I really admire Packhurst's use of imagry and theme in her writing. There are various subjects, motifs, and places that all tie in together to create a really powerful emotional landscape.

5) Lord of the Rings by J.R.R Tolkien. You have to bow to the master, and Tolkien is the master of fantasy. LOTR is one of my all time favorite books. The scope of the plot, the story, the themes, multiple point of views. For crying out loud, Tolkien created a UNIVERSE - before writing my own book, I tried to do the same thing (pages and pages of notes, some that haven't seen the light of day). Some people criticize his scholarly and formal prose, but I think it's SO appropriate for High Fantasy (which Tolkien basically created). My point is, if you're going to write a fantasy, even one so far removed from the genre as what I'm writing, you need to study up on the master.

Phew. I'm usually a fast reader, but I'm reading to study this time around. Taking notes, taking apart what I like, figuring out structure, etc etc.

In other news, I totally finished chapter two today. My classes tomorrow are cancelled, so I'm going to retreat into the writing cave and try and finish ACT I.

I wonder...at the rate I've been going (decent), I wonder if I can finish my first draft by the end of Christmas vacation. I mean, during the vacation I have 6 weeks of free time. I could get so much done then!

Into the Breach

Whenever I undertake a new quest or area of interest, I go a bit nuts and read all I can on the subject. When facing the unknown, knowledge is the best defense and offense, right? It's a learned behavior from my dad, I think. He'd go off the deep end on these information pilgrimages. When he started brewing beer there were tons of books and articles pertaining to hops, techniques, and types of ales all over the house. When he decided to overhaul his finances, you couldn't go from one room to the other without tripping over a Dave Ramsey book.

I think this is my first book explosion that hasn't involved fiction. My pursuits usually bring me to places and things that have and will never be. But yes, I am now positively inundated in know-how. From manuals covering proper writing and editing style and techniques to books that describe the publishing industry in detail.

Holy crod, am I overwhelmed.

Not so much with the writing aspect. Somehow, I get the feeling that writing will be the easy part. Even the editing phase, which I'm starting to realize is going to take even longer than actually writing the first draft.

Don't get me wrong; editing is going to be pretty insane. I'm having trouble shutting that part of my brain long enough to actually get a draft written. As soon as I let everything off the chain, I can't help re-reading as I go, and then I'll see something that I hate or something that just begs to be changed. It ends up taking three times as long as it would if I could just let myself write. It's not like I have the expectation that my first draft is going to be any good, but I really hate leaving something in such a crappy state.

But holy hell. The publishing industry is not for the faint of heart. You have to throw yourself out there over and over against for an agent, hoping you'll find one who is 1. connected/persuasive/ skilled enough to garner interest of a publisher and 2. still passionate about your work.

And then, oh, the search for a publisher. If you're easily offended or hurt by criticism and rejection, writing may not be the profession for you. Wait a minute. I'm easily hurt by criticism and rejection! Shit, I'm doomed. THEY WILL EAT ME ALIVE.

I mean, LOL. My instinct is to withdraw, and/or (depending on how terrible my mood) passively-aggressively lash out. My defense in the past was to just not suck, though I'm not sure how effective that will be for this, considering there are stories all over the place of really amazing manuscripts being rejected by publishers for a myriad of reasons.

In seriousness, I can't imagine anyone who isn't somewhat upset by criticism and rejection, but at this point I'm just too involved now to be deterred. This is the only thing I've felt truly passionate about in my life. Before, I've done things because I thought I should, or I thought it was expected of me, etc. Writing is the only thing I do that actually brings me joy for its own sake. It's the only thing that really makes me happy and I'm going to pursue that.

I don't know. I'm at an age now where I can't afford to fart around. I'm turning twenty-five in May, and I always figured I'd be well on my way in my career and life by that time. A combination of immaturity and procrastination have interfered with that, but today's as good as any day to finally get things started. If we're going to be technical, I started actually writing sometime last week. And I started planning this profession change sometime eight months ago.

So, then! Onward into the breach, that gaping maw of the sharp and unknown!

Making Hay

One of the things I remember most from my childhood was the colloquialism "Make hay while the sun shines". I first read it in ... Farmer Boy, I think? One of the Laura Ingles books, which were my absolute favorites from age seven to ten. I related to the heroine in some ways, namely because we lived in the country and we were required to split and stack firewood in the fall. We didn't have central heating in our house, so we had to make enough firewood to heat our home for the entire winter. We'd bundle up, get our rawhide gloves on, and Dad would tell us "time to make hay".

Aside from the menial labor part, it's a similar principle in writing a book, I've found. You have these periods where you're just so inspired and everything flows so well that it almost adds an element of panic; you have to get as much done as possible as you can before the inspiration well dries up, because these bouts of ease are so unpredictable. Who knows when everything will be so easy again? Sometimes it's a few weeks, sometimes a few months. Sometimes longer. Personally, I've never had a break between inspiration longer than a month, but the possibility is still there. Looming, casting a shadow.

Right now, I'm extremely inspired to work on my novel specifically. The last few months I've been doing fanwork almost exclusively, but a few days ago I was struck by the compulsion to start putting scenes that have been circling around my head on paper. I know why I hadn't been doing this sooner; a lot of the detail work was still undetermined, but a big part of it was that I was afraid to start.

I recognize that it's kind of silly to be afraid to start. Right now, there isn't really any risk of rebuff or failure. But I can't help seeing this whole undertaking in the long term. There is the drive to be successful- to be published. Writing a novel and everything involved with it requires a lot of time, sacrifice, effort, etc. There is also this deeper desire to share my stories, and this encompasses a wider expanse. I have these characters so firmly in my mind that I want others to know them, to care for them as much as I have. I want people to be touched and affected by the story in some way.

I don't know. Maybe this kind of desire is arrogant? Who's to say right now that my characters and their stories will be affecting? I really have only my own perspective at this moment, but I'm going to cultivate it. It would be so easy to get derailed by passing thoughts of editing and what's to come when I should really just be INUNDATED in everything related to my concept.

Part of my problem is my lack of patience; whenever I start a new undertaking/project/whatever, I'm always looking too far into the future. I got this idea for the novel and starting thinking about endgame stuff almost immediately. I need to focus on the preliminary concerns; outlining, structure, arcs. Taking the character sketches I have now and adding depth, nuance.

I mean, you almost have to treat the world itself as a character! It has a life of its own, an arc.

So long story short; I'm ridiculously motivated right now, and I'm going to ride this for as long as possible. Hermit-ing incoming!

In which our befuddled heroine marks the start of what she's convinced will be an Eternal Journey.

That's me; I'm the befuddled heroine. I have to say it's odd to think of myself as a central character. Through my life, I've been utterly convinced that I'm a periphery character, a bit player. Background, if anything. I stand with the mass of people who support the real hero/heroine, though I never seem to actually be a part of the crowd. But I figure now's as good of a time as any to start thinking of myself as the heroine in my story. It's true, isn't it?

So, how does this particular (and admittedly boring) story begin? As most things, with an idea. About eight months ago I had an idea for a novel.

Now for some backstory; I've been writing for as long as I've been aware of myself. When I was younger, it was more innocent. I'd stable sheets of notebook paper together and write little stories in them, complete with crudely drawn pictures. You know, standard kid stuff. Cute, but hardly the portent of literary success as an adult.

As a teenager, I wrote the standard dark and depressing poems that most angst-ridden kids write, though in my case those laughable poems somehow caught the attention of my english teachers. They insisted they were something special, and I think this was the first time I really considered the possibility of writing as a profession and calling. I loved writing, but it was always something I'd just . . . do. Never with any thought of sharing (sharing my poems?! Heaven forbid! Much too personal! The people would laugh at them, of course. I had very little self worth then).

I got kind of sucked up into what I should be doing, which was going to school and pursuing my cello performance degree, but I've never been able to keep myself from writing, not even at the worst times in my short and goofy life. Usually I'd write fanstuff, but every now and then I'd continue to work on original ideas.

So here we are, back at the start. Eight months ago I got an idea for a novel. More specifically, a trilogy of novels. And then I got another idea. And then another. I was overcome by the compulsion to just . . . write. This summer, I spent ten, twelve hours a day just writing. Not doing anything else, save for getting up to walk a few laps around my apartment. Fernando would leave for work at 7am and come home at 7pm to find me exactly where he left me; at the computer, writing as if my very life depended on it.

At that point, I realized this is what I wanted to do. I can't remember ever feeling such a passion -compulsion, even- for anything. Not even music. I've never been able to just sit down at the cello and practice for 12 hours straight. Everything else became inessential; from that moment, I decided that I wanted to devote my time and energy into storytelling, into sharing these ideas that I've been collecting for the last years. Trust me, there is a list, and it gets longer every day.

So why start a blog about it? I imagine the whole process of writing a novel will be something of a story itself. Inception to creation, the editing phase that I'm honestly dreading. The search for an agent, the search for a publisher. The rejection letters- I expect to accrue a lot of those.

I'm aware the story of publishing is not exactly unique, but perhaps I can offer something new through my perspective. After all, isn't that the point of writing? Aside from communication, it's the pursuit of perspective, of context relative to the self. You read a story and you can't help to insert yourself somehow; whether directly in the hero's shoes or opposite him, as a reflection.

I feel a duty to record for posterity that despite all the setbacks I know I'll face, I'm unabashedly hopeful at this point. I see the goal so clearly in my mind that it almost feels like a memory. I know that I have to hold that picture close to me, wear it almost like one would wear armor.

Though somehow, I don't think I'll need to remind myself of the joy I feel when writing. I don't think even a thousand rejection letters could dull that. Naive? Yes. Maybe.

We'll see.