NaNo novel 2016 - Haute Rice

Earlier this year, I joined a writing group comprise of a few of my neighbors. There's been a few projects that's reared itself in multiple iterations, but for various reasons, have been sidelined. All of these projects shared common themes and are inspired by some of the same people/events/memories.

This year, I'll be attempting one of these projects for NaNoWriMo. If you're interested in learning more, check out their website at www.nanowrimo.org. If you're interested in being my writing buddy, look me up! I'm julia0101.

I'm going to do all I can to give myself the best chances to accomplish NaNo this year. I'm taking a few days off of work as vacation days. Longer weekends means more time to stay up and write. I seem to get the most writing done in the super late evening and early morning hours. I'm giving myself rewards for hitting word count milestones. And I've signed up for yoga classes to give myself a scheduled mental break. One of the days when I'll be taking the classes is the morning of my vacation day - making sure I don't end up wasting the time.

The down side is always me not being able to spend a whole lot of time with friends while I do this. This year, it seems like my calendar cleared itself. Two of my closest friends are leaving for a trip to SE Asia. The hubby will be gone the first weekend of NaNo. If I don't have a decent word count after this weekend, I'll only have myself to blame. As usual, I fully expect to have plenty of time to work on the novel over Thanksgiving.

If you want to follow my progress, I'll be posting word counts on FB and Instagram (@jwmyles) and longer updates here. Cheer me on if you want to help. :)

On determination, motivation, and drive - NaNoWriMo 2014

So on Day 18 of NaNoWriMo, I'm finally feeling like I've caught up, at least in regards to the word count. I hit the 30K mark just a couple of hours past midnight on 11/19. Not bad since at one point, I was 4666 words behind. I have two more weekends ahead of me, one of which is a 4-day weekend with no big travel plans this year. It's like gaining 2.5 writing days over previous years (days lost to Thanksgiving travel plans)!

This year, I'd not planned to do Nano. I'm buying a house and my husband and I are packing up our apartment to move. Our original move date was the end of November, meaning NaNo was going to be too much to handle along with packing, cleaning, and unpacking. But then, a good friend of mine decided at the last minute to throw his hat in. And something in me thought, "I can't let him do it on his own." So I decided, on Oct 30, to throw my hat in as well. And in doing so, we convinced two other local friends to do it with us. In 2013, I'd convinced a long distance friend to throw her hat in and she won it. I was glad to see that she was going to attempt it again.

As you can see, I was off to a slow start -

In fact, on Day 5, 2013, I was closer to reaching the goal of the day, but then followed several days of 0 progress, and I just lost momentum after that. I didn't make time every day and life stuff like going to IKEA got in the way. Sometime around day 10, I'd mostly given up. I was struggling with the work and because the 50K was no longer the finish line, I relaxed. I skipped days in writing, or sometimes just wrote 500 words and it was enough. By day 20, I let life take over and sidelined the story.

This year, despite falling behind, I maintained momentum so that catching up with an all-night writing binge was still feasible. My biggest motivation for keeping it up? My friends. I have some writing buddies that were falling behind, like me. I didn't want them to give up, so I couldn't give up. I wanted to set a good example - lead by doing. My second biggest motivation is the fact that I'm 1 for 2. I have a 50% success rate with NaNo and I want to improve it.

The third, and arguably the most important point of motivation is the book itself. Prior to going this particular direction with it, in a semi-pantsing NaNo strategy, I was stuck because I was overthinking it. I'd written some scenes that may or may not get included in this book, but it's going in a direction that feels good and natural. I've come up with potential plot twists that excite me, and I've fallen in love with these characters again.

And this NaNo, I'm determined to finish. I'm going to finish alongside a good friend that I encouraged to participate. I'm going to keep going and finish, even if it's passed Nov 30, because abandoning your work before Nov 30 or 50K sucks. I felt like I'd abandoned the work in 2013, and I'm determined to not do it again, so every day I will write as much as I can to keep the gap from getting too big. Marathon catch-up weekend all nighters will get me the word count I need.

I'm driven to get this done, and to show myself that I can do it a 2nd time.

Disclaimer: The 2013 story, like my 2014 story, was supposed to be a sequel to the book I wrote in 2012. 2013 followed one of 2 characters in Bk1 and I wrote 15K. 2014 follows the other character. I don't plan on using the words written in 2013 towards the 2014 NaNo, but I've not yet decided if I want to merge the two after NaNo 2014 is done. I plan on figuring out what's best for the story later. :) 

Nano 2014

We're nearly done with week one of Nano, and man, what a week.

I initially hadn't planned on participating this year because of the pending home move (and all the details that goes with that), but one of my closest friends decided that he's going to do it... and I couldn't let him go at it with only online support. The community nature coupled with the "official-ness" of the Nov NaNoWriMo seems to foster a lot of the motivation to keep writing the same way having a workout partner helps motivate a person training for a marathon or trying to get into a fitness routine.

So, on Oct 31, I decided to jump on the NaNo wagon... and convinced 2 other writer friends of mine to do it as well. This is the first NaNo where I can turn a small part of my regular social group and make writing the activity that we do. I'm really excited at the support, and I'm looking forward to keeping up with my writing buddies. Since I've won one of the two Nanos I've attempted, I've been able to reflect and see what worked for me... and what didn't work. I'm glad for the opportunity to pass on my experiences and encouragement. I'm a firm believer of taking one's own advice, so I'm doubling my efforts and commitment to Nano this year because so many of my friends are doing it.

Maybe in Dec, we'll help each other edit.

Encouragement and progress

Apparently, there are many people who work at Finance Company who are published authors with followings and substantial Kindle downloads. Some have 1 book under their belts. Others have several and are continuing to write. This is very encouraging.

On sacrifice and dedication

Today, at work, we celebrated the contributions of an associate who is leaving the company.  I'm sad to have not been able to get to know him much since I've only been with the company for 10 weeks. And for 6 of those weeks, I didn't really get to work with him. While I was going through my on-boarding process, he was taking his multi-week vacation. And it's not a remarkable thing that he's leaving the team and the company. In his 10-year tenure at the company, he's switched positions at least once as part of his professional growth. Life happens and there comes a point when everyone has to make a decision.

What is truly remarkable is his reason for leaving. He is a writer at heart and he's leaving his well paying, excellent benefits package, full time position to dedicate to his writing.  He and his wife are packing things up and moving to the Oregon coast so that he can attend workshops and work on his first full-length novel, aiming for 500K words written and published in the next 3 years (while living off of savings and his wife's supplemental etsy income). I admire him for his courage and drive to pursue this dream. He also plans to self publish and write as much as possible.

(He also gave me this reference, as it inspired him to go through the self publishing route and just go for quantity of work.  http://www.deanwesleysmith.com. I've yet to check it out, nor have I read and of Smith's work, so I've not garnered an opinion yet).

Besides the steady paycheck that funds a comfortable Los Angeles lifestyle, he's giving up (or delaying) home ownership. He and his wife have been saving up for a down payment on a house. Now, instead of getting the house, they'll be investing that money on his writing career. The cost of living in Oregon is apparently really low compared to L.A and will allow them to stretch their dollars.

As much as I admire him, I don't think leaving LA is my cup of tea. I do understand how awesome it would be to immerse oneself into writing. My experience doing Nano taught me that. In addition to being a writer, I've always wanted a level of security and independence that comes from earning a steady paycheck. My husband and I are in the midst of purchasing our own home, (thus achieving one of our life goals) and we have a very large, ever growing circle of friends. It doesn't seem like there's ever enough time on the weekends to connect with everyone we want to connect with.

I know a lot of writers juggled a job that earned money and writing. And I can't say I don't have the time. Truth is, I spend quite a few hours a night, every night, watching TV or consuming fluff on the internet. So starting tomorrow, I'm going to buckle down. One TV episode allowed per night, and only after I'd managed to get in a few pages of writing. Blog posts will count for the first 2 weeks.  Starting tomorrow, for the next 30 days, I'll attempt a NaNo paced marathon to writing whatever. It may turn out to be a coherent piece of work. It may turn out to be nothing. But I'll be writing.

WIP - (Fission and Fusion - Mei)

The following text is part of a piece of fiction I'm currently working on. If you want to see more of it, +1 , comment, or share. This is more like a vignette than a short story or chapter. Maybe the beginning of a chapter...

           There was never enough light in the room. But after fourteen years, she didn’t need the light. She efficiently slipped out of her pajamas and into the simple pantsuit she’d laid out the night before on the small dresser at the foot of her bed. With a flick of her wrist and a plump of the pillow, her bed was made and she silently made her way to the door and slipped out onto the six by five strip of linoleum tile that functioned as a hallway. One step to the linen closet on her left. Two steps away was the closed door to her son’s room. A third step would bring her to a six by six square space that held a simple shower converted from a bathtub, a western toilet, and a small wall mirror that hung over a pedestal sink.

            Muscle memory had her turning right to step into the living room. Her slippered feet barely registered the difference as linoleum made way to industrial carpeting, then back to linoleum. Here, in this apartment, there was no wall to separate the living area from the areas where one sleeps or eats.  Instead, you had to look at the floors, or the strategic placement of furniture, to see where one room ended and another began.  Perhaps she should be grateful that they had the luxury of different spaces for eating and sleeping.

            She made her way to the dilapidated pressed wood and vinyl dining table to pick up the single plate, teacup, and fork that was left there.  She shuffled into the kitchenette where she quickly washed the errant dishes and put some water into a small sauce pot to boil. Then, she took the four steps to the sideboard where the teapot was nestled in its basket. The remaining tea in the teapot was still tepid, but it wouldn’t be proper to keep it. She poured the pot down the sink before breaking small chunk off of the tea brick and adding to the leaves that were still in the pot. The leaves weren’t at that stage where they needed to be changed just yet. And it really didn’t matter as very few guests crossed the threshold, but propriety and traditional hospitality dictated that a pot of tea be kept ready. As steam rose from the pot and tiny bubbles began to cling to the stainless steel sides, Mei turned off the flame and deftly brought the saucepot to teapot. The scent of strong pur-reh

            She then reached behind the sugar canister to retrieve the packet made from meticulously folded facial tissue paper. There, nestled in the folds were a handful of tablets and capsules that she’s supposed to take for her health. One for blood pressure, one for her cholesterol, and a handful for everything else that was ailing her at the moment. Dutifully, she took them, chasing each one with a swallow of water, wrinkling her nose as the bitter uncoated tablets touched her tongue.

            It wasn’t long before she heard the knock on the door. Her other son was at the door, dropping off the child. They exchanged their usually pleasantries as he walked in, carrying the still sleeping girl in his arms.  He gently transferred her onto the couch. Impervious to the rough fabric or the firmness of the seats, she continued sleeping. Her son then left, with the usual mumblings of when he and his wife will come take the girl again. The actual words may be different from day to day, but the sentiment is always the same.

            Leaving the sleeping child, she shuffled back into the kitchen to prepare the morning meal. Taking the same pot she’d used earlier to boil water, she put in a measure of rice and proceeded to triple wash it as her mother had taught her.  Back in China, she’d have a proper pot, made of simple clay and steel wire, for cooking rice like this. But she’d learned how to make do. The cling-clang of the flimsy lid told her that the rice was now at the first boil. As she reduced the heat on the burner with one hand, the other reached toward the plastic Tupperware her son had brought with him, containing the piece of squab marinating in soy and ginger. With a deftness that belied her age, the meat and marinade was added to the cooking rice.

            Minutes passed as the aromas of the cooking bird and rice began to fill the apartment. Mei scowled as she adjusted the flame one more time, getting the cooking process to slow down just a little, so that it would be ready once the child wakes up. She shuffled back into the living room as there wasn’t anything else to do now, but wait. As she paced the length of the room – thirteen paces one way, thirteen another – she looked on the child, sprawled unseemingly on her stomach on the couch – and scowled further. She didn’t understand the whole point of this ritual. The girl wouldn’t amount to anything, considering the child’s mother. The only thing the girl was a testimony to was that she, Mei, was right to disapprove of the union. The chit couldn’t even give her son a son of his own, and denied her a grandson.

            But this was America. And in America, things were different. Here, it doesn’t matter if you’re the family Matriarch. Here, your sons leave the family house just like a daughter would. Mei scowled. Here, girls are cherished as much as boys.

            Mei went back into the kitchen tend to the rice, mixing it and fluffing it. Satisfied, she proceeded to fill a bowl with the tender grains and topped it with the pieces of bird. She brought out the bowl and placed it on the dining table with a pair of bamboo chopsticks that should have been too big for the little hands.

            Without being called, the child shambled to the table and climbed up the chair and proceeded to attack the bowl with a voraciousness that was more appropriate for a son. Mei then made her way back into the kitchen, and transferred the remaining rice into a bowl for herself before adding a cup of water into the pot to loosen the bits of crust stuck to the bottom. She leaned against the counter as she picked at the bowl with her chopsticks, savoring the rice. At least it was an improvement over the white rice and fermented bean curd she would be eating if she’d not had the child to cook for. Mei scowled at the thought that she should be grateful for a girl child’s leftovers.

            Between bites of her own food, Mei checked the softening rice crust, taking a moment to scrape down the sides and bottom to loosen it further. She then went to retrieve the girl’s bowl where a few morsels of rice remained.  Into the bowl went the watery gruel from the pot.  She shook her head and scowled with disdain. This slop was only good for dogs and servants. Her lips pursed tightly as she remembered the days when all she had was this gruel made from bland white rice.  She’d be lucky if the family she was cleaning for allowed her some soy sauce or fermented daofu to flavor it.

            When the bowl was returned to the child, she dug in with gusto, gulping the broth and shoveling the still crunchy bits of toasted rice into her tiny mouth with as much grace as any peasant. Stupid girl. Perhaps it is fitting that she likes it.

            Shortly after the child finished her morning meal, and Mei had cleaned up and put away the dishes and the pot, the bedroom door opened and her husband, clad from neck to toe in his pajamas, would shuffle from the room to the bathroom. Eventually, he would come out into the kitchen and make a cup of tea from the bags held in the yellow and red box with the bak-guai prominently displayed, sipping from a western style cup.  He would drink it like them too, with sugar and milk.

             Mei went into the room, as she did every day, and straightened up her husband’s bed. She didn’t bother to open the curtains, but rather made the bed and plumped his pillow in the same manner that she’d done for hers.  She then gathered the clothes he’d strewn on the floor or the bed and meticulously folded them, placing them on his dresser where he’ll use them again when he went out tonight; as he did every night.  When she stepped back into the living room, the child was standing on the sofa, chattering away at him in a hodgepodge of Chinese and that infernal American tongue.  He smiled at her and she gleefully hopped before settling down into the seat and turned her attention to the large screen that was now alive with lights and sounds.

            The moving pictures of people, jumping up and down in unbridled joy were accompanied with bells, flashing lights, and confetti. Occasionally, a screen would be pulled away to reveal cars, or the machines that made life easier; a large refrigerator, stove, or a washing machine. Sometimes, the pictures were those of beautiful places with gold sand, clear water, and tall trees. She scowled as numbers in the hundreds and thousands flashed across the screen, a testimony to the luck bestowed on undeserving lo-fan and hak-guai that appeared on the show.

            Mei settled into her chair, a beat-up construct of coarse fabric and wood with sagging cushions that offered little support. She was tired of pacing, but not able to do anything else for the time being. And so she stared at the picture box, watching the people get excited about cars, vacuums, and a spinning wheel of color.

            He went to the door and retrieved the newspaper that was delivered without fail, then reclaimed his place in his recliner. Still nursing his tea, he lit a cigarette, unfurled the rolled up newsprint and proceeded to scan through then. The child said something, and smiling, he pull out a section – the one with drawn pictures – and gave it to the girl who promptly spread the filthy pages on the floor so she can see it all, just like him. Mei couldn’t hide her disdain as she glared at the stupid child. The chit could not read, yet pretends. If only those words were characters, Mei thought to herself, I’d be able to decipher their contents, unlike the ignorant child. But her husband preferred the American news.

            The child eventually grew tired and climbed up into the sofa again, falling asleep as she the stared at the moving pictures, as he puffed away on his cigarette and nursed his second cup of tea. Hours would pass as the picture box droned on and on and on, until the child would wake and immediately turn to her grandfather and excitedly ask him something. Smiling at her excitement, he meticulously exchanged his indoor slippers for his walking shoes, and made a motion for the child to get hers. She could slip them on, but he would always make sure the Velcro or laces were tied tight. Finally, he would light a fresh cigarette before taking the girl’s hand and walking out of the apartment, letting the door close behind them.

            Mei reveled in the silence as she shut off the machine. Taking her time, she moved about the room, opening windows to let in some fresher air, picking up the discarded newspapers and folding them the best she could, taking the tea cup with the remaining dregs to the sink where she washed, dried, and put it away with practiced efficiency. She heard the door open and shut again; the sounds of careless footsteps crossing the rough carpet followed by the squeak on the linoleum, and then the rattle of the loose, flimsy doorknob as it was turned. The careless thunk of her younger son’s bedroom door being kicked closed, followed by the rhythmic thumping of music being unsuccessfully muffled by the thin walls, told her that he was home.

            With the day dwindling, she brought out the vacuum, turning it on and was comforted by the constant, loud hum as she passed it over the thin, rough carpets, worn from the years of use. The carpet was pragmatic choice of the landlord’s; having chosen a heavy industrial one in a brown that would look the same after years at it did when it was installed. Mei passed the vacuum over a patch of carpet that had a spill just a couple of days ago. Careless chit. The stain was barely noticeable. Water, soap, and hard scrubbing would take out some of the stains, but would just as likely bring up dirt trapped in the thin padding underneath. 

           

            From the corner of her eye, Mei saw the door open and the child bound in ahead of her grandfather, clutching a new treasure in her grubby little paws. Mei shut off the vacuum and put it away. When she joined them again, she bit her tongue as she saw that the child had a new coloring book and a handful of crayons.  The spot of soy sauce on the child’s dress, the smattering of crumbs, and the large Styrofoam cup next to the child was enough for Mei to know that she wouldn’t need to prepare a mid-day meal for them. Her husband then gathered up his hat and jacket, then left again, lighting up another cigarette with the Bic he kept on the side table near his chair.

            Before too long, her elder son would knock on the door, respectfully nodding to her has she answered, letting him in. After some pleasantries, he gathered the child and her belongings before whisking out the door, needing to pick up his wife from the nearby garment factory as they let out their workers for the day. Mei shuffled back into the kitchen and prepared a simple meal from the leftovers of three dinners past, heating it in the contraption that was plugged into the wall near the far side of the table. As she pulled out the warmed up bowl of rice and saucer of seasoned gai lan, her younger son emerged from his room, made a beeline for the door, and was gone as swiftly and unexpectedly as he appeared.

            She slowly ate her meal in silence, and took care to tidy up after herself, wiping down the table, the counters, and finally the sink when she finished. She reached behind the sugar canister again and found the evening packet of pills her husband had left for her, taking them as she had taken the ones in the morning. The bitterness of the uncoated tablets was not noticeable as she took these with the sweetened orange drink that her husband always buys. She checked the doors, making sure that each of the three locks are secure, and leaving at least one lamp on, shuffles into the bedroom. There, she pulls a set of clothes from her husband’s closet and lays them out the foot of the bed on the side he doesn’t sleep on. She follows with her own clothes, folding them and laying them neatly on her dresser at the foot of the firm twin she calls her own, before donning her sleepwear.

            Leaving the dim lamp on by her husband’s bed, Mei slipped under her covers, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep.

Content and Form

A long time ago... when I first began to write creatively, I learned that the rules of grammar could be broken. I was reminded of this as I listened to three literary authors talk about their work in the Library Foundation of Los Angeles' ALOUD series. My Big Brother sent me info regarding the library event and I'm glad I decided to go. This talk was Sentence After Sentence After Sentence: Three Writers on the Not-Exactly-Random Extraordinary Ordinary Key of Life. 

After a brief reading from each author, each author then sat in a fire-side chat setting and spoke about their work, the use of fragments, and a little bit about their writing processes, taking questions from the audience.

A few take-aways - breaking the grammar rules or conventional forms take thought. One of the authors, Anne Germanacos, talked about how deliberate she was in the editing process, cutting out about 80% of the original draft in order to insert the necessary fragmentation and abruptness that was needed in order to get the right "feel." Using fragments - because of how normal thought gets interrupted - gives the sense of presence in the present. The use of fragments and pauses hints to what is possible and gives the readers a chance to contemplate what is between the lines. What's left unsaid.

The writing was a form of self discovery and reflection. They brought the stories forth from their own experiences.

One of the most profound statements of the night -- when you're writing, what question are you answering? (Sometimes, you won't know that question until you've discovered the answer.)

The second most profound piece of writing advise - it isn't so much as a beginning, middle and end. Rather, it's more of finding a good starting point and a good stopping point.

As writers, we are imposing sense to an experience.

Coming out of the ALOUD event, I was... thoughtful. It was definitely a change of form from the work I'd been reading lately and reminded me of the difference between the fine art of literary work and the popular art of mass market fiction.

With this, I'm going to change the direction of my work in progress. I'm keeping the basic premise, but I'll be shifting the approach. I think I've been fighting my natural inclination of writing a short story and trying to push for a novel. Let's see what this new direction takes me, and how many short stories I can piece together into a cohesive story.


For info about the talk and links to the podcast, click here. If any of you are in the LA area, I highly recommend going to one of these talks and supporting the library.

On What's Original (and what's derivative)

I was having a conversation with my husband the other day and an interesting point came up... a point that most artists struggle with - the idea of original work vs derivative work.

Specifically, it was about that moment when what you're working on seems like such an awesomely original idea that you furiously write it all down. And as you're working on it, as you're working to revise it, or you're getting it reviewed/critiqued, you realized.... it's been done before. The horror.
But what's wrong with derivative? Can one truly have an idea/theme/story that's never been done? In today's time? I don't think so.

I think writers/artist take their inspiration from the world around them and from other forms of art. That's how ideas generate - when people are exposed to new/foreign ideas or view something from a new perspective. Derivative art is original art.

Imagine if some of our favorite writers didn't write because something's "been done." What if Laurel K Hamilton decided to give up on her Anita Blake books because the whole Vampire-Hunter love-hate thing's "been done" ala Buffy? Or Stephanie Meyer decided to not write her Twilight series because Vampire-Human-Werewolf stories "have been done." Or the creators/writers of Vampire Diaries decided to not do pursue the series since there's so much Vampire-Werewolf-Witch- Supernatural stuff already out there? Or how about where the stories of Vampires, Werewolves, Witches and other supernatural beings originate? Are we not supposed to write about them because Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley got there first? These supernatural beings can be traced back to folktale origins... so when or what constitutes as the line for something that's "been done before?"

A personal experience of when I was confronted with the "It's been done" monster - when I was in college, I was in a creative writing class. For one of my assignments, I'd written an crime story from the POV of the person committing the crime. It was a girl who was bent on revenge, aiming to kill a man that was the leader of a crime group. Twist at the end... he's her father!

One of the guys who critiqued it said I ripped off Star Wars.  Imagine my surprise and distress... since I've not ever seen Star Wars. By this time, all 6 episodes were already out and many many many people had seen it. I was one of the few whose parents were not big movie people, and i didn't have friends who were into the sci-fi/fantasy scene. But that's not the point. The point is... the ONLY commonality between Star Wars and my short story was the "I'm your father" twist.

Umm... the Greeks got there first. Oedipus. Kills his father, marries his mother - all because (surprise!) he didn't know his real parents! It was prophesied. And in Daytime soap operas... the real parent of the baby/child reveal or hidden/lost love child reveal was almost an annual thing. It's a drama trope! I'm pretty sure they did it before Lucas wrote it into Star Wars.

So... if you have an idea, run with it. Someone else did something similar? So what? You may have similar ideas, but your execution of the story will be different. Every writer has his/ her own distinct style and voice and how (s)he treats the theme/idea is just as important as what is told. Don't keep from writing what you want to write because of the idea that someone else wrote about it first.

Did you have an enthusiasm dampening experience where you stopped working on a project because, "It's been done?" What did you do to overcome it and move on?

On Culture, Customs, Class lines, and Outsiders

A writer I occasionally follow wrote about an observation he made at a Thai restaurant. It seems like he did an exercise that all of us writers do when we people-watch, make the observation and create a story to go with it.  When the hostess/woman and waiter at the counter bowed to a non-assuming asian college student, the assumption that it was a sign of respect to someone of higher stature.  He wrote that this bowing and the girl's hand-wave was a clear and overt display of class distinction where the lower class revered the higher class. There was also the supposition that the US doesn't have hard lines of class distinction. It's a "quirk" of "our" culture.  By "our" did he mean "American?" Was there a presumption that the "young Asian-American college student" didn't share in the "American" culture since she was clearly part of the "other" culture?

I had a slightly visceral reaction to his post mainly because of all the second generation baggage I grew up with (some would define me as 1st gen since I was born in the US, but my parents are immigrants). Additionally, I have all of the cultural the baggage that comes from growing up in a cultural enclave. Also, if a person has not experienced/observed class lines & distinctions, have not had to navigate those lines, then (s)he is in a position of privilege (but not so privileged that (s)he identified as part of the elite class).

That being said, I think a presumption of culture, rituals, and protocol is a slippery slope towards misrepresentation, stereotyping, and covert racism. As authors and writers, I think it's important to do our best to truly understand a culture before we build a world that incorporates aspects of it.

So... I'm just going to present 2 videos that represent...

1)




And 2) ... as food for thought.





What about you? What's your take on cultural gestures, customs, and the like? Do you know of any writer who did a great job at creating and/or representing different cultures? Any authors/writers that you've read (or work you've seen) who created a unique/distinct culture that is not easily (or disrespectfully) identifiable as "ethnic"?

Back to Basics and whatever it takes

So last night, I went back to basics. I pulled out a journal I'd been kinda using (it's over 10 years old judging by the first entry in it) and used it to pen some ideas and notes on my most current project. I ended up writing for a few hours and 7 pages worth of notes, giving the project a little but more clarity and structure. Now, I've torn those pages out and tucked them into the pocket of my Moleskine journal.

I thought it was appropriate for the story that I'm writing - one that's steeped in Chinese superstition and death rituals - that I succumb to a but of writer superstition as well. For those of you who don't know, Moleskine notebooks have a bit of legend to it, being the notebook of choice for artists and writers like Van Gogh and Hemmingway. They're also my favorite since they're so portable, yet well made (sewn pages, some perforated for easy tear-out when needed, durable cover, good paper).

So now, I carry my Moleskine with me where ever I go.  I just need to find the nifty pen holster for it so I don't need to dig around for a pen. I'm also staying up later and consuming inordinate amounts of coffee (even by my standards).  But all of this will be worth it.

Death Rituals

I've had this one line that I wrote a long long time ago that I love. It's been the first line of at least 2 works that never got finished (for a myriad of reasons) and I really really really want to use that line. I'm thinking maybe now, with April's Camp NaNo coming up, I'll use it for a project featuring that line, and something revolving around death rituals. One of my favorite stories is that of Antigone. When a person dies, there are just things to do and things you don't do - which varies from culture to culture.

I remember, for my grandfather, my mother and grandmother insisted on a traditional Chinese ritual where we work white and tied cloth to our hair. During any instances of procession, everyone was lined from eldest to youngest. As we passed the casket in the viewing, we'd place ceremonial money and bow three times with incense. He was cremated and his remains were held in an ancestral alter until my grandmother passed, then his remains and portrait were buried with her.

For my grandmother, in addition to the ceremonial money, incense, and bowing, we did a very western thing. At her grave site, each person took a handful of earth and tossed it into the grave after the casket was lowered.

I was recently reading this article about a young girl who has complications during surgery and bled too much. She's been pronounced brain dead and multiple doctors have said that she would not live without the aid of breathing and feeding tubes. The girl's parents insist that the child is still alive due to a heartbeat and used the courts to keep the hospital from removing life support and they were able to get her moved to a facility that would keep the girl on life support indefinitely. Currently, the mother is attending the child - painting her fingernails, brushing her hair, while hospital staff work with the body in a measure of physical therapy. The parents cling to the hope that their child will wake up.

It just made me wonder, what happens to the souls who are in that in-between space of life/death due to things like life support?

On Identifying as a Writer - when does it count?

One of my friends wrote a blog entry about writing and identifying as a writer.  It got me thinking, when does a writer takes ownership of being a writer? When she finally publishes a novel? When one makes a lucrative career by writing like JK Rowling, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, or Stephanie Meyer? Or are REAL writers the literary authors like Twain, Hemingway, Lovecraft, Joyce, or Tan?

Sometimes, when I call myself a "writer," it feels a little fraudulent. I mean, am I really a writer? Do I have enough writing cred to call myself a writer, having nothing significant published under my own name?

When I was working on my creative writing chops in college, I had years of indoctrination on the idea that one was not a real writer unless one wrote literary works. Bullshit.

As for making a living writing? It's way harder, and way less money than people assume.

When I was in high school, I wrote for the school paper, got my poetry published in the school's lit mag, and wrote more short stories than I can remember. During my college years, I'd contributed as a writer for an anthology published by Harper Collins.  Since someone else, someone who didn't personally know me, liked my writing enough to publish it, it validates me as a writer, right? Does it not count because I was so young? Does it matter now, as I re-read my published work, that I think it's horribly written?

Or maybe I'm a writer because that's just what I do. At work, writing is something that is part of the development process, where I'm creating content for our e-learning platform, technical manuals, tip-sheets. Or when I'm writing up lesson plans or creating practical application exercises. "Writer" is not part of my job title, nor is it explicitly something that's written in my job description, but it's a big part of what I do. 

I do NaNoWriMo because it pushes and focuses me to not over think the process and just do it. Writing a 50k word "novel" in 30 days is daunting, but exhilarating. I did it once. Now, I just need to push myself to do it again. And to revise it to the point where I'm OK with sending it out for strangers to read. 

Some of the best advice I've heard to date - If you want to be something, then be it. If you want to be a writer, then you should be writing. Not tomorrow, today.



So... do I consider myself a writer? Only on the days I write.

Making Money with Writing.

A few years ago, I took on a freelance job writing for Demand Media Studios, a supplier of original articles for knowledge bank type websites like eHow.com and Ask.com,  (and thus contributing to the rest of the travel, etiquette and advice drivel that's on the internet.) I'm even embarrassed to say that I wrote those pieces because it's far from quality writing and haven't done a thing to share my work, but here's a picture of an article title and my by-line:

Want to know why most of these types of link-bait, how-to articles sound the same? Because all of the writers use the internet for research. And the pay kinda sucked at $7.50 - $15 per article accepted by the editors (and published). If you were really good, really fast at typing, and never had any revisions that were needed, then you may eek out $15/hr to earn $30K for the year. But a more realistic average is somewhere around $10/hr.  The 3-5 hours a day that I was spending stressing about my articles wasn't worth the check at the end of the week. Instead, I pushed for a promotion at work - and got it. Now, I make enough that it's hard to justify taking on the small writing gigs, writing stuff I just didn't enjoy writing.

And here's a big reality - sometimes, a writer will spend years writing (and revising, and re-writing) for no pay. And when one does get published and paid, it's going to be very very little at first. That's why most writers when they were starting out, had day jobs to pay the bills.

NaNoWriMo 2013

So this year's NaNo attempt is not looking great for me. I've not hit any of my daily goals and have fallen more and more behind each day. The weekends were an opportunity to catch up on word count, but there are are myriad of responsibilities I didn't have the luxury of putting off for the month.

As it stands, knowing some of the commitments I have around the holidays and my work schedule... there's no way I'll hit 50K by the end of Nov 30.

What does this mean?

It means I'll finish this marathon at a pace that won't break me, even if I don't get a finisher medal (or rather NaNo Winner icon).  The most important thing I'm going to get out of this is that I didn't give up and finished the writing.

Using Scrivener, I'm setting a new due date - Dec 15. This allows me to have a daily goal of 1,666 with a couple of  0-word days built in.  I'll be fine if I continue with my current pace/daily average.

I can give a myriad of excuses for why I'm not going to finish in time.

• I have an intense job with a longer commute. It also is a new job which means I can't take a few days off of work to focus on the writing. This is also a job that has required me to stay late or go in early a couple of times, so it's not as flexibly accommodating as my situation last year. 
• Craig and I are finally hosting a party at our place after 2 (nearly 3) years of nothing more than a few friends over for a board game night. This meant a top-to-bottom apartment cleaning that has been long overdue. We even found ourselves getting something new at IKEA to store wedding/xmas/bday gifts that we've received in the last 2 years so that they'd have a proper home. 
• Reiterate bullet #2 in regards to the bedroom and overflowing closets. It's time to purge what I don't need/use and find a space for what I want to keep. 
• It's mid-November and I have no more weekends that I can completely devote to writing. 
• I need to sleep. 

When all is said and done, life happens and sometimes, we just can't get away for 30 days and write with abandon. 

However, I can't find a good excuse to stop writing before I hit the 50K mark of this book. There's no excuse of why I can't prioritize the writing over shopping, TV watching, Facebooking, or Candy Crushing. There's no excuse for not sitting down and writing for at least 2-4 hours every day in the attempt to hit that 50K word goal sooner than later. I know if I don't have a deadline, I'm going to put off the writing one day at a time until it's September again and I'm thinking of preparing for the next NaNo run. 

So I'm going to carve out as much time as possible to write out 50K.  Then, I will evaluate my progress in the book itself, and will set a new series of goals that will push me to finish this book, then go back and revise/flesh out book 1 with a smidgeon of more clarity than I had last year. 

Having a second novel written is a damn good consolation prize for finishing late. 

The hardest words to write

I think the hardest words I write every day are the first ones.

After a break from writing, it feels like one of the most arduous tasks in the word - to get back to work. The whole ordeal feels like an amusement park ride. The time you spend preparing - getting the coffee, queuing the music, setting up the productivity software so you can ignore social media... that's like being in a 120 min line, each part of the process necessary. Sometimes, you get to fast-track it, but most of the time, not.

Then... you finally get there. You sit down to write... and the words can't seem to make it on to the page. This is that climb. During some part of a great roller coaster ride, you have that slow climb where you anticipate the best part of the ride. A person doesn't always remember this part of the ride, but it's there. To me, the first few words, few sentences really, of writing each day is this slow climb. I pray that the ride doesn't break down during this climb since the rest of the ride is going to be awesome.

Literary vs Clarity -- Is one really at the expense of another?

Classic Literary and Contemporary Literary can arguably be two different genres. I think the problem with clarity lies with writers who live in our times, used to our language, yet strive to emulate the language of 17th, 18th, and even 19th century American and British authors. 

On top of that, they take the "show, don't tell" mantra of literary writing to an extreme and get lost trying to sound sophisticated or poetic in their prose. When the words get in the way of the story, then you have a problem. 

Amy Tan, Tim O'Brien, Toni Morrison - These are contemporary authors whose works use clear language. Morrison uses speech patterns and diction of the old south. Tan utilizes her bi-lingualism to craft pieces that are at times meta. O'Brien is clear, concise, direct - like a soldier. But you don't need to read a passage 4-6 times before seeing the big picture. 

The "too simplistic writing" may not be a critique of the language or syntax used, but rather a critique of how the story is treated. Let's take a story about a girl who runs a marathon. The simple story begins at the start of the race, follows her through the course, and then as she crosses the finish line. She did it, we're happy. 

The "literary" version may have you be with her at the start - feel the cold air, excited hum, etc, etc, and then flashes back to the point in her life where she started training... how did she get there.  The race starts... and as we follow the race, we have a series of flashbacks that reveal her process. Turns out she's a survivor of a devastating illness; she suffered an injury or setback that prevented her from running before; etc. When she crosses the finish line, it's the ultimate climax for her story and journey - defeating the odds, overcoming a bad situation, perseverance. It highlighted the character's growth and showed that the race represents so much more than start to finish. 

If you immerse your readers in with enough sensory details, but with the clarity of language that doesn't detract from the story, you'll have readers who are emotionally invested in the growth of your protagonist. To me, that's great writing. 

Countdown to Camp NaNo

I'm excited. In about 3 weeks, I'll be diving into Camp NaNoWriMo - the less ridged off-season version of NaNoWriMo. While I really want to begin work on writing Book 2, I still have to finish and revise Book 1. Since Camp NaNo is flexible, here are my options:

1) Make April's focus to be revising Book 1. The first part of Book 1 is already in the hands of my beta readers and I need to get the remaining part of the book - the ending- to them so they can finish reading and give me a critique. A part of me feels that I need to finish B1 before April so I can move on. If I move on and finish Book 2 before revising Book 1, I'll look at it with fresh eyes.

2) Include the word count in finishing Book 1 in April's word count. (I don't like this option).

3) Leave BK1 unfinished and come back to it after the April goal (focusing on new material) is met.

4) Work on BK1 to finish the story, but then move to a completely unrelated project for the remainder of the month.

Option 1 is what I'm leaning towards. I really don't want a pile of unfinished work that I can't find the motivation to revise. I also have that publication contest that I want Book 1 to be ready for by December.

This year, April's format from NaNo is flexible. They merged it with their Script Frenzy event so participants can either work on a novel or a script. The word count goal is participant's choice - to make it either more manageable or more challenging. I may bump my goal to add to the challenge. Since I plan on participating in July as well, I may leave the new material for that month -- where I won't have to report in to work (yay for summer breaks)!

I'm interested in hearing people's thoughts on my options... or if I may not be considering an option.

On Gender

I love a strong female character, specifically, a strong female protagonist. Even better when that female protagonist breaks gender roles. One of the best examples of strong females in a gender-role bending fantasy world is the Dark Jewels series by Anne Bishop. Queens rule and women automatically wield more power then men. Yet, Bishop manages to balance societal the role-reversals without compromising the masculinity and femininity of the male and female characters respectively.

My favorite Greek classic? Antigone, of course. A woman who stands up against the authority of the house patriarch and the head of state.  I've also been fascinated by the accounts of female pharaohs and the Queens that were the heads of state. 

Female rulers were not unheard of, but were rare. And most of the time, that rulership came with a caveat - acting Regent until the Crown Prince comes of age, or only succeeded to the throne if there were no sons in the family. Even Queen Elizabeth I kept her reign for as long as she did due to her refusal to marry and was lauded as "The Virgin Queen." 

A writer in one of the communities I belong to posed a question to the group. He was changing the gender of one of his characters from male to female. And due to this, came across a stumbling block in a line of dialog where the character references male genitalia in a nearly crude way. This got me to thinking about gender and its place in a fantasy world. I passed along the questions I'd asked myself when I was world building. 

How is gender treated in your world? Does a female warrior have something to prove? If it is rare enough that she is the only female in the group... does she constantly have to prove herself? Is she the only female in a unit? Squad? Platoon? In the entire army? Does she sleep in the barracks with the men or does she get her own quarters? Are there traditional gender roles and this character breaks that mold? If there are female warriors, fighters, mercenaries and knights, are their also male servants? Male servants to female gentiles (in lieu of handmaids) or without the need to make those males into eunuchs? Are you in a patriarchal society? Matriarchal? Is it taboo for a woman to lead her house? Are masculine women part of the norm? Are there feminine heterosexual men that are part of the norm? Can a woman legally have property or does her property become her husband's when she marries? Is female virginity sacred? 

The gender of a character is really touchy. Keep in mind that gender equality is not the same as gender neutral. If a female character acts exactly as a male character would, she might come off as "butch."  If we make the assumption that gender in the fictional world is similar to modern gender roles... A male character has male privilege. There are some things that are assumed that a man can do and a woman needs to work doubly hard to prove herself "in a man's world." You'd rarely see a man work doubly hard to prove himself in a "woman's world." Hell, sometimes, a male has to defend his masculinity if he wants to delve into an area that is considered to be a "woman's" domain. 

What are your thoughts on gender roles, masculinity, and femininity in fantasy and sci-fi? What is the norm in your world? 

Getting over the hang ups (over thinking)

One thing about writing that seems to hang me up is the idea of being "fresh" or "new" without being too removed from one's audience. I have my beta readers in line and a very short novel that I expect will need heavy revision

I'm currently fleshing out the last few chapters of the novel and have come upon a few major stumbling blocks. One is the niggling feeling that the literary device I'm using is contrived. Then, there's the idea that I'm doing something that feels like every fantasy writer before me has done it before. Or worse, the little voice in my head that says, "Didn't the ________ storyline do something similar?" 

Is this valid? Or am I just using this as another excuse to let the work sit? 

Preparations

I'm participating in Camp NaNo in April.
It's going to be like November - where nothing is more important that putting words to paper. I will write my ass off. I will get book 1 ready for the beta readers. I will write Book 2 in April.