Oh, woe is me! Just getting a little bellyaching out of the way.
I usually like to keep my ROW80 updates kinda upbeat, look at things positively and all that both for me and for you guys reading this. But man, I just had a pretty terrible week. There were some awesome highlights – Like meeting Elizabeth Mitchell in person!and being the one to change her virgin sushi status even if it wasn’t sashimi. It was my first time meeting another writer in person and chatting about stuff and the craft now I want to do it all the time.– but overall wow.
And really it all is just my personal inner demons running amok. I thought I was good with losing that 2k last week. I jumped right back on the horse that next day and replaced all those words and made the daily goal but writing that much in two days really wore me out. But last Sunday came around wow, I was really struggling, biting, clawing my way to reach goal, got detoured by creating a money system, got back on track and then boom, Monday hit and I really lost momentum.
I think part of it was the dishwasher breaking, then the fridge, then hubby’s car. Monday’s are always hard because we have Max’s Speech Therapy, Friday’s too because of the same, though she comes here for it, I still have to get the house reasonable and it’s later in the day. I also had to redownload Scrivener, was 80% through a test for my college when FireFox crashed and lost my progress. They only allow 1 sign in for it so I had to spend about an hour trying to get them to reopen the test for me. I’ve also been spending a ton of time on the phone with insurance companies and doctors. I finally got Max an Autism evaluation (a full entire day Tuesday) which I’m stressing over. On one hand he needs to be diagnosed so he can qualify for services, on the other I don’t want him labeled, and on the third what happens if he’s not diagnosed and we can’t get the services he does need? I’m a mess.
So I got behind on NaNoWriMo by about 15oo words, nearly a full day. Yesterday I woke up at a ridiculous time and went to Starbucks for 3 HOURS and wrote 3k before my eyes started to refuse to focus, I was still 1k behind. Each day has been spent making up the ones from the day before and then hacking away a little of the daily goal. But still not making goal which mean those numbers just keep piling up.
It starts to feel like a weight on your shoulders. Each word a pound you carry around with you as you do what’s required of your day. Then you get snippy because damn, that’s a heavy load and all you want to do is sit and get it done because you know that this NaNo story is actually not crap. It might not be Water for Elephants but you know, not crap crap.
And so -if you’re like me- you neglect stuff like showering which makes you feel even crappier. You forsake the sun for writing. You grab hand fulls of something that you can eat without a fork that won’t get crumbs on the keyboard but never really eat a meal. You rarely venture out of yoga and/or sleepwear (and then think, well it doesn’t look like pj’s… p.s. yes, it does.)
I want to say that I’m not just a writer but a good writer. But when you’re in this hole of darkness feeling the weight of your task pressing down on you, seeing your friends bars fill up with blue while you’re pulling against the tide for each and every word you manage on the paper. Holy Wow.
I’ve written Nineteen Thousand Words since November first. Twelve days of writing and guess what? I’m done.
I’m not done writing or even participating in NaNo, because seriously I love that little bar graph. Honestly, if they need to raise money what they need to do is create a program like an app that is basically the STATS page and make it customizable. I would buy it in a heartbeat. (If the ever do this in the future I’m taking full credit for the idea right now.) But I am done driving myself crazy. I know that’s kinda the nature of NaNo but I didn’t really get into this to win, I got into it because this particular story won’t leave me alone (you writer’s know what I’m talking about when I say a character is literally in my head demanding my time and focus) which is hampering my ability to do any other writing (You Faylinn fans out there I haven’t forgotten about her, just tell yourself she’s learning from the Professor right now, she’ll be back when she stumbles on something vital).
I’m going to start showering again (you’re welcome hubby), and working out, and making meals rather than foraging in the kitchen and if I don’t make my word count for the day I’m not going to sweat it. I’m past the initial point in my writing where I usually flounder (around 12k) and I have a good solid plan for the future of the book something I haven’t had before. I’m excited over this book and do plan to finish it if not by the end of November than soon.
For those of you interested and that suck with my pity party and rambling here’s another excerpt a little longer than the others from Midnight in the Hollows. I tried to really capture the different emotions between the two men in this I hope you like it! (and constructive criticism is always welcomed)
Enjoy and all you NaNo’ers go take a shower!
“Hush now. Do not show your disrespect, not now.” A quiet fell over them as he opened the box. A tiny gilded figure rested at the bottom on a bed of dried flowers and herbs. The scent of the well oiled hinge, the dried bits, the scrub pine of the box wafted up to them. Wes identified the figure immediately. It was the Goddess Mithra, the fabled mother of the world. She stood naked, her long locks covering her ample breasts, her stomach was bulged, fat with a child, thin arms were spread, welcoming those to her embrace. She was beautiful, as she should be. Ryche shut the box and placed the figure on top, around the box turned pedestal he placed little white candle stubs lighting them with a piece of tinder from the hearth’s fire. He moved slowly, reverently as he performed his tasks. The light flickered along the golden features giving the illusion the tiny figure’s features were moving.
Wes understood this ritual. While the mainlanders had either completely denounced the Old Gods or morphed them into some perverse worship service that aided only the kings, those on Ibius still held onto the old ways. He knew these gods, these ancient ones, had sent them prayers and felt their presence in the world around him when he was a boy. He had participated in their rites, bowing to the sea goddess Euri when she gifted them with full hulls of fish, sacrificing the gott lamb to the goddess Ibiurum -of which their island was named for- to keep them safe in the bosom of her caves during harsh winters, sending their dead to voyage with Rakyk to the afterlife in Chegobetum’s embrace. Cheering Lassobu with overflowing cups of mead, asking Luthumalevus for his blessing over the animals and trees and Mithra, the high empress of all the gods, blessing their babies and their marriages and their deaths. Burning her effigy made of rowan and vined with herbs and flowers as they greeted each new spring.
His eyes watered and he wiped the tears away with a smile. For they were not tears of sadness but of joy. His heart squeezed tight in his chest as the memories flooded him and the simple beauty of the Gods filled him up. Here, in this rotting hut, with this damaged man there was a presence that could not be denied. Whatever awaited him on the battlefield he would endure. He felt the hand of the Gods on his shoulder for he was a true believer, he carried them with him wherever he would go and they would see him through his trials. He knew they would not abandon him, they would not let him break his promise.
As he listened to Ryche mutter the sacred prayers, he felt calm and understanding envelope him, as the memories crashed around him he understood the simple meaning wrapped in the words. And there was one part to each memory that he held in his mind and his heart. One that he was certain the God’s had made sure was placed there, beside him, holding his hand in both sorrow and joy, in love. For all the memories he held there was another that held them with him, that stood beside him, that had cried and laughed those same times, and at that moment he understood that since the beginning she had been made for him and he would not break his promise to her.
Ryche prayed for the boy, for his immortal essence, for the girl that waited for him and for his son who’s essence he prayed had found it’s way to find peace in the afterlife. He prayed hard for those that never came home from battle and those that did that were less than whole and for the ones left behind never knowing how their father, brother, son had spent their last moments alone scared and dying for a king that didn’t care. He prayed -not aloud- that the boy might change his mind pleading to the goddess to save this one boy -no, not a boy but man. Save this man from a painful and lonely fate.
He was not Wes’ father and could not order him to stay, he could not say that he was being foolish and stupid, that glory on the battlefield and the riches that were promised with it were fleeting and not worth the price they extract from your essence. That the things you saw and smelled and did would never leave you. That for years and years you would wake up crying, sweating, reaching for a weapon that had long lost it’s purpose. That your insides would change, that the ones you loved before could no longer love you because of it.