The one that stayed

Always trying to find the perfect word, always failing. Because a small thing such a word cannot really capture a thought in its entirety, no matter how hard we try, no matter how much we convince ourselves that the sentence is perfect, that it is all there, in paper, for us to share with the world. Look at our greatness! The comedy, the struggle, all encaptured in a bunch of words. By the time we try to describe whatever it is in our senseless words, the feeling has escaped, no longer wishing to stay with us. 

A runway, a fugitive of our ego. Because we think we are all that and more to bring it close, to clutch it dear, when it doesn’t want anything more but to escape from us. It was just a taste, a little sample…like love, every feeling is impermanent and never, never, never wants to stay.

I found myself always running after it. Desperately trying to describe it. Hold still for one more second, I’d say. Bear with me, I’m almost done. Don’t leave me here by myself, for you are the only thing I’ve got. 

Like a soft breeze, once it grew intense I knew it was the end. And then the cycle would start again. The sorrow would set it, and that one made me ill, and on purpose, to stop me from keeping it always with me. No word would touch the paper, no kiss would touch my lips, no word fell in other’s ears. The sorrow was free, to take me, roll me, beat me, squeeze me, humiliate me, parade me, to keep me from sleeping…and all I wanted was for it to go away, so I didn’t write about it, I wanted it to escape, but it took forever to do so.

What was then its purpose? What did it want with me? I woke up, my eyes red from tears, a deep mark on my cheek from pressing hard on the pillow. I took pen to paper and I started. My sorrow. Its shape. Its color. Its name. My wish, my wants, and my skin. There is ironically, a lot of joy in my sorrow. Like leaning on a cold window on a rainy afternoon. 

The more I described it, the more it wanted to leave…it kept changing shapes, names, and places.  I knew then it was real. I described it so well, it couldn’t hide anymore, and then it surrendered. I won. I was free again to go back to the chase. And even when most feelings were escaping my words, there was one that stayed: I felt I was winning. But I never wrote about it...just in case.

Healthy

After a horrible month+ of being attacked by a bacteria which no one could identify, and multiple tests, they finally found the culprit and some antibiotics were prescribed—and now I am healthy again!

I felt as if my world was turning upside down inside of me, and had the wildest and scariest dreams I've ever had—earthquakes included, and I'm not a fan at-all.

Fortunately after coming out of my illness I didn't encounter a desperate scenario when looking at my WIP's. It seems that I'm just a chapter (maybe two, who knows?) away from finishing a novel I've been working for a long (loooong) time. I can't wait to jump right into revisions and get to the fleshy part of it, I know I still have to remove, add and change a ton of things.

Writing this novel has been a life changing experience. Not everyone writes a book and there's a reason for it—it takes a lot of work. When I talk about "work" I don't talk about the tangible part of it, which is actually writing the words on paper, or .doc or .fd; but the work it takes to
1)Organize your ideas.
2)Make sense of your ideas.
3)Avoid running away from your ideas with fear they are rubbish—better known as DOUBT.
4)Avoid it, really.
5)Put those words down. See the word count go up.

It takes a lot of work not to get discouraged, to believe in what you say or think. It takes even more work to get over the fact that your book might not be that great, but it's okay.

I also was very pressure about the word count. A novel must be over 40,000 words, and I was struggling to believe I would get that length out of my story, so I gave a little too much attention to my word count—"How many words on the selection? How many words on the project? Shesh, I still need to write another 1, 500 words today to make my quota" I thought, over and over, in the span of a whole year.

Another thing I've learn through writing this novel is that details are to be worked after you're done with the story. Then you go back and fix the minutiae. Like Danielle Steele does—and hey, she is very VERY prolific. Even if you don't like romance, there's a lot to learn from that woman. I can't remember is Stephen King does the same thing, but I like his approach and I stopped myself many times from reading "On Writing" again. There is a limit of how many writing books you should read, just go WRITE and you'll learn by on first hand experience what you will resist learning from the books.

Am I a better writer than a year ago? Yes, definitely. Am I famous, reach and signed by agent, publisher and film company? Not yet. Is it my goal? My goal is to have as many people as possible reading my stories, and that hopefully I can make them laugh, cry or think a bit.

Besides my writing there are other things floating around which I think about, the most superficial ones are the trial of Amanda Knox—I don't even know if to say poor girl or to wonder why would she do something like that. I am anxious to know what the verdict to her appeal will be. I enjoy learning about trials and the personality of the accused, not that it's in the line of what I write but it helps me learning about motivation and what people are capable of doing.

I've also planted a tomato garden and hopefully will get some tomatoes in October. This feels like a good month, I feel accomplished, and happy. Something good is just around the corner.

Happy weekend.

Multiple WIPs

There is a folder in my desktop containing many single text files. Every file is maybe 400 or 800 words in length. All of those files are all the ideas that pop into my head for books, screenplays, sub-plots, and in general every idea I get that I feel I could use in the future. When I start working on a project, I rarely work on anything else not related to that particular story — I do research, read books, etc., but never never work on two stories at the same time.


That changed this month.

As I feel the burn of having been working in a single project for too long (a year or so) my brain feels like it needs a little "cooling down". My bf seems to have sensed this, giving me the unsolicited advice of: "Maybe you should focus on writing something that is truly interesting to you".

Well, how would you feel my fellow writer? How does he dare to talk to you like that! :) We all now you are ONE with your story, there's nobody else I know that SCREAMS science fiction like you do— I know. I know. Even though my bf's advice sounded to me like the equivalent of someone telling a mother she doesn't truly love her child, there is some truth to what he said.

I am a little bit disenchanted by the story, and that shows. I'm not excited anymore, not optimistic about it, I don't feel there will be legions of fans furiously reading the adventures of my unlikely hero, hoping for the book to never end. I don't attribute this to a lack of commitment to write a certain genre —I love science fiction & magic realism— and I can't picture myself writing romance or historical fiction, or whatever it is a girl like me is supposed to write—stereotypes, that's another subject altogether.

But I must say, it's no secret that I'm having difficulty getting passed the 2nd act —my little private EVEREST— but it's also no secret that this is due not to "writer's block" or lack of ideas or lack of words, or simply boredom. No. This stagnation is due to RESISTANCE, the crazy sticky ailment of the creative. When it comes to you it's difficult to get rid of it. It came to me, and we are having a stare down.

—Listen Resistance, you go...or I'm going to write one terrible book—

My resistance is mainly due to my bad habit of listening to people. I listen, and then question my ideas, which is not bad in itself. But to that add the lack of confidence in one's ideas and...Poooof, there goes the confidence in ones book, in ones ability to write a decent book, and it spirals until you become static. Until you sit and stare at the slow burning log.

What is one to do to battle resistance? Muscle through it. But I can't just sit and keep writing my incredibly amazing action-packed sci fi story feeling like I am just warming up, and none of my words can truly convey what I want to say. What then? I decided to start working on a side story. This story was one inside my "OHI" folder (One Hundred Ideas). O...hi. Hi, new idea.

This story is magic realism, which gives me a little rest from the sci fi language and setting, and it helps me refresh my brain a little bit. I know it will take a bit longer for me to finish my sci fi adventure...but it's okay, I just need to get over this little bump.

You see, after all the bf was not all wrong.

Another thing that made me question my bf advice of writing about something I am truly interesting in, is that, when I tell people I write sci fi they act surprised. What? I know I look like I'm supposed to write the next Sex & The City books, or something similar to The bell jar, or something feminine or feminist. Something more suitable for a girl that wears make-up, high heels and bikinis. STEREOTYPES — not good.

Hey, I know the bf said it with the best intention, but I've encountered many people who don't believe I'm capable of writing sci fi simply because I'm a woman.  I'm up to the challenge, bring it on!

I tell you something I am truly interesting in: the power of the human soul. We are courageous, we are resilient, we have true power to transform what we touch. No matter what genre I write, this is my main theme. So, watch out, maybe I'll come up with a romance (scifi!) book in the future.

Happy (Multiple-project) writing!

Second Act

I used to write feature scripts. That's how I discovered my passion to write novels. With scripts, you can't get too descriptive, the most important part of the story is the action, and dialogue. Novels can be a lot more character driven, or to phrase it better, you as a writer spend more time with your characters, and I like that. It feels as if you are growing together with them, you are learning with them, experiencing what they are going through. When writing scripts, everything seemed too rushed for me, it felt as if there was no time to intimate with the characters.

When writing novels, I often find myself dividing the story the same way I did with scripts; in acts that is. Now, I am not a fan of formulaic explanations on how to write a novel, or tips to write a novel. I don't think you can learn to write a novel from someone else. The only way you can learn is by actually writing.

However, I see how reading about how other people have done it helps. I read tons of books —On Writing, Stephen King; Your First Novel, Writer's Market, and blogs (authors, agents blogs), and I even got grammar books—which I find useless, but that I'll explain in another post. I tried to follow advice from experienced writers when writing my novel, and every time I found myself hitting the wall at mid-story (or second act).

Now, the acts. I divide the story pretty much like a script. First Act (conflict), Second Act (Development), Climax, Third Act (Resolution of Conflict). The Climax I consider it to be part of the Third Act, and I place it sometimes at the beginning or in the middle of it. As much as I would like to give you the exact location of the climax in my WIP, I can't. I can't get pass the Second Act. <sigh>

I know this is a common occurrence with writers, experienced or not — I am not that experienced, I write hoping one day (by that I mean within the next two months) I can get to finish this story which is driving me absolutely insane!— the second act seems to be the point where most often the writing comes to a halt. What happens next? Is the question preying on us every wake minute of the day. What happens NEXT? I find this to be the easiest thing to solve, being that I'm never out of ideas to fill pages.

The problem with my Second Act, the one thing that makes me stop writing and pushes me to just sit there and start reading Business Insider, is that it turns into an impossible-to-climb mountain. It becomes My Own Private Everest. I am exhausted, thirsty, hungry, lacking oxygen, I even forget English. Yo, escribo?

I've never tried to rationalize the reason for this, but I think this post might be an excellent opportunity for it. Let's see, what could be the reason for my Second Act Alexithymia (I love this term, from the Greek:"without words for emotions").


1) The story is not compelling enough for me.
I once considered this possibility. But I'm afraid it's not it. I love my story and my characters, I feel that they have so much to say and do, they might need a better creator than me. Sniff, sniff. I currently have my hero locked inside a catacomb, trying to figure out how to get out.

2)Too much going on.
Simplicity works best, in every case, no exceptions. The best books I've read, even if they're long, deal with one part of the story at the time. Even the Lord of the Rings, which is a massive, epic tale, still manages to present the story and characters in a simplified way. I tried to do the same with my book, every chapter deals with an aspect of the story, and it feels almost as if every chapter can stand on its own. This last thing I believe was a choice I had to take based on my current job situation, I write one chapter at a time if I can. I have a 9-6 job, and dealing with complicated story structures would not work for me.

3)Conflict.
Once the conflict is established properly, the characters have motivation for action–there's no other way but to do something about it. I believe this is something my story may be lacking. I set up my conflict, but so far I don't feel is powerful enough to compel immediate action, and most importantly, to compel sympathy from the reader towards my hero. My hero is a tall handsome young man, with innocent hazel eyes, and dark golden brown hair; he has the strength of a man, but he is gentle and protective. I know you want to meet him already, don't lie. Unfortunately, looks alone are not enough to make people care about one's hero —or are they, Edward Cullen?— so I think I need to work on this one. Conflict, who knew.

Now I have to think on a way to introduce conflict into a story which is partially written. Which means, somewhere in the first act I must add an action-inspiring event, which creates a change that can't be undone. Something powerful enough to shake everything in its path. I guess I have some homework for tonight.

Everybody Lies

(An excerpt of a new project I'm working on. A different genre, but hey, real life seems like science fiction sometimes, yes?)

Everybody Lies

I sat at the table, next to him. The big window framed the view of the port. Bright lights illuminated the pier, a large cargo ship floating close to the coast emitting a weak light. The light house changed colors every minute. He was silent, and I didn't feel like making meaningless conversation. But then he started the meaningless conversation, and so I listened attentively, eyes wide open, face nodding, wine sipping. My fingers moving the glass, my dark nail color looks darker under the pink fluorescent lights. I laughed, and he thought it was because I was bored. I laughed a bit more, and didn't bother with sharing the reason for my laugh. I let him think I was bored, and it was funny. He continued talking about work, he was learning technical terms for his job. I was learning another lesson about life. But I was not bitter about it, I was relaxed, and feeling awkwardly confident.

The waiter came offering dessert, I declined, and after offering me dessert once again, he declined too. It was my birthday, he wanted to give me a birthday cake. I didn't want to tell him I ate out of politeness. I ate because that's what people do when they go to restaurants. I didn't want to say that I still remembered saying a couple of days before that I needed to lose ten pounds, and he agreed.

The waiter left, and he continued with his conversation. But then the tune changed. He had the idea of us writing a project together. A book, he said, we would take turns writing it, three weeks each, until completing it. I felt a little sick, a little confused, a little...I thought it was a good idea actually, it would be a fun project, if it wasn't that I am actually a writer and I take projects seriously. But maybe I should stop taking it so seriously, my writing doesn't pay the bills anyway—at least not yet. And then he pulled the ring. Not that kind of ring. It was a fantasy ring I had seen two days before at a second hand store. It was a puma, adorned with rhinestones, with black lacquer spots, and green stone eyes. It was a funny ring, I laughed, and he asked me if I liked it. I liked it, it was funny. But it was still kind of sad, I don't know why. He said that once we finished our book project he would give me a real one. He actually told me that he thought about asking me whether I wanted a ring or a trip to Hawaii. He was not asking me. I laughed. Don't "BS" me, I said. I didn't want to be upset, so I laughed. This laugh lately makes me feel sad and pathetic. This laugh makes me think everybody expects me to just sit, look pretty, and believe everything they say to me. "They", the people with a meaningful connection in my life. From all of those people, he was the less likely suspect, but there he was. I looked at the ring again, and after he paid I said I wanted to go.

I looked at the view again from the corner of my eye. The image in my mind was very clear, so clear that I could almost feel the cold wind hitting my face. He, standing in front of the balcony, kissing his ex girlfriend on her birthday. Yes, in this very same place. His green-almond eyes looking out the sunset with her, going through plans on his head. He held her hand, and caressed her light brown hair. She kissed him the face, in the lips. They were so in love, looking at the sunset.  My only wish this year for my birthday, was to see the sunset, and drink a glass of champagne. But instead, it was the two of them watching the sunset, and then me, with my silly birthday wishes. I used to block these kind of thoughts before, dismissing them as nonsense. But when disappointment followed those thoughts, I started calling it "instinct"—and my instinct that night was telling me a story I didn't want to hear. 

I walked out of the restaurant with him, and my ring. As we went into the elevator, I made a joke with the hostess, and we both laughed. We came out of the elevator, and making jokes about the building —which was assisted living— we laughed. We came out of the building, and we kept joking about the ring. And yes, we laughed. I don't like to lie, but I laughed, and I lied. Because everybody lies— more so, than they'd like to admit to themselves.

That night, I didn't get in the car, went home, made love with him and fell asleep. That night, I actually climbed out of the car, walked all the way up to the terrace and waited patiently for the sun to come up. A couple of years ago, after a bad car accident, I had made a promise to always say the truth, no matter the consequences—but that's not how the world works. Everybody has lied to me, in one way or the other. With ring in hand, now more of a symbol or battle icon, I declared the "year of the truth" to be over, and officially inaugurated the Year of Disguise. I know, is bad; but it's also more fun.

In here.

I seek comfort in my writing, my silent witness, my hollow beast. The universe expands and contracts and I go back to her, my solitude that always expects me knowing I am always to come back. I sit quiet, my shoulders relax back, my head hangs lose. I have nothing to fear, I am not in the world anymore; it passes me by in a frenzy, but I've stepped inside. I have exercise the right that is Law's given, the one to chase oneself anywhere we might decide to go.

Every cell, every atom, every impulse keeps me standing, integrated in my flesh vessel. The physical part of my existence cannot avoid its own biology, and it stays, doing it's best impersonation of any common being, typing away. There's is also Me, the part that stepped inside.

In here is quiet, and light. Inside it's wonderfully smooth and clean. Inside is pure, and straightforward. Inside it doesn't matter. It really doesn't. It just is with all its magic and exuberance, the lushness of real life in real form. There are no codes to decipher, no set boundaries, no hush hush. There is no dress etiquette, no procedure, no deadline. There are no blind judgments, no brand recognition, no entitlement.

There's nothing, because from everything we know, nothing could possibly enter. You step into the beast to say:        .
Because in nothingness we can realize that all we know is the other side of the coin, and that there could never be a mid-point between Here and There.

We should write with that mind set, otherwise it would be like allowing a total stranger dictate our book to us. Don't listen, turn away.
Your book is terrible [ turn away]. Your book is great [turn away]. Let's get lunch [turn away].

It's not worth it to give in.

Stamina

*FYI:  I had the urge to leave my dream again, but I stayed. I discovered that nothing beats the feeling of waking up and wondering what would have happen next...I never was a fan of cliff hangers, until now I guess?

I read not so long time ago a blog post by Nathan Bransford about how important is as a writer to have stamina. Writing a book is not as easy as it sounds (I'm talking to you writer-posers!) When you first start, and that idea is fresh out of your neurons, the process seems as simple as one word following the next. It all depends on each case, but in my case, as soon as I hit page fifty I felt I hated my story and started to have doubts about whether it worked or not— whether it was worth writing or not!

Funny thing is, the same thing happens to me with boyfriends. At the beginning I feel I can't live without them, and that I must have them. But once they are in "the net", I am bored bored bored, and I'm ready for the next one. This is exactly how I feel about my current book. I'm not even remotely close to being done, but I am already done. I want this to end.

So I took a break from writing. I stopped thinking about it, I did other things. I went for long bike rides with my boyfriend and the dog, watched movies, made cupcakes, stare into space. I did everything possible not to think about writing, or about the story. I made an effort not to read about technology, or watch TED videos, or browse Tesla's patent list.

After all that I feel disappointed, defeated...I wish I had the stamina to continue.

My life has gone through some changes recently. My job situation is not as solid as it used to be, and this I see as a blessing. I might not have stamina, but I do have motivation —from outside sources— to continue writing my book until the end. My new plan is to set —for the 100th time— a  daily quota of 2000 words. Is it too much? Too little? I don't think so. I work full time, and I drive one hour to and from work.

I've heard many times "it's about quality and not quantity" but listen: you can't say this to a writer who hasn't develop the will power to continue. We must continue even if we go back and discover that what we wrote was shit awful. We can always edit.

Just as a comment, not advertisement because I don't have any relation with them: I use scrivener and it's awesome, highly recommend it.

Ok, back to work-work.