My Achilles heel of writing is something I will come to terms with.  Perhaps it’s the last hurdle to a completed work that bothers me; you know, the old “no one can reject it if I don’t finish it” problem.  Perhaps I’m  just too close to my own stuff.  Editing is simply part of the writing process.  As much as I love editing the work of others, I don’t love editing my own.  Line edits are no problem.  Scope and overall story arc are things I simply put off.

I’ve received advice lately:

• Put it away.  Work on something else.
• Let it simmer.  You’ll know when it’s time.
• Maybe you’re not so invested.  Try something else.
• Get after your edits or you are just a quitter.

Hmm.  The thing is, I don’t want to put it away.  I want to work on the novel, improve it, make it stronger and more readable.  It has simmered for six weeks.  Isn’t that enough?  I’m not a quitter.  I am invested.  I’m just…lost.

I hope I’m not the only one to go through these things.  How I envy those writers who produce chronological chapters and scenes that don’t muddle their brains figuring out where to fit what.  Aren’t their continuity edits easier for it?

Still, I plug away.  I do a little every day, even if it is just following a scene’s consequences through the rest of the story in my head.  I work the line edits on hard copy and work the scope/story arc on the computer.  Slowly, oh so slowly, I’m getting somewhere.

I have several writing friends with angst over the creative part.  That’s just not me.  I can knock out the roughs.  Give them a rough draft and they will happily give it a polish and make it shine.

I can do the same.  I will do the same.  I’m a writer, damn it.  It’s what we do, and I will not be left behind because of a little uncertainty.

I feel so terrible that I missed her news when it first happened.

What news?  Check the second paragraph.

Who’s news?  Kiersten, of course.

Girl, my heartfelt congratulations!

(This is the second of my favorite aspiring authors/bloggers to hit it.  I’m starting to feel a little hope.)

Wow, I’m so close I can taste it.  I see more and more light at the end of the tunnel.  I can see the ribbon at the finish line….wait, that’s a real jumble of metaphors.

This blog isn’t about updating my writing projects, so I do appreciate everyone’s patience when I’m working on a rough draft.  Lillian’s story is almost ready to be assembled and checked for continuity (and there will be a lot of that going on).

I hope to finish the rough by the end of the week (and I am soooo glad this is a YA and not a 120k fantasy epic.  It’s been quite manageable).  And then, on August 21, I will go to bed around 9 pm and wake up sometime before Monday at 3:30 a.m.  Me and my cat; hubby fends for himself.

Lots of creative output, 70 hour work weeks (why do these things always happen when I have crew members on vacations?), and far too many parenthetical statements make me one tired writer.

And I know once again this is what I should be doing, because the last 22 days have absolutely FLOWN by.  Has it really been that long?

Man, I love being a writer when I’m writing.

If I lived in the year of my current Wip:

I might be driving this

I would probably be reading this

I would write notes on stories here

I would then go home and write on one of these:

that is, if I could afford one.

My character sure would like one.  The Remington Quiet-Riter, of course.

Shh, writer at work.  Averaging 2,000 words per day.

MC:  So which one is he?

Author:  You mean your true love?

MC: Yes, please.  Which of these gentlemen is he?  I peeked at your notes and I know I meet him in this chapter.

Author:  Well, this is rather unorthodox, but okay.  He’s the tall man leaning against the mantlepiece…no, not that one, to the left.

MC:  Him?

Author:  Him.

MC:  Ah.  Hmm.  Um…what about that nice looking gentleman dancing in the set to my right?

Author:  What about him?

MC:  Why not make him my true love?

Author:  That one?  He’s an extra…just a dancer to fill up the room.  He’s not your true love.

MC: But you are the writer.  You can make it so.

Author:  No, no that’s not a good idea.  I don’t even know his name.

MC  You are the writer.  You can do this.  You can make him my true love instead of that brooding man you pointed out.

Author:  Brooding?  He’s thinking!

MC:  He’s brooding.  He hasn’t smiled.  He’s not dancing.  Why would I want that?  Give me this one with the big smile and light feet.

Author:  But–

MC:  Please?

Author:  What’s wrong with the one over there?  He’s a good man and protective.

MC:  No, I thank you.  This one here please.  I can see your eyes narrowing.  I am entitled to my taste and this is my story, is it not?

Author: Yes, but he is not for you.  That one by the fireplace is yours.

MC:  You really need to change your mind.

Author:  Better that you change yours…and quit pouting.  I’ve seen the outline.  You haven’t.  Trust me, that man you think is brooding is the right man for you.  You’ll know it too before the end of your story.

MC:  Perhaps I did not make myself clear.  I have no interest in your choice.  I have much interest in my choice.

Author:  Uncooperative wench.  Your true love awaits by the fireplace!

MC:  Whose story is this?

Author:  Who is the writer here?

Silence stretches

MC:  So have I won yet?

Ahhhh, music.  I know lots of writers have a “soundtrack” for a particular project or novel.  I like that I’m not alone.  Though I’m not ready to share much about the current project, I have to say that the MC has one KICK A$$ sound track!  The music is great, it’s the mood of the story, it’s what I hear playing in the background as I watch her go about her life.  This music is every bit as eclectic and driving in beat as she is.

It’s all about the bass and the rhythm, the contagious quality that has me tapping my toes and thumping my fist on my desk or thigh.  I’ve always been a sucker for good bass, and good music in general.  No one believes my music collection could belong to one person or to a person my age.  I kind of like that.

Sometimes I select music to fit my mood.  While writing this week, I’ve put together a play list that is all Main Character.  She’s coming along fine and the music brings my mood to the place I need it to be to write her.  When this project is finished, I think what I will remember most is my inability to sit still when good music is pouring over me and my typing as fast as I can while dancing in my seat.

I’m not a very disciplined researcher, but convolution works for me.  Read a novel set in regency Europe, get curious about history, find a link to the Dal Riata and their movements east, trigger memories of movie tidbits and the word “wode.”  Those are the ingredients to a research feast, though the time period is difficult to find information in any detail.

And then the best part happens.  What if people who lived in this land wanted to be assimulated?  What if their ruler did not?  What if it were the opposite?  The what if questions go on in my notebook for six or seven pages.  After a 24 hour break, the questions get more defined, and more concrete.  How did they cook, what were the courtship rules?  What sort of law/governance existed?  Religious beliefs? How harsh were the winters?

As these concrete questions get researched, the creative questions start coming alive with possible answers as well.  Freedoms and comforts begin to make themselves known and the world begins to come alive.  The next bit of time is spent writing down everything that occurs to me, no matter how small.  Most of it will never make the story, but it all matters.  It all helps me create a rich tapestry of society as a backdrop for my characters.

I’ve been in this place for several weeks, and my only frustration is lack of time to go to a proper library for some good old fashioned note taking.

I’ve seen it suggested in various places that writers work with a story board of sorts, where they can pin pictures that bring their setting to mind, make sketches, etc.  I really like that idea, especially for this historical time.  I’d add fabric swatches and colors, photos, drawings, images of paintings, and maps.  I’ll try to create one out of regular poster board.  If that doesn’t work, I’ll be asking advice.

One by one they arrived, through the back alleys and silently up the street.  Their cover and alibi were only as good as their trust in one another.  Aware of the danger, they were hungry…and determined.

Matt could hear Joshua, at the back door, murmuring to the most recent entry.  Distance muffled the words, though Matt detected tones of both excitement and fear.  He turned again to his post at the sidelight of his front door, watching.

“All clear in the back,” Joshua whispered the words from behind Matt.  “Locked up tight and all sent below.”

“Very good, Joshua, thanks.”  Matt peered down the street.  “I think the last one is coming now.”  A floral delivery van pulled up into Matt’s driveway, disgorging a woman and two men, who moved purposefully to the door, arms full of blooms and greenery.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” The floral designer used her best professional voice.  One never knew who might be watching.  As soon as she and her helpers heard the door close behind them, tension sagged from their shoulders.  “Thank you, Matt,” she said, and the trio made their way down the stairs.

Matt sent Joshua to make one more check of the ground floor as he locked the front door and set the alarm .  Where the younger man was showing signs of excitement and apprehension, Matt felt a blanket of peace settle over him.  They had survived the arrivals.

“Time to head below, my friend.”  He clapped the returned Joshua on the shoulder and guided him to the basement steps.  No casual observer would guess that the well dressed older man or the scruffy younger one were about to commit a felony with the dozen people already waiting.

The two made their way to the cellar below the basement.  Matt  had spent years cultivating the reputation of a knowledgeable wine enthusiast.  It had allowed him to create the special cellar, filled with wine cases and racks.  A bottle and glasses sat on the small marble-topped table, the corkscrew already deep.  It would take mere seconds to pop the bottle and splash the glasses.  He nodded in approval at the bunch of various flowers sitting next to the glasses.  He would have to cover the presence of the floral people. Matt always prepared the wine cellar.  Though they had not been caught, he was ready. He grabbed a single cup and bottle, nestling them in his elbow.  Their guest had brought bread.

One of the floor to ceiling cases was pulled forward, jarring the eye with its juxtaposition.  The two men slipped singly through the narrow opening.  Matt pulled the case in after them.  The dug out space beyond was cramped and smelled of damp earth.  The seating ledges packed around the perimeter hardly held the dozen people already in the space.  Matt remained standing at the entrance, one ear listening for the shrill of an alarm.  Joshua seated himself on the floor, at the foot of an older lady with luminous eyes, an old book resting between her hands and thighs.

There was a palpable buzz of expectation and nervousness as the fear of being caught mixed with the fear of doing the forbidden.  That the opportunity was available was astounding enough.  Rumor told tales of the websites being torn down, and the massive book burnings long before even their guest of honor drew her first breath.  If they were caught, they would lose everything.  The lucky ones would lose their lives.  No one doubted the tales of torture and “re-education” for those who were caught.

Peace began to invade the secret space, calming heart rates.  When the room was becalmed and expectant, the elderly woman opened the book in her lap with profound reverence.  The binding was cracked, sounding to Matt like cellophane.  He inhaled the scent redolent of age and freedom. Rare beyond belief, Matt marveled once more that this one had escaped the bookburner’s fire.

The small woman turned the pages until satisfied.  Settling the open book on her hands and her elbows on her knees, she curved over it like a protective mother.

Matt held his breath.  Until this moment they were guilty of conspiracy.  In another instant, they would be subject to the death penalty.  He no longer cared.  Like several others in attendance, death had lost its power over him.  His predominant emotion now was one of expectant joy.

The moment stretched.   Matt watched the small adjustments of body language and expression as similar thoughts trekked through other minds.  Then she drew breath.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God…”

“You are not a princess, and this is not a fairy tale.”

Those words haunted her still.  The little girl who twirled around the living room in a cast off satin nightgown and plastic crown was stricken to hear them spoken.  She had deflated like a balloon with a fast leak, slinking away to her room in shame as the cruelty in the voice followed her down the hall.

“Can I help you find anything?  The grandmotherly clerk interrupted Tracy’s reverie as her daughter hopped from one foot to the other.  She looked down, squeezing her four-year-old’s hand with affection.

“Which costume would you like, Isabelle?”

The child made a show of thinking hard as she bombarded the clerk with questions.

“Yes, young lady, we have pirates and mermaids and cowgirls.  We also have panda bears and witches.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose at the witch costumes, shaking her head emphatically.  Tracy smoothed her child’s blonde hair and watched as the girl and the clerk discussed the merits of Bo Peep and cowgirls.

The old nightgown had been wadded into the corner of her closet.   The crown and plastic slippers had been stomped to pieces.  A young Tracy had dug into the trash can when he wasn’t looking, collecting all the glass and plastic gems.  She hid them under her bed for years.  She still had them.

She had never dressed up again.  At five years of age, her  innocence and childish imagination had been stripped from her.  She dressed neatly, kept her face sober, and learned to get by around her mother’s boyfriend.  If her mother ever wondered what happened to her exuberant only child, she never asked.  Life wasn’t easy for either of them under his thumb, but they survived.

“Look, Mommy!  They have a princess dress.”  Isabelle’s face beamed as she touched the satin skirt.  The clerk’s smile faltered at the stricken look on Tracy’s face.  Slowly, Tracy forced her hands from their clenched fists and smiled at the clerk.  “Mommy, can I be a princess?”  Isabelle hopped excitedly in place.

“Yes, honey, you’ll make a beautiful princess.”  Tracy felt some hard knot inside her loosen as she watched her daughter lovingly stroke the shiny fabric.  She made a sudden decision.  “Of course, you’ll need slippers and a crown, Isabelle.  Maybe we can find something to match your dress.”  Isabelle’s eyes questioned the clerk.

“We have just the thing,”  she said, handing the dress to Tracy.  The blonde child and grey-haired clerk spoke excitedly together as they moved halfway down the aisle to debate over plastic slippers with glass gemstones.  Tracy drifted slowly after them, feeling the knot begin to dissolve.

“These, Mama.  They go nice!”  Isabelle held up silver sandals and a silver plastic crown.

“Indeed, they do,” Tracy smiled.  She accepted the plastic bags from the clerk as Isabelle moved between them, intent on the rack opposite the dress up accessories.

“What are these?” she asked the clerk.

“These are princess dresses for grown up ladies,” the clerk addressed Isabelle but winked at her mother.  Isabelle turned shining eyes on her mother, oblivious to Tracy’s suddenly pale cheeks.

“You are not a princess, and this ain’t no fairy tale.” The harshness of that remembered voice set up an echo, crashing around in her head.

For a long moment, Tracy lost herself in her daughter’s hopeful eyes.  Those eyes began to drown the harsh voice until it became a faint murmur in the background.  Isabelle chattered non-stop about dressing up with her Mommy as the clerk smiled and nodded.

Tracy looked from Isabelle to the dresses, fingering one in ice blue.  Her hand lingered longingly, then moved hesitantly to check the size.  Finally, she turned her attention to the clerk.

“One for me, too.”

I am old, now, far older than Bettina was when she first shared the Secrets with me.  The younglings consider me ancient and wise, I suppose.  I rest my head in a room backing the warm fires of the kitchen, for my bones feel the chill.  They creak and groan as I move, reminding me with each painful step that I am long past the first flower of youth or even the lushness of a woman bearing children.

I was once young, truly.  Of average height and ample curves, my cheeks were rosy and my form hardened by exercise and martial practice.  I remember how my hair, a rich russet, would tangle around my face in a breeze, though I did my best to keep it tidy in a thick braid I could sit on.  My eyes, the clearest gray, were merry and intelligent, as my father would mention fondly.  Of course, it is white, now, and the curves have gone to my belly.  Why is it that youth is so fleeting, gone just when you finally understand its glory?

I have been a priestess, a warrior, a lover, a mother, a traitor, and finally a murderess.  Oh yes, I have stories to tell you.   I cannot impart the Secrets, for I betrayed them in a cause far more urgent than trust or mystery.

I was so wild, conforming to convention when it suited me, quietly rebelling when it did not.  I lived in the Secrets, gave myself over to them, reveled in them.  Years later, when I was a proper wife and my son was of age, I thought to share my story with him, but what young man, full of his own youth, wants to hear of his mother’s girlhood?  Would he want to hear of how I loved a man before his father?  Would he care that I was a better than average soldier or sought after by regiment captains?  Would he feel quiet pride in a mother who laughed and sang with joyful abandon, and kept her promises even at the expense of her position?  I never told him.

The iron of my spine has softened with age.  I was always agreeable, but stubborn, too.  I craved excitement and sought adventure, even while living in the Secrets.  Now I am happy to spend time with the younglings here and sleep in a warm bed.

I think what I miss most is the ability to ride like the wind across an open field, at one with my mount and nature.  No, there is another regret far deeper.  I miss the ease with which I once formed attachments and relationships.  I miss the innocence I had before The Great Betrayal caused my people to shun me, then conscript me into a war I had worked so hard to prevent.

As evening stretches, my years are passing into the gloaming.  Write this down.  Give life to an old woman’s words.  This is my story.

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