The First Week - NANO Recap

The first week of NANO is over and I've done my best to hunker down in the evenings and churn out a decent word count. Working with NANO gives you an idea of what it's like to have a deadline. The downside is, even though you know you need to write fifty thousand words by the end of the month, it's easy to reason the deadline isn't real. It's not like you have an editor breathing down your neck or an agent demanding your next best seller. Unless you do have those things, in which case, I hate you. Just a little. Not enough for you to worry about.

Besides, a little hate might get you through the next thirty-seven thousand and five hundred words. By my calculations, which could be wrong, except I used a calculator, so they aren't, you have penned a mighty twelve thousand and five hundred words.

Congratulations. You aren't even halfway there.

Just between the two of us, I'm relatively happy with the results I'm seeing. It's been a bit stressful because I'm juggling two plot lines and hoping they seamlessly come together in the end, but for the most part the words are coming. A miracle really. It's been a long time since I've gotten past ten thousand words. The main issue I see cropping up already is the interactions between my male and female lead. For one, I'm concerned I am giving away too much up front. Another, the love crap feels so contrived. Seriously. My cynical eyes are rolling every time I write a kiss or stroke or snuggle.

As for advice, everyone writes differently, but just don't get distracted. Shut down Facebook. Put your phone in another room. Don't write hungry. Have water on hand. Sit in a comfortable chair. Plug into music. Reiterate to everyone you live with beforehand that you writing and do not want to be disturbed. Set a goal. And use write or die.

If that all fails, get someone else to write the book for you.

So, cheers. Here's to ten thousand more. No worries. I got this.

Maybe.

Blustery

Blustery is one of my most favourite words. Today, is one of those days. The wind is howling. Rain is falling in a sheet, from the side, cold and fierce, undeniable in its desire to soak you through to the bone. Wind chimes are knocking together. We have the wooden ones. So the sound is quite pleasing to the ear.

Dixon stood in the doorway for twenty minutes staring out into the storm. All day, he's done the same thing. Sat on the porch, smelling the air, but he refuses to go out in the rain. There's something amusing about him not wanting to get wet. I even went out there to clean up the garden a bit. Still, he sat on the porch. Watched the cars go past. Smelled the fresh, wet air.

I have decided to take a cue from my hound dog and am staying in.

My lofty goals for this weekend are to finish the novel I have been writing. It's a magical story full of wonderment and odd encounters. More so, it's about friendship and being who you are. You know, those boring themes almost all novels have in them. It's been going on far too long, though. Writing this thing.

So, as the rain comes down, tapping on the window, I will be tapping on my keyboard.

Trying to be creative. I am grateful that I can pretend to be a writer today.

Mindlessness

Last night, I wrote all of six words.

Six.

Impressive? No, not in the least.

Under normal circumstances, mindless television is the key to my creativity. It's something that I can drown out and still know what is going on. Noise is essential to my process. It feels silly writing that. Mostly because, do I even have a process? I usually just sit down and see where the blinking cursor takes me. This book I am trying to finish, let's call it "Ramona" - because that's the title it holds in my writing folder - is giving me a hard time. Fifty-something thousand words into it and struggling to get out the end.

It's rather annoying, really. I know what the final chapter will be, it's just getting there that's been an uphill journey through brambles on a scorching day. This is a bad place to get stuck. Most frustrating, really, when the first forty-five thousand words came spilling forth from my fingertips like they were greased up with butter and going down a slip-and-slide.

Somehow, I got sucked into the mindless television program last night.

And I wrote six words.

Six.

Instead of beating myself up about it, I'm going to try again tonight. If at first you don't succeed, and all those other catchy sayings people love.

At least I have the ability to write. I am fortunate for that. Grateful for my idea factory. The fact my laptop still boots up. And that I have the ability to watch mindless television with there being little repercussion, except another day slipping through my fingers.

Come on, Ramona. End already.

And if you really want to know what the television show was, just send me an email or something.

Sensitive Writer Syndrome

The Sensitive Writer Syndrome is a common, and complex, disorder. While there are writers who claim they don't get 'upset' or 'take to heart' the critiques they receive, I sometimes have to wonder how honest they are being with themselves.

Not too long ago, I claimed to be one of these people. But over the last couple of months, I've really noticed how easily swayed I am by others views. Not consciously, of course. But all it take is a passing remark by someone to plant the seed of doubt.

And, as we all know, doubt can be a rather savage creature.

Second guessing myself and my writing because of other people is new to me. That's not to say I never questioned it or put to the side something I wasn't sure on. No, it's just saying I never did it because of what someone else might have said.

Oh dear. This is making me sound like a spineless jellyfish without a thick skin. That is not the case. Whenever you put yourself out in public whether that be through blog, vlog, twitter, facebook, Authonomy, Write On, or SlushPile Reader, you open yourself up for criticism. Everyone who's been along for my journey knows I've received plenty of criticism. And a lot of it does roll of my back, but sometimes, certain things stick.

Usually, it's the certain things said by certain people.

Up until the last year and a half, I didn't have an audience. It took awhile to adjust to it. After over 700 comments on Seeking Eleanor on Authonomy, I understood my writing isn't for everyone. Someone will always hate it. And you cannot please everyone. These are wonderful things to come to terms with, because once you do you can relax a little and just shrug it off.

I think I've adapted rather well.

Here's the tough part. No matter what sort of writer you are, whether you only plan on writing one book or you have three completed and working on your forth, it's personal. It is your idea, your time, your energy, and, in some cases, your blood, sweat and tears. It's hard not to be sensitive about it. And while we may grin and bear it, there are times that it really gets us down. And that's when the SWS comes into play.

Sensitive Writer Syndrome can strike at the most inopportune times. It could be on the third round of edits or the thirty-sixth 'not for me' rejection. It might do a sneaky ninja attack in the middle of the night and prevent you from sleeping. Hell, it might even show up when you're sitting on the toilet really regretting eating that second extra-spicy bean burrito from the dive Mexican place around the corner. The tricky part of this affliction is one never knows how long it will stay for, how debilitating it may be, or when it will go away. Sometimes it never goes away.

The key for all writers in regards to SWS is to understand your own version of it. Like a compliment, a complaint will render different actions from the person receiving it. All sorts of things come into play. Who said it? How they said it? When they said it? How detailed they are?

For example, while Jackie O'Mackie, the writer of Gothic literature, doesn't care if her friend Betsy Boom rips her work apart, she becomes an emotional basket case if her own mother says anything negative about it. And, quiet the opposite, Peter BoBeater, a writer with a penchant for creating silly little children's books, hates it when his wife Lena mentions his horrible punctuation, but is perfectly happy with his own mother's pedantic ways.

See how it can differ from person to person.

While I did make those examples up, shocking I know, I can only shed light for you on my own version of SWS, because it is rather unique.

Once my work is in completed form, the ending finished and at the stage where I start my edits, I am open to anything anyone says to me. This is not where my Sensitive Writer Syndrome comes into play. No, mine exists before the novel has been completed.

Up until this last year and a half, I didn't have an audience. I didn't have people who showed an interest in reading my work, least of all while I was actually in the middle of writing it. But now, I have people clamouring (that's so the wrong word) to read my work. They ask me to post snippets. They question what I am working on. And they seem excited about the idea of reading it.

This is where my back goes up now.

When I am in the middle of crafting something, I think that idea is amazing. It's all I am focused on. I eat breathe and sleep it. It consumes me. Literally, devouring me until I get it all out and can get back to my life. And so, when someone shows interest in reading what I have started I get a little thrill. But what accompanies this thrill is my SWS.

If I opt to let someone read my work at this stage I run the risk of being derailed.

This is something I know.

Depending on the reaction I get back, I could completely give up on the story. It could be something little, like the person suggesting I write it from a different POV. It could be something big, like someone saying they didn't like it and it had no substance. It could be something ridiculous, like someone not being as excited as I think they should be. And it could be something hurtful, like someone saying it's cliched and expected.

I know these are just their opinions. For the most part, I don't even want to take them into consideration! Especially when I know they are unprecedented and foolish. I mean, they are on a piece of work that isn't done! How could it be cliched and expected, they don't even know what's to come! And yet, still they bother. They plant that pea-sized seed of doubt, and that pea feels like a mountain when I sleep on it at night.

I love feedback on my work in progress. Wait...that's not clear enough. I love helpful feedback on my work in progress. Wait...that's not enough either. My Sensitive Writer Syndrome loves helpful and constructive feedback on my work in progress.

It's really easy for me to be derailed when I am in the middle of writing a novel. That's a unique characteristic to my disorder. I think I am a better writer for recognizing the traits of my special brand of SWS. And I think others would be better off knowing the nature of their own beasts, because there are things we can do to curb it.

We could avoid the things that flare our SWS up...because, like Herpes, it's never going to fully go away. Or we can face it. To be honest, I'm not going to stop letting people read my material, even though that's exactly what my urge is to do. What I am going to do? Cultivate a smaller group of people whose opinions I value. Try not to take to heart the comments I receive from the peanut gallery. And try with all my might to finish the things I start, and not allow myself to be derailed.