First Lines

I have been thinking about first lines lately. You know, the ones you write at the beginning of your novel to grip and entrance the reader. It's those first words that really set up the stepping stones of your novel. They can encourage you to continue crafting or tempt you to toss yourself over the side of a bridge. Okay, maybe that's a bit much.

Regardless, I got to mulling over my first lines. You see, I started this new book. It's going. Not very fast, but it is going. It took me awhile to figure out where to begin. Is it just me, or is the pressure on the first paragraph astronomical  When you set out to query agents, they are going to decide off of the first four or five pages whether they want to see more of masterpiece it took you two months to six years to complete, give or take depending on who you are and what sort of novel it is.

Anyway, the new first line to my story is:

Like some sort of post graduation cliche, I found myself working at a coffee shop called Bitches Brew, where only snarky females seemed to get hired, and living in a dive apartment with two others girls I barely knew. 

Maybe it isn't the greatest first line ever put to paper (virtual paper, that is), but it allowed me to delve deeper into the story. 

Because I love getting distracted, here are a couple first lines from three of my other novels: 

1. Most believe the decline started with the earthquakes and floods, but Falcon knew it began with greed. 

2. Despite what Carla Wells told everyone, I wasn’t jealous of her and found the idea itself insulting. 

3. When he entered the world, the odds were already stacked against him. 

First lines are both my favourite things and the bane of my existence. Only because I am being overly dramatic, though. Let's have share-fest 2013!

What are you first lines?

The Bane Of Pacing

I have been doing a whole tractor load of editing lately. It's a yours, mine and ours situation. Which, to be honest, has been rather fantastic. I know that's crazy for you to hear coming from me because editing used to be the bane of my existence, but these days, I kind of like it. Sure, it's time consuming and aggravating when I see what a juvenile writer I used to be. I mean, I'm still a child in this word-wielding game, but I see improvement. At least, that's what I call it. 

Pacing is important this yours, mine and ours writing situation for two reasons, and I shall deliver them forthwith. 

1. Pacing to a story is essential. You want to have a plot that unfolds like a butterfly emerging forth from a cocoon, or something as equally as poetic that signifies the importance of not rushing through things. This day and age, I'm seeing people catapulting themselves into their novels, they start with a bang and whizz, a huge amount of drama and, to be blunt, I'm simply not a banger and whizzer. Does that sound weird? 

Anyway, let me clarify by saying I fully encourage people to hit the ground running. I myself sort of jog along, easing myself and the reader and my characters into things. There's always important bits and bobbles in the first couple of chapters, but I view it like poker and not wanting to give my hand away right away. In my opinion, a bit of mystery is necessary. 

This said, I fear readers might not feel the same way, so I wonder if I should change. I mean, I am aware this is part of my writing style and I don't feel it weakens the words I put to virtual paper or even the blooming plot lines. Others will most likely disagree, because not everyone likes apple wine and strawberry shortcake - whatever that means. 

To be honest, I think a lot of people struggle with pacing. Not only when it comes to plot, but also sentence structure. There are many different ways to put a paragraph together. Sometimes when you read a section aloud you will see when the pace is off. It's like poetry in some ways. You want the right beats. The correct pauses. This is something I'm working on. 

2. Now, pacing yourself when editing. I believe it is a time consuming task to painstakingly go through each and every line and pick it apart only to put it back together again in the exact same way. At times, it can feel overwhelming, which is why I strongly recommend knowing your limits. Taking on too much, yeah, I'm the Queen of that. I want to help, lend a hand, but sometimes, it isn't possible. Stress is a killer. No, really. I think stress is one of the most toxic things people cater to. 

In the last couple years, I've noticed how daunting a full manuscript can feel. Finally, I understand why agents ask for the first couple of chapters or fifty pages. It doesn't seem like such a monstrous mountain. I have a couple critique partners, editing buddies, and I've come up with the chapter by chapter method. Not only is this easier on me, but I believe it to be easier on the person I'm exchanging with. Mostly because I'm ruthless with the scalpel and have the tendency not to sugar coat things. 

Here's the thing, the chapter by chapter method allows you see areas you struggle with as you go. The changes are done more easily. And, if necessary for huge plot holes, you can fix things in advance before hitting your partner with the next chapter. Also, it helps to brainstorm as you go and get feedback so you aren't walloped over the head with a bunch of suggestions for areas of improvement. 

This, of course, may not work for you, but have you ever gotten an entire manuscript back with a crap load of red all over it and wanted to shove it in a drawer and never look at it again? 

Yeah, this method prevents those crushing feelings. 

The funny part is when I sat down to write this little post I fully intended to talk about pacing in life. Then, it turned into a little rant about editing and writing. I find it interesting where my brain takes me. 

Until next time, this is Tyson, signing off. 

Feel The Fear

And do it anyway?

I don't know. It seems too easy. Is it really that simple?

Hundred of thousands of people are going to be pretty ticked off it is.

Lately, some big life decisions have been staring me down. And I'm afraid. It's true. I am.

It's not so much the change. I know it's a normal sort of thing to fear change, but this time, I'm not. If I could snap my fingers and have it all done, I would. The fear is coming from how much work is facing me. Whether it's the right thing for me. If I've actually thought it through.

Ugh. And I'm such an over thinker.

The thing is...I know I want most of it. It's the whole kit and caboodle that's worrying me.

My mom recommended the book Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway. So, I've been reading it.

A lot of it makes sense.

There's this whole knowledge that once you put the ball and motion things will just work out.

Except, I've noticed, things don't just 'work out' for me. They are a struggle. Hard work is involved.

Then I start thinking. Am I simply lazy. Is it because I don't have the energy and money to make these changes happen. Is that why I am balking at it?

I'm not sure.

I tried talking about this the other night, but it lead to me being mocked about something different and put me in a bad mood. Now I'm spouting it off here.

Don't get me wrong. I understand the importance of taking the leap. I understand sometimes we must leap to get what we want. But is it supposed to be this hard?

I guess I'm just conflicted. The doubts are there, but they are actually fairly small. It's the fear it won't work out. Fear it will be a complete failure. And fear I will be doing the majority of the work on my own.

It's easy to stay in your own shell and not venture forth.

That's true.

But people keep telling me it isn't as rewarding.

Signing off,
Unsure In Vancouver

Let Them Eat Cake

After yesterday's all too emotional post, I said I'd write about cake. Because cake makes me happy. It's one of my top favourite things. Zombies. Puppy dogs. Silly love songs. And cake.

Well, cake is probably number one, but I put it lower as to not seem so...chubby. People don't need to know that I think about cake nearly as much as I dream of randomly bumping into Woody Harrelson on the street and having him falling head over heels in love with me. I mean, a girl has to keep some of her cards hidden. Ahem.

Anyway, cake is one of those things in life people think are bad, but (and this is one of the biggest secrets) cake is actually good for you.

Wait, what'd I say?

Cake isn't bad! Let's celebrate.

Now, before the party gets out of control, let me clarify. Eating a whole cake to yourself in one sitting is most likely a bad. Not only will it lead to a massive sugar crash, but, if your metabolism is as sluggish as mine, you're going to be needing an extra cart to carry your butt around behind you. But a piece of cake? It's not going to hurt you. Unless you are diabetic, then there could be a good chance it might, and I apologize for this callous post.

There's a song by Sloan, a fantastic Canadian band, called "If It Feels Good Do It" There is a reason the saying exists. We like to do things that make us feel good. Whether it is dancing in our underwear, taking a nap, or eating a piece of cake, our endorphins kick in and smiling is just easier. I know people are stumped, I mean, endorphins are related to exercise...And excitement  And cake is so exciting, which is why I highly encourage eating it. Or whatever your eating cake equivalent is. It might be a chocolate bar. Or french fries.

For those who remember, I'm vegan. And I've found there's this common misconception that vegan cake is bad. People always say how dense and tasteless these egg-less, dairy-less confections are. Well, someone is doing it wrong. They don't have to be thick, heavy slabs of dry horribleness. No. In fact, almost all of my baking is delicious and moist. Ugh. I hate the word moist, but it is needed here and so I forced myself to write it.

At heart, I am a baker. I dream of opening my own bakery where I can sell my vegan creations and  change their terrible reputation. Not only have I mastered cupcakes, but I've got brownies, breads and pies on lock down. That's right. Lock down. I feel slightly gangster even saying that. The truth is, a lot of baking, like pies, tarts, and muffins are usually only a hop skip and a jump away from being vegan.

With all that said, lemon cake is my favourite. With strawberry filling.

Feeling Like A Joke

I've been meaning to do this sooner, but the intersnacks have been dodgy.

The interesting thing about blogging for me is that it works as a diary, helping me sort through the mountains of ridiculous crap floating around in my head. When I don't have the option, things sort of pile up and, no matter how much I stew over it, I can't just let things go. There's this weird part of writing things down that helps me release them. Sure, I could simply sit down with a pen and paper and get to scribbling, but...

No, wait. That's exactly what I did. And to be honest, it really didn't work. You see, I've been having a terrible time sleeping, which is most likely related to the state of mind I've worked myself into. Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I thought it a good idea to scrawl down the free fall of thoughts in my head. Of course, it was three in the morning and they didn't exactly come out orderly and pretty.

Actually, they came out like some haphazard list of possible blog topics, most of which I've already touched on in previous posts and others I'm not sure if I'm strong (or stubborn) enough to write about. The most common theme throughout them is feeling lonely, and health of body and mind. To me, if you have a healthy mind, your body will follow suit, mostly because you'll be motivated to get up and out and actually do something. It's been raining here, and getting up has been a chore.

Anyway, one of the points I jotted down, the first one, has been stuck in my craw for days. It's the source of a lot of heartache. And so, I'm writing about it. Here. In hopes of being able to let it go after. The thing is, I tried confronting it before, but it doesn't seem to matter how much I deep breathe or stretch my mind and body, it's there, needling away at me. I even tried talking about it, but what good is that when you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

Here's a shocking point, it's hard for me to talk about things. Surprise. It's easy to assume I'm a great talker, because I blog and vlog, but that's simply not the case. There are only two people who I feel comfortable telling anything to. I fear anyone else will take it the wrong way, maybe personally, and then offer up advice that won't help. The thing everyone needs to learn is - advice usually isn't what the person talking wants...or needs.

Back to the point, and the issue that's helped derail me from the path I was quite content to be travelling on. I'm a joke. Maybe not to you, or anyone else, but to myself, which is the person who counts the most. Today, and for the last little while, I feel like everything I do or say is a joke. And not when I'm actually being funny, but the serious stuff. My writing. The relationships I have. What I do for others. My love for knitting. Respect for animals. Everything just feels like one big joke and I'm the punchline. And not a very good one. The kind people chuckle at uncomfortably.

It doesn't seem to matter how much effort I put out or time or love or dedication, I feel pathetic. As though I am a sad little attempt at living. Where nothing I do or say matters enough to be taken note of. It's as though I'm simply playing a role, and not doing a very good job.

To be completely up front with you, it's a craptastic way to feel. And, in the battle between common sense and unreasonable feelings, rational thinking never wins.

I've tried putting a mask on and saying, I'm fine and going about my day, but the hitch is, I'm analyzing every piece of my life and losing grasp of what it is I cherished. The longer I harbour this passenger, the more I become the fool, and the feelings of displacement grow stronger. Other not-so-awesome thoughts pop into my head at unfair times. Like feeling invisible. Unwanted. A piece of furniture that always gets in the way, takes up too much room and isn't very pretty to look at. Then, the loneliness seeps in. A silent messenger who comes in the middle of the night when I'm laying next to someone.

Then I start wondering, why I'm not getting what I want?

I know it isn't fair, to want someone else to make me feel better. To distract me. To help me through the tangled knots of my mind. To reassure me that I'm not so bad. To love me even when it's hard to love myself. To forgive my bad mood. To understand where I'm coming from. To see me for who I am, not who I want to be or think I am. To demand attention. To want to be held, kissed and hugged, simply because I'm not happy with the reflection in the mirror.

It isn't fair of me to project my own demons onto someone else.  

The hardest part is, I've been here before, and  it's frustrating because I don't know how I got here again. This girl isn't me. I'm not supposed to be resentful or bitter. This uncertainty doesn't look good on me. I thought I managed to free myself of the constraints of my past, but it's there, sneaking up when it finds a chink in my armour and delivering blow after blow. Apparently, this baggage isn't going anywhere.

I'm a child again. A sad, dysfunctional child wanting the approval and affection of the people I love. Who feels disappointed in herself for letting others down. For letting herself down. The little, ugly, chubby, messy girl with the ratty hair and ill-fitting jeans. She is at the centre of who I am. And the little bitch is strong, and demanding.

I guess this has been going on since Christmas. Ever since, I've felt as thought things have changed. Inside me and all around me. And there's truth in change. We stop doing things for reasons. I'm trying hard to work through those, but the glue and staples don't seem to be holding.

Usually, I pull away. Distance myself. Put up walls. Hide out until the storm passes, or at least ravages and ruins everything in its wake. It seems as though no matter how hard I try not to, I revert back to the girl who doesn't want to get hurt and only ends up hurting myself. The thing is, I'm trying, to talk, to explain, to have some sort of connection that feels real, but I doubt whether it's working. Maybe I'm looking for feed back. A nod. Blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a simple clearing of the throat.

Everything I've wrote on this blog in the past is truth. I know that in my heart, even if it is stubborn and angry right now. Love is the way. You have to be beautiful inside to be beautiful out. Happiness comes from within. It's the little things in life. But the funny thing is, no matter how much you know to be true, all it takes is a shift in weather to fog up your glasses and change the way you see the world.

I'm hoping for another change in weather soon, so I can go back to seeing myself and the world for what it truly is.

And now, a quote:

Perhaps I shouldn't have posted this. That's it, I'm writing about cake tomorrow.