i'm not always so good with pep talks.

The significant, life-forming times are the dull, in-between times. -- Jan Karon

Sometimes I get homesick for the way things used to be. For faces that are more home than any house is. For patterns and moments already past.

For the feel of a certain kind of night (the velvet fog, the street light tenting down, that one path, the paper coffee cup, remember?). For the smell of a particular day.

And sometimes I get homesick for things that haven't happened at all.

Do you ever get this way? It's the beginning of a storm, the start of a trip, or maybe the first crazy itch an insect feels, before it wriggles right out of its skin.

I'm gearing up for something, something big. Many somethings. Not all with names and faces, and certainly not all have endings in sight.

In fact, there are no guessable endings at all.

I find myself saying the same things over and over in conversations. Do you get this way too? I hear my own voice echoing around my ears later: We'll see, I keep saying. We'll see, we'll see, we'll see.

Just to switch things up, I also say: I'm learning a lot!

It's in a perky voice, too, and I wonder who I'm trying to convince: my listeners, or my own stubbornly scared self.

Maybe I say, I'm learning a lot, to drown out the little whine that begs, but could I please just learn one thing at a time?

Do we need seventeen lessons all thrumming along at once? Because I'm feeling just the littlest bit sore and tired.

I don't like that whining voice.

Because of course, I am learning. Each day has more in it than I can hold, and I spill over, all the time. All this thinking, pages and pages of writing, all the reading I'm doing, the wondering, going in circles that are sometimes familiar and sometimes not.

The air is extra-charged, and any moment the spark will come, will set everything off. Maybe burn off all this mist, and then I can see clearly. (We'll see.)

I usually don't mind learning. But sometimes, I don't want to we'll see, I want to know. To have learned.

To get out of the car at the end of the road, stretch my legs, get the crick out of my back, and smile and smile.

Poor cowardly heart. Poor cranky brain. 

Sometimes I don't want to grow anymore. I just want to settle. ... It's one more reason to love (already-written, already-published) books. When the suspense is too much, you can skip ahead, can't you? Skim a bit, get the feel of things, and head for the finish line?

But I know I'd regret it, I'd hate it, if I turned around now.

What happens to the bugs that decide to stay in their old skin, all zipped up and buttoned down tight? Do their little insect brains blow up?

Sounds like a nastier fate than being tired.

Besides. I can just go make more tea, right? Right.

And then keep going, somehow, somewhere. We'll just have to see, right? We'll just have to see.

(Because I think, eventually, eventually, and by the grace of God, the view will be well worth it.)

a book crush, the dream discussion, and #10. (at last.)

So here's a new book for your summer list, especially if you're an artist, a dreamer, or a candlestick maker...

I admit, it's not my usual kind of recommendation. A book about business, Christian media, VeggieTales, success, failure... not my typical cup of tea. And I thought it was an okay book, until I hit Chapter 21: "Dreams, Part II."

Which is currently changing my life.

Phil Vischer, obviously enough, created VeggieTales. Watched it get really really big. Watched it die. And in the end, he learned a lot about business management, creative enterprise... and dreams.

It's the dreaming thing that got to me.

I've dreamed of writing for as long as I can remember. I was a good student all through school, a super good student. Give me a tough assignment, I double-dog-dare you. I worked hard; I did well. And when I graduated, I came home to write, determined to change the world.

Or at the very least, the young adult section of every bookstore in the U.S.

(What can I say, I'm modest. Ha ha ha.)

Over the last five years, I've worked hard. I've got drafts of three novels, in various states of disrepair. I've learned a ton about characters, pacing, plot, setting, dialogue...

I also decided that my identity was that of Girl Writer Taking Over The World. My sense of worth depended on how well work was going. I loved the books I was writing. I also hated how crazy I felt, how exhausted I was, and how it felt like these books would never be good enough. Ever.

I knew I was working against myself somehow, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. (Hence #10 on The List: my attempt at quelling the noise in my head.) And I was pretty sure that if I just worked harder, it would all be good.

Enter Phil Vischer, Me, Myself, & Bob, and Chapter 21. Where Vischer talks about a lot of crazy things, super-crazy. He talks about Christians and their dreams of changing the world for God. And a lot of what he says sounds just like me. Exhausted, driven, determined, Girl Writer me.

Crazy things. Like:

When people of great faith in the Bible don't know what God wants them to do, they don't just run off and make stuff up. They wait on him.

I've actually read that before. I've read this chapter before, nodding my way through. I know what God wants me to do: how many times have I said I was called home to write? I sincerely believed that, and I still do.

But what to write?

That's where I made stuff up.

Then he said this:

The Christian life wasn't about running like a maniac; it was about walking with God. It wasn't about impact; it was about obedience. It wasn't about making stuff up; it was about listening.

Maniac. That rings a bell. So does "impact." And "making stuff up."

He asks if we serve our dreams, or if we serve our God. And he also says of himself:

My ambition, my dreams, my misplaced sense of identity and value were dragged kicking and screaming up onto the altar. And now they were dead.

Like I said, I've read this chapter before. I always flinched away from those sentences, but this week, this week it feels like something's unraveling inside me.

Something that, surprisingly, I don't mind losing as much as I thought I would.

Misplaced sense of identity and value? Hmm. Hmmmm.

God is enough for you, Vischer writes. But you can't discover the truth of that statement while you're clutching at your dreams. You need to let them go. ... The impact God has planned for us doesn't occur when we're pursuing impact. It occurs when we're pursuing God.

Over and over, Vischer talks about walking with God. And waiting on God. Waiting. That's what got me. Wait? I don't want to wait for anything. I wanted to write a brilliant novel in one year flat.

But this week, that goal has fallen away. All that running uphill, all the urgency and frustration... those crazy ambitions are unstitching in my heart.

And here's what I'm left with: if I write at all, I only want to write the book God tells me to write.

I don't mean that in a silly way--like there would be a cherub sitting on my shoulder, dictating every paragraph. That's not what I mean. But I want to be still in the midst of my writing life. To be still, and to listen, and to wait.

I don't want to keep chasing every novel idea that comes along. I want to write the book I'm supposed to write. It's actually that simple, that strange, and takes effect immediately.

My June plans are still in full swing: I'm still journaling, reading, doing those writing exercises. I'm also praying a lot more, and feeling the burden of my writing life slip from my shoulders. And can I just say: that's a huge relief.

So that's summer. Tending the soil of my writing life. Being faithful to still put my time in, practicing, and listening. I don't know what's coming next, what seeds there might be in this soil. But I'll keep watering it and waiting, and we'll see.

I feel free. Excited. And free.

Recommendation: Frankly, you don't even have to read this whole book if you aren't interested in VeggieTales. Just skim it, get the gist of it, and then slow way down at Chapter 21.

Read every word, my dreaming friends, and I promise it will change you.

jenn versus the month of may.

Some Monday mornings I wake up full of pluck. Today was not one of those mornings. I had the covers over my head, thinking maybe, if I decide not to get up, this week doesn't have to start.

This certainty cut through my heart: once I get up, the days will fly by, and I will reach the end of May much too soon. The end of May threatens with a fistful of goodbyes. And while I have a very long list of things I love, goodbyes are not on it. Not anywhere.

So yes, it's true again, I'm the Chicken Little of the calendar. (The days are flying! The days are flying!)

I got up anyway, still clutching the warm memories of yesterday, and hoping that somehow, I can learn to greet May with an open mind and a quiet spirit.

Getting back to my writing desk helps. Hey there, characters. I think I write so I can create people more brave than I am. And then I try to be like them. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I'm not brave at all.

But today's been about more than bravery (lost or found): I've made peace with chapter three (I think). And then rewarded myself with a warm banana muffin, and white chocolate peanut butter smeared over it... that will restore some pluck, let me tell you.

You can face a lot of things with a warm banana muffin. And that white chocolate peanut butter? That's like a superhero cape.

Went for an afternoon run in the rain. Chased sixteen mallards down the road and got myself quacked at. Waved at all the dog walkers, dodged the dripping-est trees. Came home feeling better, so much better.

And I made a decision about number 12 from The List: that vintage-y knit skirt? I love it so much. But maybe next year. The project I'm making instead has to do with these gorgeous things...

Yes. A granny square quilt. I'm so excited. I mean, really.

Over the last few weeks, I've been turning all kinds of yarn scraps into these cute little squares. I love watching the abandoned bits and pieces come together in one unique patch after another...

And then gathering up all those patches into a quilt that's both warm and full of stories. Yes. Making much of leftovers.

Shoot, that isn't just a quilt, that's a whole philosophy.

And maybe that's the spirit for May. We will make much of all we have, right?

Every scrap of color, every bit of time that's worth a stitch. We'll turn this calendar page into something warm, something full of stories.

Yes.

one last peek: 10 from 2010

I always have a little trouble coming to grips with the end of a year. Just a little.

And though I'm doing a lot better than I used to, it still takes me a while to adjust to the thought of it, to a clean calendar lying at my feet. All those boxes... waiting to be filled. Filled with what?

2011's gonna be a big one, I just know it.

But as a way to say goodbye to 2010, I spent some time poking through the old posts on this blog, sifting through the words of the past year. Wow. We've been through a lot, oh blog of mine! There's a lot we've chronicled here, you and I.

So here are a few posts from the past, a handful of moments from 2010, maybe the best ones, or maybe just the ones that still hit me.

Ten from 2010:

1. these things i keep

2. spring cleaning

3. gusto

4. the small & unguessed life

5. dear summer,

6. lost & found

7. a platter of figs

8. let's count the days like falling leaves

9. for the love.

10. the gift of your presence



Okay. Okay. Now I think I'm ready. ... Bring it on, 2011.


*I admit, I kinda stole this idea from hula seventy. Elsie has a similar list. It's a fun way to celebrate the past, isn't it?

this is one of those.

It's kind of a year-end tradition, this thinking through, sweeping cobwebs from the rooms of my brain. Shaking out all the rugs in my life, washing the curtains that hang on the windows of my mental universe.

I have some questions muddling my mind, big and helpful and extraordinary questions. Directions I'm looking for, ideas I'm feeding. I'm not always sure quite how to puzzle out what I'm thinking... perhaps I'll find it at the bottom of my next cup of coffee.

But it means that this blog and its schedule have gotten a little... short changed? And I'm so sorry about that. I've spent so much time thinking, and not so much time posting.

This isn't meant to sound dreary, because nothing's wrong. Actually, I'm exploding with happiness. (Yes, my one-year-old niece has been kissing my nose again. It's like sunshine.) I've just also been thinking a lot, considering where and how my writing might go next year, what our plans are for Squirrel & Serif, even what the future might hold for this, The Ampersand Café. 

I'll be back soon with another book crush for Thursday. Meanwhile, have you been keeping up with the beautiful posts over at habit? I've always admired the calm and simplicity of their presentation... they make me want to be a better person. And lately, the posts have put me in a holiday mood. Go take a peek.

now and then I learn things. and that's so nice.

Today was the first day of a new draft, and it demanded the usual sacrifices.

Required: one blank Word document. One girl's ego. And the razor-sharp edge of really atrocious writing.

It's funny: I forgot how bad my first drafts are! Whew! It's been a while since I had to face them.

I've spent the last few months rehabilitating this plot and rethinking every element of the story. And now is the time when I put all of it through the mill, and catch it in sentences on the other side.

I somehow thought it would be easier this time, because this is technically the fourth draft of the book. I mean, I should know some things by draft four, right? After half a million words with these characters, we should all be on good terms?

But this is more like the fourth first draft of the story. In other words, I'm starting from scratch, from the top of page one, and not just tinkering around with decent paragraphs that already exist.

And these new sentences are terrible!! I mean--they're really bad. I'm not being modest, cute, or polite. And I'm not just saying what writers are supposed to say, "oh it's so miserable!" The kind of statement that requires a "I'm sure it's not that bad!" from the long-suffering listener.

It's not the kind of bad that can be brushed aside or excused. This is the kind of bad that has no illusions whatsoever.

But what amazes me today, even more than the stink rising from the words? What's truly, truly worth celebrating?

I'm okay with bad writing.

Really! After the initial shock wore off, I looked around and everything was still standing. I'm okay. The book's okay. The characters shrug. Seriously? they say, glancing over at me. You forgot about this part? The beginnings are always terrible. We forget our lines. So do you. And it will get better.

So that's where we are. The first thousand words are milling around in draft four, and I'm not having an identity crisis. ... That's a very, very good thing.

Truly, I used to freak out when I would read my own terrible writing. This is from me? I thought. And then I'd look around the room and kind of hide the paper. Maybe we can keep anyone from finding out. Because I accidentally told a lot of people that I'm working on a novel.

Now I know it's just part of the game. And after a while, all the critical voices in my head will shut up when they see I'm not paying attention. I'll muddle through this draft like all the others.

It's so bad right now. But I know--with a certainty I didn't used to have--that it will be very, very good.

Eventually.

the small & unguessed life

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. -- André Gide

'Tis the season of graduation parties, balloons on mailboxes in the neighborhood, cakes frosted in school colors, Pomp and Circumstance...
.

And if you're like me, it's time to squint at the year on the calendar and count backward a few... did I really graduate from college four years ago? Four?? (Which puts high school at eight, shockingly enough. Let's just move on ...)

.

It is so funny to think back to May 20, 2006 and college graduation. I was doing the bold thing, the crazy thing: abandoning my goal of five years for an idea I'd had that February. Instead of going into editing, I decided to come back home to my parents' house and try to write a novel.

.

It felt so big, daring, and grand. Write a novel? At age 21, do you really give up the prospect of steady employment for the sake of a novel idea you haven't had yet? It felt gutsy, and it was.

.

I'd give it a year, I decided. Sounded safe enough: a whole year to see if I could "make it work." I told everyone, I received tons of support and encouragement, and I moved back home. Fired up my computer. Stared at my quiet, blank screen.

.

Fast forward four years to my life now, and let me tell you: this isn't what I thought my life would be like in 2010.

.

Not even a little bit.

.

In my mind, 2010 had two options. Either I had miraculously proven my ability at writing quick, brilliant novels (an oxymoron, at least for me), and I would be making a living at it... (Yes, we can all say NAIVE, all together class...)

.

Or, by 2010 I would have shelved the whole business, in favor of making dependable money at a publishing company. Probably wearing a cute array of business suits. Listening attentively at meetings. I'd have a desk, with a little name plate on it. And everyone could point to me and say exactly what it was that I did. (Luxurious thought!)

.

Either I would be a writing success or a publishing success. Those were my options.

.

I thought those were my options.

.

Certainly I wouldn't still be living at home. Working on the same book. That would be a small, slow life, and it wasn't what I had in mind.

.

Four years later, I'm starting draft four of the same novel that I started the summer after graduation. I'm also planning its sequel: I hope to "break ground" on that draft in late August. And I had a November fling with a completely new story idea.

.

So four years later, I have three books in my head and heart, two of them in draft form.

.

Small, my graduation self would have said. Small and crazy. And I would not still be at home at age twenty-five!!

.

But now I wonder if it's my graduation self that had the small vision. That had narrow views of success and how fast it must be achieved.

.

I don't always know what I'm aiming for now--they aren't the bright, definable goals I used to have: A better draft. Snappier dialogue than I wrote yesterday. Clearer insight into my characters than I had last week. A more open heart. A calmer spirit in the face of ongoing uncertainty.

.

Some things are the same: My computer screen is sometimes blank. I have moments where I think I'm crazy. I have a lot of my former idealism, and a healthy streak of naiveté, which keeps me chasing my work. And my family still believes as much in my writing as I do--and often they find more belief in me than I have for myself.

.

But sometimes, though I hate to say it, I'm still my narrow, 2006 self, measuring success in terms of calendar squares instead of the many victories won from my writing chair.

.

So I still have a lot to learn. But at least I'm revising my idea of small. By next year, maybe I can abandon that term altogether.

spring cleaning

I'd done impossible things several times in the past, and the prospect didn't scare me as much as it used to. -- Jasper Fforde, Lost in a Good Book

You know how it is. One day you're living in your house, everything tidy and fine, and the next day all you can see is the dust, those cobwebs you've been living under for how long now?, the scuffs, the peeling paint... Your next free weekend, you roll up your sleeves and kick into cleaning gear.

That's kind of what happened to me recently, except that my room looks (mostly) fine. It was more me that was the problem: I felt restless, frustrated, and what we affectionately call snarky: irritable enough that I didn't feel right in my own skin.

It had been building for weeks--okay, months--and I couldn't tell what was wrong: was I brain-sick, heart-sick, or just body-sick? Whatever was happening, I felt like I was falling apart. And it really ticked me off.

Why? Because when I look at my life: rent-free, surrounded by a loving and caring family, living my dream of novel writing at age 25, and using my favorite hobby to scoop up a little money... I feel like I should rush about so full of joy that I almost can't stand it.

Which isn't exactly how the last few weeks looked for me.

So I took last Thursday off, went away with a new journal, a few books, and a clutch of pens to find out why.

my "laptop": journal from Red Velvet Art.

Coffeehouse-hopping around St. Charles, Missouri, I came to a few conclusions, amidst crepes and cappuccinos.

Biggest and weirdest of all, I finally defined a belief I've been living with for nearly four years: That this time of living at home and crafting a novel (which turned into three novels) is an "in-between" time: between the college years and Real Life, between the end of youth and the beginning of adult, between goofing off and career. Between. In limbo. Or in marching band parlance, marking time.

But I've marched my fair share of parades, and four years is a long while to be marking time.

And I think that's what's been frustrating me: the time schedule in my head doesn't come close to the time schedule that I'm living. There's always been this crushing sense that I should be faster at this, faster at writing. When I graduated, someone foolishly told me (joking, I'm sure) that I could probably have my first novel written by October, and move on to its sequel.

Ha ha ha, I said. But some monsterish part of me actually believed I could. I've read novels most of my life, I reasoned. I ought to be able to figure it out.

Well, I'm on my way to figuring it out, but novels are complicated beasts, and I seem to be making my first one even more complicated than usual. It's turning out well, really well in fact. I'm proud of it, but I know it has further to go before it's agent-ready, bookshelf-ready.

Even with this bit of common sense, I chafe at the passing of time. Whenever someone asks if I'm done yet, or when will it be finished, I can hear this massive clock ticking in my head. Some terrible voice notes the passage of each minute, each week, which is why I so often dash about screeching It's late March already, LATE MARCH!

I have the hardest time "forgiving" myself for the time it takes to craft a novel. Especially an enormous, subplot-laden, complication-ridden, young adult fantasy.

But why? Why do I do that, carry that false guilt around? It's like running a marathon with a limp, or swimming the English Channel with weights on your feet. Less kindly put, it's just plain stupid. Writing a novel is hard enough. Pretending it takes no time or effort, and then beating yourself up when it does? Far harder.

Which is why I usually plan my brains out. If I can see my way through the natural writing chaos to all the steps I imagine between me and the perfect manuscript... well then. If I can see it, I can do it. But so many of my plans are basically saying, in neat columns and rows, "I am terrified of writing a book."

So I grabbed that fear last Thursday and did my best to choke it. Obviously it takes a while for me to learn to write a novel. And if the freaking out is optional, then I'd rather not be freaking out, thanks all the same.

Strange--it's hard to give up something you routinely panic about. Quite hard. If I stop worrying about this, will I just sit around in my PJs all day, bellowing for coffee, staring out the window and pretending to be dreaming up my masterpiece? Still pottering around this bedroom at age forty? Though I know my family wouldn't just let me rot away like that. But still.

If you're going to rethink your life, try to have a lovely view. New Town, St. Charles.

I tend to think that the opposite of worry is apathy... but that's not true. I will still care deeply about writing my novel well--and will probably write a better one if I'm not spending time and energy clawing at calendar pages.

Still. It will take some practice believing that four years is okay. That this time of learning to write a novel isn't limbo, isn't in between, isn't a blank spot on my life. That I'm not waiting to begin, that my midtwenties aren't just this space of marking time.

But practice I will. Each day is my life. Each day that I write mediocre dialogue, I'll know that it's one more step toward sizzling lines. Each day that I brainstorm a fistful of complications for my protagonist, I'll know I'm on my way to a thrilling, can't-put-down book.

I'm learning. I'm growing. I'm moving forward. And that's not the same thing as marking time. Not the same thing at all.

spending my days with imaginary people

In dreams begins responsibility. -- W.B. Yeats

Hard to corral my thoughts into a straight line tonight... so many things buzzing about in my brain!

First off, I honestly can't believe that it's mid-September. CAN'T. I'm going through my usual reactions to the passing of time... though I do love watching the leaves outside consider change. Still. The thought of mid-September makes me break out in hives...

But the writing has picked up since my last post--in fact, it's gotten so much better. Life has settled down long enough that I can find my way back to routine, and with it, all the blessings routine can give.

My archvillain is grounded, and it serves him right. He still refuses to be up front with me about how he'll behave in Part Four, so he's stuck in his room with no dessert, no phone, no TV, no computer, no nothing. I'll check on him in a week or two and see if he's feeling penitent and conversational again.

But with the archvillain out of the way, my other characters are coming out and having wonderful conversations with each other and with me. I actually can't get them to be quiet, even if I wanted to. (Sleep has been difficult.)

And they have these fantastic lines--making me laugh out loud at my desk, like a crazy person. They're chattering at me about why they're doing what they do, who they're mad at, what they're hoping for, and how they're going to wind up in the epilogue.

I love it. I can't keep up--even typing as fast as I can, I can't keep up with them.

So that's where I am, even though it's mid-September... I am happy, drinking my weight in coffee. There's always ink on my fingers, and I'm scribbling scribbling scribbling away.

And, too, a new idea has been birthed today, a very, very new idea, with wonderful and exciting possibilities. I'll be quiet about it for the rest of the week, water it and stick it in the sun... If it grows and blossoms, I assure you: I won't be able to shut up about it. So, you might hear some happy news soon...

so this is september.

It's one of those bits of advice you read when you research blogging... never take a huge break from your blog! Alas. I have. Absolutely unintentional, but nevertheless... a break it was.

But I've taken a break from pretty much everything, lately. Writing has slowed to a trickle, and I've lost my place in a dozen other projects... but it's all for a good cause, one of the best possible causes: my niece has arrived!! And her arrival prompted all the celebrating and helping out that should ensue...

Now the confetti has been swept up, and we're a week into September. September?? I finally look at a calendar again and see that the weeks have rushed past. I'm still surprised that I had a birthday last week--why does twenty-five years old feel the same as nineteen? Shouldn't I know some things by now?

The grocery stores are selling caramel apples and putting out Halloween decorations--anyone else feel rushed? Personally, I haven't said a proper goodbye to summer, so I skirted the apples and picked up enough peaches to make another pie, a farewell-to-summer pie. (With honey caramel. Mmm.)

And at my writing desk, I'm shaking out file folders and rounding up my cast of characters. We have a draft to finish, after all, and I can't do it alone. My archvillain, in particular, has his ears back and refuses to be anything but commonplace. Contest of wills: I want him to be stunning and without cliché. He wants to take a nap. To bolster my courage, I dyed my hair red. I'm hoping that this somehow brings my feisty writer self to the fore...

So this is where I'm at: trying to find my way back to my work, back to the rhythms and patterns of bookery. I'll find my way back to blogging again too, and soon.

the chicken little of the calendar

I recommend you to take care of the minutes: for hours will take care of themselves. -- Earl of Chesterfield

The Future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is. -- C.S. Lewis

The sky isn't falling. I just checked: it's secure, if a bit overcast.

The passage of time, though: that's another thing entirely. (Though also tending toward the overcast...)

I remember charging through the house as a kid, on the 30th or 31st, telling everyone "It's time to change the calendars! Flip your calendars tonight! New month tomorrow!"

Then I'd change my own, and run my fingers over all the blank boxes that we had yet to cross. It felt like looking at a map, only with far less information... something to cross through that you cannot see.

I've never been completely easy with them, those blank boxes.

I can let a few go past without too much concern, but every fifth day or so, I panic again at what day it is. "Can you believe it's the fifteenth?!" I was shrieking yesterday. "The fifteenth! It's the middle of May!! And 2009, no less! How did it get to be 2009? Wasn't it just 2005?"

No one else looked surprised.

One of my magazines arrived early this week--the June edition. June? I had to sit down and take a few deep breaths.

One day at a time? What on earth does that mean??

Time seems to pull me along kicking and screaming, the kid pressing herself back in her chair, as if she's at some horror movie but can't take her eyes off the screen... Eeeek, another day gone!

It comes out in other ways, too: at my job once, I got the date wrong on something. Month and day were fine, but I was two years off. And it was September. Should've been used to the year by then, eh? (I got a few weird looks.)

Despite this panicking, the sky is falling!! relationship with time, I still make plans, still move forward, somehow.

Which brings us to Monday: time to start drafting again, the third section out of four. Another major rewrite, new scenes, new dialogue. My protagonist should drop by--we can only hope--and the antagonist is sharpening her cruelty. They'll all be there on Monday, and so will I, though I'll be the one blinking astonishment at my computer screen.

The eighteenth? Really?? Can it possibly be the 18th? That's late May, isn't it? I mean, it's practically the twentieth, and once you hit the twenties, you're practically done with the month, so we might as well call it June, and then it's summer, and then--

all my exiles

Are not there little chapters in everybody's life, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history? -- William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair

This poem has been knocking around in my head today. Not because I've lost a continent or lovely cities, thank goodness. But I was thinking dangerously this morning, thinking about how it's April, how it's 2009, how long it is taking to write this novel of mine.

(And I seriously need to stop thinking like that. The "how long" whine is as tedious as microwaved coffee.)

I felt a little better--perversely--when I realized how much I've written. Because it's not like I can't muster the page-power.

I've written four novels-worth of pages, at least. Maybe five. (Six?) Looking at my writing room, I can half-see all those scrapped sections and cut chapters. Drafts of old maps--maybe I've lost a continent after all. A few characters that lived and died and no one else will ever know about them. Piles of names. And that heap, over there, are used and discarded plot twists. Flawed or clichéd or just no longer fitting my story, but they've still existed, however briefly.

It's an odd, ghostly feeling. Not at all sad, though. I've gotten (somewhat) used to the sting of throwing out pages (and whole sections... and whole drafts). I know that the final book, whenever it's finished, will be all the better for everything it's lost.

But there really should be some sort of empire for these castaways, shouldn't there? A place for the limping, foolishly named characters who say the wrong things, where dull surprises happen constantly, and tangents expand over more chapters than they ever should, like water unbraiding behind a boat.

mudroom entry

If you're crazy, there's two things you can do to make yourself feel better. One is to get yourself cured. The other is to make everyone you have to deal with crazy. -- Alan Dean Foster

I'm on four hours of sleep (not for any great or interesting reason), and have put in enough work on my novel to make my brain dance just this side of coherent.

So instead of trying to make sense and write something engaging, I'm just going to set everything down...

My next phase of rewriting is going well, well, well! The character I reinvented is back to play, and I loved chatting with him all afternoon. I've written 19,800 words since last Monday. Not bad. I'm hoping to have this next section worked over by April 18 (celebration plans are in the works), and I think I'm on target.

My little sister is pregnant with my very first niece or nephew! We hung out for a while yesterday, and I was hoping to feel a baby-kick, but I guess it's only kicking hard enough for her to feel. So exciting, though!

Otherwise, I am rereading one of my favorite Shannon Hale books, working my most challenging piece of knitting so far (cables! lace! and lots of counting!), and snapping photos of our magnolia tree before it gets stomped on by another frost.

Poor little bookpie. I have such wide, wonderful and interesting plans for you, I do, I do! I want to read more and tell you all about it; I want to make more pies (a lot--perhaps something springy, with lemons, with berries) and write about those; I want to chat about writing; I want, I want, I want . . . to remember that balance is a dance, to make crepes for dinner, to read in the hallway like a kid (past my bedtime? with a flashlight? in a tent?), to fall asleep in our newly green yard. Sigh. Happy spring.

the (in)constant blogger

Resume your course, o my story, for this aging monk is lingering too long over marginalia. -- Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

Dear baby blog of mine,

Did you think I'd abandoned you? I picture you, this past week, reading all those online articles about the blogging burnout rates, statistics for how quickly we frail people realize: I don't really want to write something every day.

Did you suspect me? Did you think I wouldn't come back?

Don't worry. I've already proven myself as a long-term blogger. No, my failings this past week were Failings of the Bookish variety. I stepped up my drafting schedule, and have logged over 5000 words in my next rewriting project, and they're giving me plenty of challenges and demands of their own...

Oh, but you're zoning out already, aren't you? Or seething with jealousy, and so you feign indifference...

Stop seething. It's okay, I promise. Maybe I started Bookpie too soon, or maybe I didn't.

But do you really think that after all that time snapping the perfect bookish picture and the loveliest lattice top I could find... after all that, would I really leave you? Absolutely not.

Can you bear with me? This whole writing life is one big juggle game, and I'm still dodging the siren songs of the library. But I'll always come back to you. Always.