my curse

When I turned 18, I left home, following a rite of passage like the rest of my peers. Since then, I have moved every single year. That's seven times in seven years. Need I delve into how annoying of a process this is? The number of boxes I've used, the rolls of duck tape, the I don't know how many hands who have helped me load and carry my crap across the city of Orlando, to Tampa, and back to Orlando, and now to West Palm. Each move was necessary, some were planned, and some were surprises. Each time, it's worked better than the year before. I can't complain (though my brother does, as he is the main set of arms who have helped in my relocating), since each year has taught me something different. How long will I continue this rather nomad existence? I happen to think the curse will break when I get married, as an alternative line of thinking than you're typical fairy tale. I shouldn't take that seriously, and neither should you (that would be you reader), as I am a raving sentimentalist/romantic who needs to get a grip on my reality (my reality being that I have less than $100 in my banking account, my new jeans are still a little snug, and it looks like traveling Europe won't happen until after I've done something moderately respectful). The curse could very well break as soon as I find a Chipotle, Barnes and Noble, movie theater, Anthropologie, Hogsmeade, and Gamestop all in one strip plaza.

I just got back from the leasing office, breaking my first lease, deviating from my norm of staying put for one year in the same place. I had thought this year I might be able to break my curse, and finally settle down and have the same zip code for two consecutive years. I was pretty confident this would be the case, but then I didn't get into grad school like I'd arrogantly thought I'd be able to.

Hence, the job search. And now, I'm going to Publix for the umpteenth time in my life to ask for extra boxes.

P.S. I finally added chapters to the novel. I have eighteen of them. Hoorah.

before i start my day job...

For anyone keeping track (other then my lonely self), I got a job. Finally. Upon hearing the news, I was a little surprised I didn't receive noise complaints from anyone living up to five states away. That's how loud my relief was.

Today I had a serious reality check concerning page count. I'm at 50,759 words in the story, and 239 pages on my microsoft word program. By my best guess (and of course, this should be taken with a grain of salt because what writer ever really knows) I'm about two/thirds of the through, providing the characters go and say what I want. I've found they have minds of their own however, and I admit a third of the story is them doing what they want. So much for being in control. Anyway, I learned that a typical page in a novel (adult) has around 440 words. Young Adult books tend have around 300 (and reader, whoever you are, I took the time to count a page out of Hunger Games). Divide my lamentable, paltry sum and I've got about 169 pages. It could be worse I suppose, like the day I find out there are only about three sentence worth keeping in the whole thing. Yeah, lots worse.

I just finished reading Catching Fire, second installment in Hunger Games series. Awesome. If you haven't picked it up, please go do so.

Night.

what goes in...

As I write, I'm uncomfortably aware of how much of what I've dealt with in the past goes into the story. Moments of the more catastrophic of my mistakes, times in which I've brutally mistreated someone, and the awful few days of loneliness that invariably plague me some months come back with such clarity, I end up walking away from the computer in a state of cowardice, feeling unable to capture what I've been through. All of it comes back when I'm writing a scene in which the words I write match what I've felt in the past. I can't see a possible way around it, if indeed my goal is to capture human beings. I'm really not that brave.

I hate these moments of dealing with past emotional junk I've stored underneath my bed. If somehow I've come across like I'm in a wretched mood, I'm really not. What you're seeing is good old-fashioned fear, the likes of which prompt me to want to hide from writing.

Pressing on...

Page count: 224
Word count: 50, 113

in a serious funk...

I went away this weekend to tampa, ran the breast cancer Susan G. Komen race (more like strolled, ambled, sashayed, skipped, and walked, etc) and haven't written since Oct. 1st. I've sat down in front of my computer, looked at where I left off, decided I didn't want to be in that scene, thought about what else I could clean in my apartment, and then went back to the computer (after not cleaning anything). Went to the first scene, realizing that perhaps the beginning would be a good place to start.

It wasn't. But it may be my best chance. How did I get to be so disorganized about this? I had a game plan: finish the first draft. Keep going, get it all down, then break down the novel into sections. Rewrite sections.

I've already gone against the plan. When I go against what I've set out to do, somehow I chalk it up to a slight failure. Not a big one, but just a hiccup level one. I need to get back on track.

Sidenote: I have written tons into my journal (my real life, tangible one). New character developments, new traits, and notes on the next book have all been jotted down for later usage.

There, I'm not a total failure.

an honest look...

Though I haven't finished my first draft (almost there—just one crucial scene to go, then it's downward from there), I just went back to read the first couple of pages, and ended up taking them out and replacing it all. I feel better about what's going in, and kind of bemused about this whole revising thing.

I realize now that most of what I write in the first draft will altogether disappear. I remember reaching the 100 page mark and feeling very happy, but now...I'm betting I'll trash the first one hundred and maybe even the next 50. Normally I would imagine this would be crushing, but I'm hoping the second version will be truer to the story in my head than the first. Going with just the first five rewritten pages, I'm thinking I'm heading down a good road.

I guess you can never really know though. With that in mind I thought I'd do something of a progress report.

Total word count: 48, 396
Total pages: 216

Things I have yet to work on:

I need a fantastic book on the Spanish Inquisition. I need to flesh out my characters, and make them into recognizable people with complexities that mirror me and you. So far, every single character in Mapmaker, are two-dimensional (in my opinion).

World building: I have these vague strokes throughout that don't do much other than indicate weather, some buildings, and some creatures. I need to get down into the heart of the place (Merivale) and build it from the ground up. I just realized there are no insects mentioned at all (interesting, since out of all the variety available on planet Earth, I hate the confounded mosquito), no roads to speak of, everyone is eating the same thing (I guess I need to research what people ate in the 1500s) and though I constantly write that people wear boots, I never mention a single cow. And clothing! My word, the clothes they wear. Men wear simple shirts and trousers and women wear muslin dresses, that vary only in color. I have one friend reading this novel as I write, partly to keep me sane, and the other part to offer sincere input. She read over a scene and I mentioned someone wearing a petticoat. That person promptly tore off their petticoat to help staunch the bleeding of their friend. Of all the cliche things...ugh. I can't believe I wrote that. Getting rid of it, first thing. That's pretty horrorfic/rubbish/ridiculous/baffling writing if you ask me.

Revisions are going to be a blast.