Oh, come on. I’m just kidding.

But know what? It’s a beautiful day outside. It’s fifty degrees and sunny. It feels like fall, and it IS fall, but usually at this time of year we tend more toward smaller numbers, if you know what I mean. So today I’m grateful that it’s lovely outside, and that I made it out there too. That I spent four Very Productive Hours working on my revisions. That I think the book is getting better (oh, let me stop when I get to the top of that trend, and not revise it to death…). That even with the lots of removals, my word count increased by more than a thousand today. And that I made bread so we can have sandwiches for dinner. That we can go for shakes tonight (because Why Not?) and that the Kids are enjoying each other. That I have another day (tomorrow) with nobody expecting much of anything from me, so I can continue to revise and strengthen my little book. And that I have books on the nightstand waiting for me to dive into them. See? There is much to be glad for, even on a Normal Day.

Do you have a preferred writing time? Are you a morning person? A night owl? A moment-snatcher, during naps (someone else’s)?

Do you need music? Silence? Chaos? Strangers? Midday sunlight? Vivaldi in A Minor performed by the London Philharmonic and directed by a tiny Asian child-genius?

—

I do. I have a SYSTEM. A source for my brilliance. [1] I write on the computer, which lives in the kitchen. I sit on the wooden chair that I steal from the kitchen table. Sometimes I throw a pillow on it. I write in the dark of morning, sometimes into the light of morning, depending on the season and the mojo. During the summer, that season and mojo are a little short. Because, see, I also demand solitude. And silence (or the hum of the dryer, because then I feel like I’m all fantastic, accomplishing TWO THINGS AT ONCE — I know, nearing perfection). And silence and solitude don’t last past seven a.m.

I’ve been trying to convince Husband that I NEED a laptop. He smiles at me in that comforting way which causes me to stick my tongue out at him, since we all know very well that I need food, water, shelter, 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep… but not so much another computer. But I manage to convince myself that if I had a laptop, I could do all kinds of through-the-summer-day writing. I could still do my early-morning thousand words [2]. And then, when Kids 3 and 4 come into the kitchen, pull up stools, and read over my shoulders, I could hug them, smooch their faces, and sneak off to my room, or a closet, or the basement, and write in the comfort of my Very Own Company. Where, of course, I could bust out another thousand words. Brilliant words, don’t forget.

And then, in the warm afternoon, I could take the lappy outside to the chair in the shade and listen to the breeze sigh through the trees as I write another thousand perfect, uninterrupted words.

See? Clearly, the only thing standing in my way — in the way of fabulous, completed manuscripts — is my total lack of laptop.

And, cue The Grand Delusion.

—

I’m all for structure. I’m all for consistency. I’m all for routine. But I’m also realizing that all my NEEDS, writingwise, are not actually food for the Muse. They’re excuses not to get the job done.

I’m not Organizing my Writing Life. I’m putting off doing the work.

*sigh*

Today is the last day of summer vacation around here. And I woke early and got some writing and revising done. And now, with a kitchen full of kids, I’m struggling to remember that I don’t actually have to blog in complete silence and solitude. Tomorrow, the Kids will go away in the morning. And they will not come back for HOURS. And I will have no further excuses to justify my snail’s pace.

Shoot.

Darn it.

All of it.

I don’t want them to go. I don’t want to live on someone else’s schedule. I don’t want to drive from school to school to school dropping off the Left Behind. I don’t want to come last in the Kids’ busy, full lives. I don’t want to watch the mountains turn red and gold and then brown and then white. I’m not ready. I’m not ready for two kids in High School. I’m not ready for drama. I’m not ready for PTA. I’m not ready for undeniable accountability.

But. Here it is, anyway. Accountability, front and center. So, my friends, here is a reckoning. I love that word. I should write a book called The Reckoning. Or you should. Someone should.[3]

*Ahem* At the beginning of June, Fifth Gift was at 30,000 words. At the beginning of July, 39,500. At the beginning of August, 43,500. And today, 47,630.  I don’t know how long it should really be, because I have this feeling that it should end when it’s over, when the story’s told, but I think the story will be told around 55-65,000 words. I think. Maybe not. And hey, if not, then fine. But there is the idea. I am still drafting. But also, revising. I know. That’s against the rules. Well, toss the rules. I’m filling in holes, and how do I know where the holes are unless I read through? I have a beginning, a middle, and an end. So these days I’m thickening it all up. And maybe changing the middle. And the end. And surely the beginning.

And as I go through and string together all the shiny beads, I can add things here and there. And I can take some things out, but I know me well enough to bet that I probably won’t, not on this pass. And I can add a few more things. And I can thicken up floppy characters. And I can let my characters eat if they want to. I can always take out half the eating scenes later. And I can baby step to the first full draft.

And I can live without excuses.

—

[1] Oh, come on.

[2] This is what we call an “ideal” and thank you very much, but I don’t actually need to be reminded that I don’t, in fact, write 1000 words every day. I already know that. I also know exactly how many pounds I need to lose and all my major character flaws. Thank you for playing.

[3] Do you have that song from The Italian Job in your head now? I do.

So last night at the WIFYR mingle at The King’s English (I love you, The King’s English), Claudia Mills and I had a conversation that inspired me. (Not unusual to have that type of conversation with Claudia. She IS inspiring.) Here’s what we decided.

1. While publishing is very nice, of course, you can have a satisfying writer’s life w/o it. You can go on writing retreats with writer friends. You can join and enjoy critique groups. You can host a reading. In other words, you can introduce those parts of a writer’s life you think would be fun into your own life.

2. And speaking of fun, what’s the point if it isn’t? There are published authors (with a LOT of titles even) who can still grumble with great bitterness, “Look at everything I’ve done and what did it get me?” Where’s the joy in that?

Let’s have fun, you guys.

I love, love the idea of making The Fun a part of the writing experience. Because it should be fun, indeed. (And also work.) (But also fun.) This is why we choose to be writers, instead of paralegals or plumbers or tap-dance instructors — because writing and the write-y lifestyle can be so much fun. [1]

On that note, writing is happening here. (Insert happy noises.) A little at a time, and complete with some fun. The words come, the ideas come, the story grows, the word-count increases (why, why is that so important to me? oh, yeah. i’ve become one of those type-A types.) and It Is Good — the doing part. I’m not yet sure about the actual words. But that is not to be decided now. This is a first draft, remember?

[*DING*] Oh, look. It’s time to get outside with the kids and dig up more bulbs.

(Pray for us.)

—

[1] I am certain that paralegal work can also be fun. And tap dancing. Plumbing? I’m receptive to arguments either way. But for me, it’s all about the writing. And the reading. Oh, the good, good reading. (Ha! Made you wait!)

I love it when the leaves come.

And they’re coming. Finally.

Also, there is a snowflake logo on my phone’s weather forecast. Twice. For today and for Thursday.

Update: I have just thrown away my phone.

(Don’t worry, Husband. That was a lie. Remember, everyone, that I lie? Well, I do.)

I’ve had ideas for posts. Isn’t that nice? And I haven’t written any of the ideas down. Hence, no posts.

I learned something, yesterday, though. Shall I share? I’m a much happier substitute teacher (specifically for the first grade) when I lower my classroom expectations just a smidge. When I don’t demand that everyone is actually LEARNING something at all times, everyone is a whole lot more glad. When I don’t expect all the kids to actually LISTEN to me, all is well. Shall I apply that to my life? No. I think not.

—

I love the produce man at my grocery store. (Don’t worry. Not that kind of love.) Here’s what happened. I scooted over to the store on Saturday because I had a couple of hours. And so, naturally, I should make jam. Strawberries were on sale for $1.50 a pound or something, so I grabbed up a lot of pounds. And Mr. Produce Man saw me. And stopped me from buying the pretty berries. And handed me 5 flats of slightly less pretty berries, for which he charged me something like $20. Like $.63 per pound. And told me I’d have to throw away a few. Which I did. Maybe one pound worth. I made 14 batches of freezer jam (the less sugar kind, because that’s how I roll) plus had enough halved berries to fill 2 gallon sized freezer bags, for smoothies. All for $20. (And some slave labor by Kid 3, who hulled berries like nobody’s business. I could not have done that little project without her. What a Kid.)

When I scooted over to the store to buy bananas and spinach and watermelon this morning, he waved me over and asked how the berries turned out. He was glad I’d had some big success, even if he maybe-possibly wished I’d had to throw away a few more pounds. The berries weren’t as bad as he’d thought, apparently.

—

WORD COUNT UPDATE:

I am more than half way to my word count goal for the current Work. (I like to call it Work. That makes it sound so terribly important. And prosperous, or something.) Strange things are happening on the pages (and off) in this story, and it’s fun to see it sort of moving along on its own steam, even when I ignore it for a couple of days so I can sub Kid 4′s class.

Which reminds me, I really should be writing at that story right now.

Instead of staring at my hair’s silhouette in the monitor.

I can’t describe it to you, because I’m not that good a writer. Just kidding. Because I don’t want to offend any more people this week. It’s a goal. Let us just leave it at this: The hair? It’s weird.

And here’s the thing. I found myself trying not to stare at the weirdness thereof. So much so, that I sort of found myself missing the person’s words. Most of them. Like I couldn’t focus on the conversation, because I was Distracted.

Which begs this question: What’s my Weird Hair Issue? I’m pretty sure I don’t have generally weird actual hair. I have way more than my share of bad hair days, but not a noticeable penchant for doing strange things on top of my head. People are much more likely to be moved to sympathy/empathy by my hair than to be struck dumb and deaf with wonder at the bizzarrity of it all. But what is my thing? The thing that gets in the way of communication? Or completion? What is The Distraction?

I have a tendency to write far too many shoulder shrugs. My characters shrug a lot. A lot. This must cause some readers to throw my books across rooms in frustration. Although no one has ever actually approached me with this particular complaint, I imagine it’s out there. And I am working on it. I have a little shock-collar-and-siren arrangement hooked up for when I slip into shruggery. (That was a lie. I don’t have any such thing.)

Also, I lie. Mostly here, on the blog. Is that distracting?

Sometimes I make lists, and I find great satisfaction in crossing things off these lists. (Is that a good thing, like being organized? Or a bad thing, like serious overdependance on outside validations? Both? I’ll take it.) But sometimes I find my lists distracting me from actual completion of things. For instance: Can I count the words I write on the blog as part of my 1,000 words to be written today? The answer is NO. I can’t. But sometimes I do. Because I get to cross it off my list, and that is connected to a thoroughly distracting thrill.

Projects become tangential, and that’s distracting from the goal. Like, I need to deep clean the pantry (always), so I start taking things off shelves. I find a Halloween bucket in there. (Don’t judge. It’s a big pantry. Plus, I may have suggested that Kid 4 use a Halloween bucket as his Easter basket this year at Grandma’s house.) So I take said bucket to the basement, where there is a great storage room full of strange and wonderful and distracting items. Such as my high school yearbook, which is for some reason open on the floor, right next to a carton of powdered milk. No, I can not explain that. Thank you for asking. Eenie, meenie… I choose to pick up the yearbook. And look at a few pages. Two hours later, I pull my wretched bones up from the concrete floor, determined to reconnect with at least seven Dear Friends who must, must be on FaceBook. Cue the forty-five minute time-suck. Meanwhile, the pantry isn’t getting any cleaner. See the problem?

I could go on (and on, and on) but I’ve already passed half my necessary word-count for today. (Just kidding, Husband! Working! On the Manuscript! That’s what I’m doing! Completely!) But really, it’s an interesting thought to me – what’s the “weird hair” that gets in the way of my goals, wether they’re health-related, or parenting-based, or writerly, or something else altogether? And would it be helpful to me if someone pointed out that I do, in fact, have really weird hair?

—

NOTE: It would NOT be helpful. I have plenty of issues already. I do not need another one. Thank you.

—

Sleeping until seven every morning.

(Except I didn’t quite make it.)

Yep. That’s it. Big dreams, that’s what we’re made of around here.

Want to hear about my Big Date with Husband on Saturday? I thought so. We went to see a play. A musical. (I know. Husband of the Year. Again.) It was an adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities, which is my favorite Dickens novel (what’s yours?). I have me a little crush on the drunken lout Sydney C. What can I say? It’s my weakness for redemption figures. And he was wonderful in this show. The show played on Broadway for a while, then sort of did the Broadway equivalent of going out of print. (Poor little writer.) But it’s been “recalled to life” (get it?) in a run at Salt Lake City’s Hale Center Theatre. The writer/composer Jill Santorelli was there at the performance, sitting in the tech booth (she got an intro and a large ovation), and I wish that I could have gone over and given her a squeeze. But by the time the show ended, I was melted into a sobby puddle (yes, really) and I just sniffled my way to the car. If you care to get your hands on a terrifically moving and powerful song, find Madame LeFarge’s “Out of Sight, Out of Mind.” I wanted to take that woman home with me and reform her (and let her sing at me all day) – she was spectacular. My mom would have loved it. I’m sorry to tell you that  Saturday was closing night. I wish I’d seen the show at the beginning of the run, so everyone who lives within a couple hundred miles could have heeded my invitation and seen it.

It was good, okay?

Then yesterday! Yesterday, our cute friends-who-were-neighbors came for a visit. We ate yumminess and talked for several hours and giggled at their cute children and had pie. Don’t you love reconnecting with friends? Especially the kind who want to move back close? And eat together again and again? And also, pie? Me, too.

WRITING ACCOUNTABILITY TIME: I got more than 1,000 words in this morning before I had to be all done (read: Husband and Kids wanted to TALK to me). I liked my scene. I hope you will, too. Someday.

The sun is sparkling on the new mountain snow. I have crocuses, and tulips are coming. Nobody goes to school for five whole days. Remember that I love spring? I remember.

* I made banana and apple muffin batter this morning. For the next few breakfasts. (That’s banana muffins. And then apple muffins. Lest we get carried away and try banana apple muffins. Which we will not.)

* 1,000 words a day so far this week. Take that, laziness gene.

* The teacher I’m subbing for tomorrow left me a message with his parking stall number (and general directions on how to find it – by the pine tree and the light pole). Isn’t that thoughtful? I thought so.

* The lovely and talented Josi Kilpack was in my town yesterday. We had a fun couple of hours together “not-shopping” because, you know, we’re not really shoppers, and eating frozen yogurt that tasted very much like ice cream. And those pink and white Mother’s brand frosted animal cookies. Big yum.

* I can make chicken enchiladas without using either cream-of-something soup or flour tortillas. Want me to prove it? Come on over for dinner. But, hey – call first, will you? Because between muffin making and enchilada making and 1,000 words a day and a lot of clean laundry, the house is less than pristine. (Less than Pristine would be a good band name. Also, it’s the Understatement that Ate Chicago. Which, likewise, would be an excellent band name.)

* New favorite exercise program: Just Dance 2 on the wii, with Kids 3 and 4, between the end of the piano practicing and time to leave for school. Also, I kicked their chicken. Yup. That’s right. This girl without a sense of grace or balance WON EVERY SONG. End of gloat.

* It was my MIL’s birthday yesterday. I love my MIL, remember that? She got an iPad. Because she wanted one, and my BIL is the king of great gifts. And I loved the thought of her, taking it easy, kicking back on the couch, feet up and iPad in hand. Isn’t that a great image?

* And speaking of iPads, the Apple company is taking their returns pretty seriously (as I imagine most companies do) and Husband sent me this article yesterday, which tells the story that a man brought his brand new iPad 2  back to the shop, the customer service peeps asked him why he returned it, he told them, and then they put a sticky note on it that said, “Wife said No.” Which make the store guys laugh, natch. And the story ran around Apple until it reached a couple of VPs, who put another sticky note on a new iPad and mailed it to the guy. New note? “Apple said Yes.” Um, why didn’t we think of that?

* Also? I just accidentally found a long-lost friend. On Facebook, of all things. (Yes, I’m aware that this is why we HAVE Facebook, but it rarely works this way for me, and today I am glad.)

* The snow pile in front of our house (the one on the street, that the plow man pushes there) has melted to the size of a medium-sized dog. A little over a week ago, it could hide a car. In related news, I can see many tulip tips poking up out of the ground. Come on, Spring. You can do it.

* Okay, then. Time for another thousand words.

But here’s the Becca version-distillation of the thing – some people live in the “If Only” world. If only I were lovely. If only I were brilliant. If only my 1,000 words a day didn’t completely fail. If only my manuscript were finished. If only an agent would send me a PERSONALIZED rejection. If only an agent would fall at my feet and beg to represent me. If only my book would be published. If only copies of my book would sell. If only my book won awards. If only I’d been the one to fill that red-hot Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Mermaids niche.

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. But do you see the negativity at work in those thoughts? My friend Pat would say, “You need to come from a place of thankfulness.”

So here’s my flip-side, my perverse thankfulness – the “At Least” world. At least I can see my computer screen (usually). At least I have fingers to type with. At least my 1,000 words are coming (even if they’re c-r-a-p). At least I’m cute. At least I have published things. At least someone likes those published things. At least there are still some ideas floating around in my head.

There’s nothing wrong with complacency either (heaven forbid I ever knock the complacency), but hey – wow. That’s all pretty negative, too.

So where do I find my place? What do I need to think about, when I find myself spiraling into the “If Only” or the “At Least” worlds?

I try this: I try to say, Yea, me. Yea, me for writing 1,000 words yesterday, and 500 so far this morning. Yea, me for trying. Yea, me, for finding time to read a little (a very little, lately, but still a little). Yea, me, for going teaching. Yea, me, for being a team player. Yea, me, for making dinner every night. Yea, me, for answering my email*. Yea, me for being on top of the laundry pile. (See it? Right there under my chair? Oh, come on. That was a joke.) Yea, me for working on a story that could be harder and bigger and better than anything I’ve tried before. Yea, me for pushing.

See the difference? If Only  and At Least compare me to some outer standard. Some uncontrollable “other” – and I will always find myself feeling icky with the comparison. But Yea, Me? That’s personal. That’s intrinsic. That’s mine. And if it’s not 100% sincere? At least I’m trying. If only I always meant it…

*If you’re waiting for a response, resend your email. Because I’m totally all over answering the ones I’ve gotten.

I still have a 5000 words/week writing goal. There will be weeks I don’t make it. And that will have to be okay. But I made it last week. And today I get to teach Kid 4′s class. Which is adorable in all its first-grade glory.

Also, Kid 2 competed? Performed? Violined? Something. She had Suzuki Federation on Saturday. She played Vivaldi. In A minor. It was stunning. Hours of practicing. Many, many hours. And? She was rated Superior. Natch. It was intense. I got a little sweaty. Especially when the first kid in their group played. Holy cow. He was a violin ninja. But My Kid 2 was awesome, and that was fun.

Also, we went to see the musical Hairspray. Oh, the joy. And that woman who played Motormouth Maybelle? She made me cry. I told husband I want to be black. He said, “I know,” and patted my head. Because he knew that at that moment, what I wanted was to be able to carry that kind of emotion in my voice. *sigh*

Then we watched BYU not quite win the championship. Poo. But there was Brick Oven Pizza involved, so it was certainly not a wasted evening. But poor Jimmer. I wanted him to come off Victorious.

I finally saw Megamind. I laughed. A lot. “And I love you, random citizen.”

Sunday = naps. Oh, yeah. I’m getting old, because daylight savings hurts. It does. Ow.

‘K – I gotta go to school now. Have a great day, and be nice to your teachers.

XO
B

* I’d have more finished novels in my finished novels folder (more than the ones that are in there now, and there are more than a couple).

* I’d have many thousands of new words in my WIP. The words are coming, I assure you. But today I wrote 3 times as many as I’ve been writing on a usual day lately, and that was Good Stuff.

* My parts would not still be in this chair at this almost-noon hour.

* I would not have felt the urge to throw a milkshake at Brandon Mull’s head last week when he told me that he takes an average of 4 months to write his books. (I would like to clarify that I did not, in fact, throw anything. I just said Wow -that’s awesome, and meant it. Also, I didn’t have a milkshake handy. Lucky Brandon.)

* I would not likely forget what in the world is happening to this or that character since the last time I wrote about him. Ack.

* I would never proofread while drafting. (Except how can I even know that? Also, duh. Of course I would. I’m a compulsive proofreader. It’s the most constructive of my neuroses.)

* I’d decide that I have plenty of time to write and send those charming notes I keep thinking about writing and sending.

* I could still get a thousand (or at least 500) words written on a substitute teaching day. (But that would require some serious self-control. And we all know how I feel about serious self-control, do we not?)