WIP

Which Way?

A depiction of Bugs Bunny’s evolution through the years. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s that old quote, and who said it? Something like, the only constant is change. Quite likely I’ve mangled it for my own meandering purposes.

I’ve been working on, trying to work on, the new WIP. The new WIP, the old WIP, the WIP being queried, I’m getting dizzy. Let me slap a title on there for convenience. Working title–Astonishing.

Pretty sure I’ve already mentioned this one is much slower going. Like glacial. Wrote a paragraph yesterday and when I closed the file I wasn’t sure if I should think, “woot!” or “wtf?” Afterwards, I was talking to a writing friend about it. Told her this one feels different, the process is different. Instead of feeling a fluid rush for each scene, it’s like the words have changed form, changed states. Instead of a flow, I’ve got nothing tangible and then whomp! I’ve been clipped upside the head with a hard-packed snowball. That’s my paragraph. On a good day, a page. On a few notable days I was able to produce a few pages.

LOST: Snowball (Photo credit: jaqian)

The strangest part is that while I’m not “flowing,” I don’t feel stuck, either. The frustration is more theoretical. It’s summer, my time is more flexible, I should be able to produce more. It’s been a thousand degrees outside for a week here in NY. There shouldn’t be anything frozen anywhere. Stooped with a friend the other morning, and I swear I was melting. When I stood up there was a clear outline of my butt on his stoop. In sweat. Stooping, for non-NYers, is an outdoor chat, held on the stoop of the front steps of a house or building. A time honored tradition in the outer boroughs, second only to stoop-ball, both less frequently indulged here in Manhattan.

But I like it. I like what I’ve got, and where I think I can go. I tell myself this is better.

And then I beat myself up for the fact that I’ve yet to introduce my second main character. He’s a hoarder, and after four weeks of obsessing and researching I’ve yet to decide on the primary focus for his hoard.

Then I wonder if this is just me tripping myself up again. A metaphor for the rest of my life, not sure what the next step is until I’ve fallen into a hole and the only option is to climb out.

I think I haven’t gotten enough beach days.

Hey You!

It’s I! Or is it she?

The Three Faces of Eve (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned last week, I’m now ~~obsessing over~~ planning my next manuscript. Today’s obsession, what point of view (POV), tense, etc. These choices will have great impact on the overall tone and voice of the narrator and by extension, the novel.

First person (I) is and has been very popular for quite a few years now. Generally speaking, I prefer third (she). I like the distance that third person offers, with the flexibility to draw in close. First person, in my opinion, too often feels breathless. It’s the acquaintance you run into on your way home who you smile when you recognize them, “Oh, how nice, I can’t remember why I lost touch with Mr Z.”

talk so fast (Photo credit: Leonard John Matthews)

Five minutes into it, “I’m glad to hear how he is, what’s going on in his life.” Ten minutes into it, “This has been lovely, but I really have to pee.” Twenty brain-numbing, eyes-twitching minutes later, “This is why I stopped returning his calls. For the love of God, make it stop!”

Second person is brilliant when it’s done well, but very few know how to do it well, and I have my doubts about my own ability. The whole goal in fiction is the suspension of disbelief. Pulling that off while directly addressing the reader? Might well be beyond my pay grade.

Wondering why I’m having this angst if these are my thoughts on POV? Me too. Except I have a certain way of writing, getting started. There’s always a very clear opening scene in my head, and I write it. This scene may or may not remain the opening, may or may not end up deleted, but it’s what gets my fingers clicking on the keyboard. Or pencil to paper, if it’s been too long since I’ve last written. The problem is the opening scene I’m “seeing” for this story is in first person. Fine if this was a short story, but I don’t know that I want to write an entire novel with that “I” voice.

And just because I know you’re all dying to know about the rest of this Fringey writing process, I usually have a song that is going through my head as I’m planning a new story. Here’s this one:

Hear that bass track? That’s the framework I’m seeing, the pacing. A little dark, a little ominous, but it keeps moving forward with that rhythm.

Lost in Space

Lost in the space (Photo credit: JimmyMac210)

Feeling kinda

Betwixt and between.

I’m trying to decide what to work on next, while I begin the process of querying. I have to be working on something, because querying without another project to focus on is a certain design plan that leads to a very fitted white jacket. Nicely accessorized with padded walls, but really, I’d prefer something loose and flowing right now. I could go back to the WIP that’s been frying brain cells for years already. I could begin something completely new. I’ve got an idea for a character, but no plot. This is new for me. Usually by the time I’m at or near the end of a project, and I’ve been writing regularly, the first portion of the next project seems to write itself, because it’s been brewing. Not this time. I’m not blocked, just unsure of which direction I want to take.

betwixt (Photo credit: Daniel*1977)

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to do some reading. In doing so, I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about Mrs Fringe has changed. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, I don’t remember not loving to read, and I’ve always been a trope of a bookworm. Sure I had books I liked, books I loved, books I raced to finish because I didn’t enjoy them, but I read them. I would read anything, and finish it. If I had nothing new to read, I would reread; hell, I remember my mother yelling at me because I was standing in the refrigerator, reading the labels on the condiments.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been broke for long enough that I’ve adjusted to not having things to read, or because of my period earlier this year of not being able to lose myself in a novel, but it has changed. I’ve picked up at least three books in the past few months that I didn’t enjoy, and I didn’t finish them. How does this happen? Something so much a part of me, how others see me and how I define myself, no longer true.

I’ve also read several books I liked, and a couple that I loved. But now that I’m feeling this whole whichwaydoIgo in terms of writing, I wonder if the two are connected. I wonder if Heinz is still running that write-our-slogan campaign.

A gruesome accident (Photo credit: KateMonkey)

And Then

The Story Thus Far (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Revision hell actually hasn’t been too hellish. Once a few things clicked, I was rolling.

When you think you can breathe a sigh of relief, you have to write a query letter. And a synopsis. Cue young Jamie Lee Curtis scream here.

Jamie Lee Curtis as Laurie Strode, the final girl of Halloween. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For my non-writer fringelings, a query letter is an introductory letter to an agent or editor, giving a very brief snapshot of your book in the hopes of enticing them to request the full manuscript. A synopsis is kind of like a book report on the story, hitting the major conflicts, plot twists, and how the story ends. Some describe it as the way you’d tell the story to a friend. Some agents want a synopsis along with the query letter and sample pages, some want it if they request material, some don’t ask for it at all. But you have to be prepared before you begin the querying process, so you’re ready to send everything requested (hopefully, see? I’m being positive) and not find yourself sitting in a puddle of tears trying to get it together and sent off before the agent decides your story really didn’t sound that interesting after all. Or it’s still interesting, but you took too long, and they just signed two other new authors, their list is full. Or, or, or.

English: Rejection (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have written and rewritten my query letter. Actually, I’ve rewritten it about twelve times, and I think it might work now. Time to work on the synopsis. Shoot me, please. It sounds so easy. Tell the damned story. Mmm hmm. But trying to distill it into 500-1000 words, keep it clear, concise, interesting, not include every last detail but not omit anything that is important to the flow? Here’s the thing, when you write a novel, you’re trying to make sure that every scene, every character, every detail raises the stakes, adds to the story. Now figure out which of those all important and all contributing scenes and characters don’t actually need to be in the synopsis.

Just because you can write poetry doesn’t mean you can write an epic fantasy novel. You might be able to write historical romance but not be able to pull off a picture book. I occasionally have fun writing limericks. Great for giggles, but with an editorial–or a serious reader’s–eye, they suck. I would never try to get them published, or showcase them to illustrate my writing. Query and synopsis writing involve a different skill set than writing a manuscript. Ready for the conflict? Mrs Fringe has a completed manuscript and she’d like to find a literary agent. To do so, she has to send competent, engaging query letters and possibly synopsis (synopsi?) to agents who seem like they might be a good fit for Mrs Fringe and said manuscript.

Today’s attempt at a synopsis left me ready to send a form rejection to myself, and scrawl a big fat YAWN across the top in red pen.

They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Excuse Me, My Eyeballs are Bleeding

Zombie Eyeball

Zombie Eyeball (Photo credit: Kelly’s Kustom Pinstriping)

I had the brilliant idea to work on the query for the WIP today, thinking it would help me to clarify my direction in revisions.

Bwahahahaha!

DSC06455_head_explode (Photo credit: .digitale)

Even my verbose butt can’t string a sentence together by now.

First Draft Purgatory

End of the road (Photo credit: benuski)

Today I finished the first draft of my WIP. I would happy dance, but I’m too drained. I feel like I’ve been wrung out and run over by a truck. Wouldn’t be so bad if you would be so kind as to hold off on throwing it in reverse and running me down again.

It’s been too long since I’ve done this. Funny, I remember it feeling…different, when I’ve completed first drafts before. More yippee! and less holy shit, I’m going to spend forever in revisions! Forcing myself to push through and keep writing until I had a complete draft was a good thing, but it leaves me looking at a lot more work that *needs* to be done.

For every manuscript, I have a corresponding composition book. This is where I first begin notes; character sketches, motivation, plot lines, rough outline, and a quick sentence or two for every scene as I go along. It’s also where I write down ideas I want to revisit, possible plot holes, thoughts for details to enhance Chapter 6 when I’m already in Chapter 14. So going back to edit and revise, not a new concept. I’ve got plenty of notes, ideas, and questions to address. But I’m going to have to look very carefully at my female main character in the second half of the manuscript.

Tragic (Photo credit: Tanya Dawn)

There’s a scene at the end where she’s wondering if she’s about to get dumped, and as I was writing it, part of me was thinking, “Yes! For the love of God, dump her! She’s a great big yawn.” I’m no expert, but that isn’t a good sign. I’m definitely going to have to look at what happened to her in that second half.

For the next few days, though, I’m not even going to open the file. Maybe I’ll rest. Or give Little Incredibly Dumb Dog a bath. Then I should be able to start catching up with the blogging friends on my blog roll. Soon enough, I’ll be out of Purgatory and into Revision Hell.

El Purgatorio (1890). Óleo sobre tela 339 x 256 cm. GAN.Cararas – Venezuela. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergrove Highschool, British Columbia / Lorraine Carpenter participant à un cours de dactylographie à l’école secondaire Aldergrove, Colombie-Britannique (Photo credit: BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives)

Does this title ring any bells for any of my readers? I don’t remember my typing teacher’s name, but I certainly remember her voice, which managed to screech with every letter she called out. You’d think her beehive would have softened the sound. “Accuracy, girls! And boys too, I suppose.” Ah, she was a charmer.

It used to matter, how fast you typed, how accurate you were. In the days of carbon paper and white out. Oh, the excitement of electric typewriters, and the white out ribbon! I love to look at the old typewriters, have an excellent, artsy photo of one, and one of these days I’m going to find the perfect old manual in an antique store, at a perfect price, waiting for me to bring it home and display it. But I don’t miss typing on one. It was slow and often painful, needing to hit each key with the same amount of force, keys getting stuck and invariably getting my finger hammered trying to unstick them.

You can imagine my pleasure when someone refers to writing as typing.

Misprints (Photo credit: eldeeem)

Flower Child, “Mommy, are you finished typing yet?” Husband, “I thought you were still typing.” Especially since I do associate Husband with literal typing. He went to college with my brother. I typed several of their papers. After one particularly long and hideous paper, I had a PTSD type reaction for years after whenever I had need to tap out the word acetaminophen.

The past few days have thrown my writing schedule way, way off. I think my last post here on Mrs Fringe was the last semi-coherent thing I wrote. First I had the mother of all migraines, laid me out for a full day, left me dizzy for a second day. Yesterday I had a meeting during my usual writing time. I’m most productive in the mornings. It took too many years for me to figure that out, opposed my image of myself as writ-ah, tap tap, tapping away during the night. Turns out I’m in fine company, plenty of respected, lauded writers and writ-ahs work in the morning. Not least of which was Hemingway. Ah, the lore and lure of Papa.

I thought I would get back to work today, but no such luck. Flower Child was sick. Can’t get lost in fantasy land when you’re watching the clock to call the doctor’s office for an appointment. OK, done. I thought I would have time to get a few pages done, but the more days I’m away from the manuscript, the longer it takes for me to get back into my characters’ heads, and be productive. One page. One page and then it was time to take her to the doctor. In the pouring rain that didn’t stop. All day, drip, drip, squish. Luckily, once we were there, I got to find out in addition to an infection, FC has lost two pounds. Aargh!!! Two pounds is way too much for a kiddo who literally has nothing to spare.

Right now, I’d be ok with a few uninterrupted hours to practice my typing.

A monkey typing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a Frog in My Keyboard

English: head of waterfrog (Rana esculenta) Français : tête de grenouille verte (Rana esculenta) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An unfortunate state of affairs, because the letter “f” on my laptop sticks. About a third of the time when I hit it nothing appears, another third I remember to come down extra hard, and I get three fffs in a row. But I digress.

You know what I mean, when you don’t have actual laryngitis, but what comes out when you open your mouth is not reliable.

I’m taking a day off from the WIP today, because I’m not sure what my next scene is. Rather than stare at the cursor and sob, I decided to take a break. At first thought, the problem is I need a bridge chapter or so to get where I’m headed, in terms of plot and character growth. I’m also at a point in the work where as I’ve added subtext and subplot, the shape of the whole beast is called into question. I can keep it on the same light track I’ve been on, or I can take it deeper, shifting the style and tone. As I engage in this self indulgent pondering, I’m realizing there’s something horribly familiar to this line of thought. (Let’s be honest, Mrs Fringe excels at self-indulgent exercises.) Prior manuscripts? Sure, there are always points where you have to step back and think about what makes the most sense before pushing forward.

The familiarity breeding contempt, having me wonder if the whole damned thing sucks and should be scrapped? It’s the feeling that I’m on a similar page in life. Coming up on a plot twist, and just not sure how to write it, or even what it should be, but I know something has to happen.

Contemplation #1 (Photo credit: Ed Yourdon)

This morning I was on the elevator with a kid whose hair looked like a cross between Don King and Gerald,

Hey Arnold! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the best friend with the impossibly high “fade” from Hey Arnold. Man Child was about four years old when he fell in love with that show, and tried desperately to explain to the gal at Supercuts that he wanted that haircut, while I tried desperately to explain to him that his hair was a different texture, and could never be sculpted into a cylindrical afro that defied gravity.

If you aren’t familiar with it, Hey Arnold was an animated series that ran on Nickelodeon for 6? 8? years, beginning in the mid to late ’90’s. It was a great show, with fully fleshed out characters, both kids and adults, real problems, and real heart demonstrating life for members of the fringe in a big (fictitious) city.

I began the day thinking I’d like to hide from the WIP and read. Bury myself in my favorite books until I was saturated in Updike, spiked with Joyce Carol Oates, crying Magaret Atwood and bleeding Stephen King. But maybe not, maybe I should turn on the tv and find some Hey Arnold reruns to remember who I am and the pitch of my voice, as a woman on the fringe trying not to let go.

Limerick Tuesday

Limerick – MÓR Disco, Every Tuesday (Photo credit: infomatique)

Yes, yes there is such a thing as Limerick Tuesday.

It’s the fourth Tuesday in February, when I want to post something, but I’m too dazed to write something deep or clever. Why am I dazed, you ask? It’s the effects from the overwhelming stench in the cab I took with Flower Child when I picked her up from school. She was tired, there was some type of brouhaha happening on Broadway that resulted in many police cars whizzing past with lights and sirens going. Seemed like the perfect day to splurge on a cab. I’m pretty sure that cabdriver must have had a pico reef hidden in the trunk, because that was the gut clenching, every muscle recoiling smell of dead sea critter.

Luckily, I already made some progress on the WIP today, so I’ll just give the update in limerick.

There was a young lady called Frag Hag

Who lived in a magical grab bag

But one day her reef

Gave her such grief

Her virtue; Twas lost to a scumbag!

Jester’s sceptre (Photo credit: sleepymyf)

Justifiers and Qualifiers

The two women friends are shocked at a third woman dressed as a man. But Harlequin and Pierrot are also men. From the Danish “Punch” magazine (not the British Punch), July 1876 no. 30 page 233 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I feel like I’ve done quite a bit of moaning and groaning here on Mrs Fringe in the past couple of weeks. New week, I’d like to start out positive before beginning my usual ~~obsessing~~ musings. While I didn’t write as much as I would have liked at this point in the month, I have worked on both my WIP and a couple of short stories. There. I’ve given my dear readers unicorns and rainbows, you too, can chase your tail while sorting laundry and cleaning lost bodily fluids from canines and dependents.

On to the whine portion of happy hour. As I’ve said in the past, I write romance (the current WIP) and literary fiction (short stories, and a temporarily shelved WIP). None of this includes the blogging, which is another entirely different style of writing. Everybody’s a critic. Those who like romance, other types of genre fiction, or even–squee–my romances, don’t understand why I write lit fic. “Ew. Oh. It’s so dark. Aren’t those the books where nothing ever happens? Why do you write that? Well, it’s not my cup of tea.”

For those who like lit fic, or even–squee–my lit fic, when they hear I also write romance. “Really? Why are you wasting your time with that shit? You can do better than that. Well, I guess it’s easy money.”

I can’t win for losing. First of all, let me repeat, for the 8000th time, nothing in writing is easy money, or an easy path to publication. After 40,000 years I am still, but hopefully not always, one of the unwashed and unpublished masses. Maybe not unwashed, I bought an absolutely divine magnolia pear scented soap.

As a reader, I have a wide variety of books on my shelves. Romance, lit fic, short stories, poems, biographies, essays, non fiction books about economics, various religions, cookbooks, thrillers, horror, mysteries, even a fantasy or two. Some people are more focused, but I know many whose bookshelves look like mine.

Fiction Stacks (Photo credit: chelmsfordpubliclibrary)

So why do these same people with varied titles on their reading lists sneer at me for writing two seemingly disparate styles? Yes, the style of writing, pacing, sentence structure, word choice, these things are different. One is more introspective and character driven, the other quicker paced and it’s true, the black moment is a lot more, ummm, navy blue. But honestly, most (all) fiction is about exploring people, our emotions, our responses, our needs, wants, desires, connection to others, how we respond in any given situation, societal dilemmas and individual dilemmas.

I’m guessing there are slurs for every style and genre, but it feels like the two I write in are particular targets. Romance is for frustrated housewives, girly-porn (not sure what these critics make of M/M romance, but hey), they can be knocked out in a week, blah blah blah. And this doesn’t begin to touch the many subgenres of romance, or the different levels of “heat,” from sweet to yowza! I like writing romance. It isn’t easy, but it’s fun. How do two people (or vampires, if that’s your thing) fall in love? What makes someone heroic, or lovable, for that matter? What makes someone with an independent, fulfilling life want to make the drastic changes necessary to incorporate a significant other and arrive at happily ever after, or even happy for now?

And literary fiction. Sigh. It’s pretentious, self conscious, an excuse to break the rules of grammar, there’s no plot, it can’t be literary if it hasn’t won an award, navel gazing, yada, yada, yada. If you haven’t been following Mrs Fringe for long, let me tell you, I’m quite fond of navel gazing, and wondering why the fuck we make the decisions we do. Yanno, the human condition. Also, not easy to write, and for me, even the pace of production is slower than when I write romance. Is it “fun” to write? No, but there’s a depth of satisfaction I can’t describe, and I love it.

I wish I was like Stephen King, able to create believable, relatable characters that battle unreal creatures and situations. I wish I was like Margaret Atwood, sculpting a marriage of poetry, brilliant prose, and speculative fiction. I don’t have either of their levels of talent, certainly not the imaginations required. But if I did have an imagination that leaned towards alternate realities and creatures that go bump in the night? I’d write those stories too.

Why this rant? Because I am feeling good about working on both, I get different but definite satisfaction from working on each, but I’ve received several of these not so sly little pinches in conversation this week. Unknot your panties, folks. If I’m ever blessed enough to be published in both, they’ll be in different sections of the bookstore (assuming there still are brick and mortar bookstores by then), and I’ll use a pen name for one of the styles.