All caught up

I've finally rewritten the first part of draft two and stitched my opening chapters together. Some months ago, I realized that I needed to delay introducing a major character. It's taken me a while to write him out, add drama, fix some pronouns . . .

But now, I've got the start, and I can just plow ahead.

That's the method I typically use when writing: start from the beginning and move to the end. But every once in a while, when I don't feel like writing, I'll pick up at a scene that seems less of a chore and start there, trusting I'll be able to work it in at the right time.

The point is this: I'm making progress.

It sounds so silly to work on a novel. Really, what are the chances that I'll ever publish it?

But as I'm sitting down, organizing my life and trying to plan ahead to make the best use of my remaining grains of sand, I keep running into this discomforting fact: Working on my fiction is my number one goal in life.

I've tried to convince myself that building my career and accumulating wealth is my top priority. But 50 years from now, if I had $10 million in assets and this unfinished novel staring at me, I would have felt like I'd wasted my life.

That's the reason I need to keep at this. Not because I've posted some silly blog or because I'm shaming myself into developing discipline with regard to my writing.

At the end of the day, my writing matters to me.

I suspect that focusing on how we can achieve our true heart's desire would give us greater energy for all the other things we have to get done.

No, we can't always get what we want, but we can usually find a way to meet those deep-seated needs on some level.

At least, that's what I think.

What do you think?

How time flies

Yesterday I was feeling fairly productive, kicking about in my boyfriend's parents' home in New Jersey. We had a lull in dinner preparations, and I decided to break out the creativity book my best friend had given me for my birthday.

One thing led to another, and I started thinking about that frenzied rush to churn out my 50,000-word novel draft. National Novel Writing Month 2002. One complete story arc, created between midnight, November 1, and midnight, November 30.

Then, it hit me.

I wrote the damn thing three years ago.

And I'm officially on chapter two of the rewrite.

Where does the time go?

First, I couldn't work on the rewrite because my corporate job kept me in the office from nine until nine, Monday through Friday.

Then, I quit my job, and I still couldn't work on it because I was freaking out over how the heck I was going to pay my bills. (So much for immersing myself in the novel until paying work came along.)

Next, I picked up some clients, but I still couldn't work on it because I was too busy trying to manage those paying gigs.

Long story not so short, here I am three years later with a shitty first draft, a bang-up synopsis (I have done some work here and there . . . ) and one-and-a-half chapters of my second draft.

No more.

I'm not getting younger. (In case I try to forget that biological fact, I've got a crop of four silver hairs just waiting to multiply.) And I've got an amazingly supportive beau who keeps encouraging me to keep at it.

For additional impetus, I keep picking up these chick lit books for relaxation and research, and I can barely bring myself to finish them. They're pretty dull. Yet each represents the realized dream of a woman who took the time to churn through the writing and rewriting process and then stuck out the twisted path to publication.

Who cares if I'm more skilled as a writer? (If I am. I'm willing to admit the personal bias that writers cultivate to survive.)

The fact remains that I'm not doing enough of the writing that counts.

I could gross six figures this year as a freelancer, but if I'm still on the first hundred pages of draft two, I'll consider 2006 a literary failure.

Is this the healthiest approach to take, shaming myself into working on my novel? Probably not. I've had an amazing writing instructor through Gotham who offers steadfast, quiet encouragement and actually chides us students when we're too hard on ourselves.

But I did get up early this morning and put in a solid hour on that second draft.

I completed chapter one and restarted chapter two.

As a bonus, I got a reprieve from my standing 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. Will I use that time to snooze, or will I put in another hour?

I'm not quite ready to place bets either way.

Bit by bit

Spent 30 minutes this afternoon on my novel. Generated 252 words. Over 1,000 words since I took Masha's advice and committed to at least 10 minutes a day.

I'm extremely excited. Excited enough that I can spend a bit more time futzing with my literary baby.

But whether I do or I don't, I've already achieved today's goal. Anything else is gravy.

Three days running

Not great, but I did sneak in another 10 minutes today. Word count: 129.

I felt stuck once I typed in yesterday's words. (Handwritten at Starbucks. No laptop.) Instead of waiting for inspiration to strike, I moved on to another chapter.

So that's three consecutive days that I've made progress on my novel. Eight hundred words thus far.

Not the greatest, but again, it's significantly more progress than I've made in the last several months.

I think I've earned some R&R with the boyfriend for the rest of the evening.

Making progress

Yesterday morning, I had just boarded the train for a morning appointment when my client called to say the meeting was in limbo. The other person involved was covering for a colleague and needed to rearrange her schedule.

No problem. I live to serve my customers. (Really.)

I asked him to call me back and keep me posted.

Five minutes later, I received the follow-up call. We were still on, but could we make the appointment 10:45 instead of 10? Of course. As an entrepreneur, flexibility has become my middle name.

I marched myself off the train and over to a Starbucks two blocks away from the client location. There, I penned 400+ words while I nibbled on a raspberry scone and sipped an iced caramel macchiato.

By the time I left for my meeting, I felt like I had already had a productive day.

Small taste of success!

Excellent, excellent advice, Masha.

I gave myself 10 minutes this evening to work on a scene I've been toying with for the last few days.

Rather than fretting over the perfect beginning, I had decided to start with one scene that HAD to make it in the final cut. But I never found the time to write.

Today was no different. Between work and a headache, personal writing seemed so trivial.

But then I saw your suggestion about giving myself 10 minutes a day to write.

That sounds so small. Only 10 minutes. Surely, I spend that much time playing Spider solitaire.

That 10 minutes turned into 20. And 227 words.

Yes, I could have written more. But I do have more work to do.

Still, I'm 227 words closer to my final goal. How many times have I sat in front of a blank screen for 10 or 15 or even 45 minutes? This time, I closed my document one-quarter of the way to my next 1,000.

For today, I'm happy.

Standing still. Slipping behind.

Okay. Haven't posted an entry--or written a darn word that wasn't job-related--in four days.

Completely overwhelmed by work. Not an excuse. Simply have to decide if I'm going to make my writing a priority.

Otherwise, I resign myself to looking back at my life, a wrinkled little woman with nothing to keep her company except dusty old writing dreams.

So hard when starting a business, though. Every moment I slack off and DON'T spend working, I feel like I'm sliding into the poorhouse.

Will I write something before the day is done? Excellent question.

So much for a strong start

It's after midnight. I technically missed yesterday's post.

Worked a 16-hour day today. And it didn't leave time for creative writing.

It barely left room for food.

I can flog myself with a wet noodle later. For now, I need to turn in.

I've got to be up in seven hours for a breakfast meeting in Manhattan.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death; Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
--Shakespeare, Macbeth, V, v

Some might say it's a cheat to finish up by copying the words of someone else. Others, however, believe that another's great words can spawn our own creativity.

I soon hope to find out.

Getting started--and finishing!

I admit to procrastination. But I'm fairly decent about getting started.

Finishing? That's another issue entirely.

I've had periodic bouts of self-discipline, forcing myself to sit in front of my keyboard until relatively coherent text emerged. One such stint lasted 30 days; I produced a 50,000-word draft of a novel. Haven't really touched it since.

Wait. I did dust the binder last September . . .

My amazing partner keeps encouraging me to write, as does my mother, my friends, etc. All the people who are supposed to be in my corner. They are. They're wonderful.

I've got all the books, all the courses, all the software. (I wrote a full-length play in college using Word. Why on earth did I think I needed scriptwriting software at 2:00 a.m.?) But I don't have the writing. Because I can't force myself to sit down. And. Just. Write.

No more.

Starting a freelance writing business is tough because I feel compelled to spend every spare moment working. The idea of sitting down with a cappuccino and my novel strikes me as an inherent waste of time.

I'm not getting younger.

Neither are my characters.

But they're fading. As are my youthful dreams of entertaining the world with my words.

It's time to make good on all those promises I've made to myself. Time to live up to my writing aspirations.

Heck, I live in New York. I could die in a terrorist attack tomorrow. Literally.

So, every single day, I am going to force myself to write. And I am going to chronicle my success--and my failure--on this blog. (The truly interested can even request to see the fruits of my labors. I'm still egotistical--and foolish--enough that I'll probably send it to you.)

This will be the spot where you can watch one writer's journey to a completed, polished manuscript.

Let's get started.