Amtrak Correction

I was seriously remiss to not mention this in my earlier Amtrak post: one wicked cool thing did happen during my interminable trip. I met a really awesome couple, Nancy & Harry from Toronto. We bonded over cigarette breaks and spent a number of truly fantastic hours hanging out, chatting, shooting the shit, potty-mouthing, bitching, celebrating, and just generally enjoying each other's company.

My Amtrak travels are usually boring, and as I said earlier, that's not necessarily a bad thing (excitement on Amtrak not generally being the positive type -- don't even ask about "Naked Guy"). But sometimes I meet really cool people, and this was the best.

So here is my shout-out to Nancy and Harry. Thank you so much for making my trip memorable, and let's stay in touch. Amtrak, represent!

Short Sands

Today, my first full day back east, my sister and brother-in-law were generous enough to cart us all to the beach. My joy probably exceeded even that of my five-year-old nephew and three-year-old niece.

We went to Short Sands, the northernmost of York's three beaches and the favorite of all of us. The wind blew briskly but the sun emerged from behind the clouds and the temperature hovered in the 80s. I wish I could say the same for the water, which I would guess was a touch below 70. I ran up and down the sand, finding some gorgeous pieces of sea glass, including a striking piece that was almost teal, a color I have never seen before.

Eventually I ended up in the water, wading out with my niece on my hip and my nephew holding my hand. We wave-jumped for twenty minutes, getting soaked in the process, shouting repeatedly in exhilaration.

I exalt in the water; I always have, and I always will. The BF calls it my natural element, and he's right -- even when it's that cold.

Afterward, we had dinner at the Goldenrod and bought tacky souvenirs. I now sport a shark's tooth necklace and an aqua York Beach sweatshirt. Oh, the sun and the sand and the salt, the cheap grilled cheese sandwiches, the overpriced trinkets that you treasure nonetheless.

I am briny and happy and exhausted.

I could not imagine a better day.

Amtrak

So I Amtrak-ed from Albuquerque to Chicago, then Chicago to Worcester, Mass, where my sister picked me up and we meandered to Durham, NH. All I can say about the trip is that it was relatively uneventful, and on Amtrak, that's a good thing.

That. Is. All.

Speaking of Self-Consciousness...

I spent waaaaaaayyyyy too long at THE MALL yesterday, of all places. Let me say first that I NEVER go to the mall, and I remembered why yesterday. It sucks. But I had to buy a bra, because my favorite one, that I bought over ten years ago, finally broke last weekend. It was a black cotton underwire from Victoria's Secret (TMI?) and it was wicked comfortable. So I thought I'd go back to Victoria's Secret for another one.

Along the way, I got distracted by all the pretty lights and advertisements for buy one get one at 1/2 price, etc., etc. (although I was able to resist the temptation of mall pizza...) I was also secretly hoping to find the perfect comfy summer t-shirt dress (that doesn't seem to exist). And so I went into all these completely ridiculous stores made, apparently, for little girls hoping to be porn stars when they grow up. It was either that or the stores geared towards their GRANDMOTHERS, who I suppose are my cohort, although I couldn't relate to that extreme either. To be fair, there was ONE store in the mall where I felt somewhat comfortable (the outdoor gear store) and actually found a nice t-shirt sort of dress on the sale rack, but it was the wrong size (of course!!).

I was very disappointed when I finally arrived at Victoria's Secret only to find that they don't carry my favorite bra anymore, and only had one style of cotton bra, and most don't actually cover your entire breast (they are these stupid 1/2 cup sort of things. Even worse, every single fucking bra in the place was "lined" (ie. padded), and/or a "push-up" bra. When I was a kid, girls did this with tp or socks. I think it is completely ridiculous and false advertising. If you care that much about having bigger boobs, go out and get a boob job fcol. What about those of us who actually DO have breasts and just want something supportive and comfortable? I guess we go to SEARS.

Well, I did manage to get one bra there from their "Nakeds" series that is pretty comfortable. Then I went to Sears and JC Penny and didn't find anything there either. Disappointed, I wandered back through the mall. Where were all the cute clothes? I stepped into the Maternity Shop. They had some nice stuff. But I couldn't bear to buy maternity clothes when I am so totally done with that part of my life.

Where do I fit in? And who wears these freaking clothes? Looking at the (mostly overweight) young women who worked and shopped in the stores I thought, I would probably look better in these outfits than many of them. But who wants to wear this ridiculous shit? 

And back to the original point which is self-consciousness. I found myself feeling like an imposter - what am I, this over-40 year old woman (I really don't look it) doing shopping in these teeny-bopper stores? A voice in my mind kept asking, wondering if others were looking at me, thinking, what's that OLD LADY doing in here? Kids these days. Don't know how to dress. Their sense of fashion is terrible. Then I think of the 80s. Talk about terrible fashion! But WE didn't choose, just like now I can't choose what I really want, I just have to choose what is available, and there is a huge gap between the two.

So I left the mall, went to the liquor store, bought a bottle of tequilla and went home. So what if my sense of style is different...so what if I have to do all my shopping at Goodwill or online...so what if the only store where I feel comfortable is the outdoor gear or running store (or, um, the liquor store)? I am more confident than I ever have been in my life. I know who I am and what I want and that is a good feeling.

Ninja Consciousness

Recently my sister told me about an experience she had with her son, who turned five last December. She had to go grocery shopping, and she took J with her. J chose to wear his all-black ninja costume (without the do-rag, sadly). They got to the store parking lot, and J spotted a young schoolmate. "I don't want to wear this outfit in the store," he blurted suddenly, nervously.

"Lots of people go shopping in their ninja outfits," my sister said, not wanting to go home. And so they shopped.

Of course I laughed my ass off, but then I felt sad. Were these J's first stirrings of self-consciousness? That's horrible. How few years we enjoy free of that ridiculousness. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it serves a fabulous social function, but...FUCK IT. It just pisses me off.

I suddenly imagined myself, the Barefoot Strumpet [check out the Barefoot Bandit], shoeless in the Durham Market, my hair its usual overblown-brunette-dandelion mess, possibly wearing an outfit picked out by my three-year-old niece (here my imagination fails, unaccountably).

Why should I give a fuck? In fact, I am generally a don't-give-a-fuck kind of chick. I want to weep for all the times we have to give a fuck when it really shouldn't matter. Is that what grown-up means?

I'm going to start giving less of a fuck. Count me out of that game!

Back from the crash

Well, I am finally back. From where? I'm not sure. I just haven't been HERE and I wanted to explain why, if I can. About a month ago (?) my hard drive crashed on my computer and I lost everything. I had to get it fixed - replace the hard drive - and while waiting, I stepped away from the computer and into my life. The truth is that I wasn't really writing for a while before "the crash," letting life seep in and distract me, taking me far away from my writing.

At first, not having my computer was difficult for me. I had begun to rely on it for so much. I'd find myself in the morning with my coffee reading a book or looking at a magazine or just talking to my family instead of playing "Wordscraper" online. I missed my online chat buddies and the blogs I like to read and shopping online. But I found that things felt somehow calmer, slower. Sometimes I would just sit and look out the window.

I was surprised to find that I was not terribly upset about all the writing I lost in the crash. I wasn't all that in love with it. I thought it probably sucked anyway, and this was a great way to start over. Also, I knew that Kelly had saved most of what I'd sent her. It will be interesting to go back through all that old shit and see what I truly want to keep.

But this brings me back to writing. I really want to write. I miss writing. I want to have a project that I'm working on and enjoying and I want to write something really good for once and do something with it. I had hoped that our little writing group and this blog would help, but found, as always, that it is really up to me to get it done, and no one can make that happen for me.

This makes me think of Andi's previous post about the critiques she's been getting and how they vary. When I took that novel writing workshop last year it really crushed my ambition to write that novel, and I think part of the reason was that the particular group I was in was not the audience that I would have been writing the novel for. Their critiques steered my novel in an altogether different and wrong direction than I wanted to take it. I would like to go back to the original idea and follow through on it the way that I want to write it for me, not for them. But it did help me to realize that there is a huge difference in perspective and not every book/story/writing style is or can be for everyone. And my NH novel, frankly, will probably not be enjoyable for certain people. And that is ok.

And so, I am back. Let's get together sometime and talk shit about writing.

- Lori

a procrastinatory post

So I've managed to submit three scenes to the online critical writing board I joined a couple of months ago. I'm getting decent responses, and it's nice that people are still reading even if they're not completely and totally carried away by it.

However.

I need the input. I do. But what's frustrating me now is that I can get completely opposite responses on the same damned scene, the same passage, the same character, depending on who's reading it. This is a given. I knew it going in on some level, but seriously, what I've been reading borders on the absurd.

Example #1: In a scene between my main character and her mother, who is dying of a terminal disease, I have had wildly varying responses – from “I think this scene is very very good and here is why...” to “This does nothing to continue the story and it feels more like a lesson.”

Example #2: One critter thinks I'm neglecting the paranormal/fantasy aspect of the story. Another critter thinks I've overdone it to begin with and is relieved to see it lighten up a bit in the third scene.

Example #3: No one seems to agree on the correct format of a character's inner thoughts. Having researched this, I have come to the conclusion that it depends on the agent reading the story; in other words, it depends on their first readers, the ones who go through the slush pile to begin with. And how the fuck, I ask you, am I supposed to know what that reader prefers? Yes, I'm going to start with the obvious and just ask the agent. Because the author that the agency represents does her work in first person. Which does me no good at all in terms of learning the ropes of formatting inner thoughts – you hardly have to do it at all in first person. Fucking cheaters. I've tried to work through rewriting in first, but I'd lose a lot. Not worth it.

Example #4: In the first scene, I make a reference to a particular pagan holiday; in the second, I refer to a fairly common practice in meditation and spellwork called “grounding.” The pagan in the group noticed that the description of the holiday was too obvious and lost authenticity, while a non-pagan went so far as to say, “I don't even know what time of year that is” although to be honest I don't think she was reading very closely. As for the “grounding” reference, the pagan knew exactly what I was talking about and didn't need it explained. Several other critters were clueless to the point of thinking I was talking about some sort of electrical work.

It's insane. It depends on the reader's expectations, on the genres they enjoy, on the stuff they think is shit.

So how do I decide what to keep and what to throw away?

It comes down to the same thing, in the end. It's my decision. It reminds me of parenting in so many ways, but this, most of all: If your kid's got a cold or a rash or a fever or is biting or not potty-training fast enough or what the fuck ever, you can call all your friends who know anything at all about kids – the moms and dads, the aunts and uncles, the kid who babysits next door; you can get as much information as you like from the pediatrician and the internet and parenting forums (eek!), but in the end, it's up to you whether you take him to the doctor, wait out the fever, fill the scrip for antibiotics, spank your kid, bribe your kid with M & Ms to get her to use the toilet (I don't know anyone who's done that, I'm just making shit up, really) and so on.

Totally. Up. To. You.

And in this case, I can get Brian's opinion, but he will stay as far away from my final decision as possible. He shrugs and says “I don't know, honey. I got no dog in this fight. And opinions are like assholes anyway.”

My husband can be a perfect idiot in some ways – there are times when he demonstrates extraordinarily bad decision-making. But more often than not, he's pretty fucking smart. I listen – mostly – and just, you know, keep the wheels straight, and write the story I need to write.

I still think I need some more sex or violence in the first thirty pages, though. Plot monkeys, do your worst!

~Andi

Jocko Flocko Haiku

Oh Jocko Flocko,
a monkey after my heart;
Race on in the sky.

=====================

If you don't know who Jocko Flocko was, your life is seriously lacking. Do something about it.

Random Acts of Kindness

There's one thing I've long been convinced of (and many different restaurant jobs didn't hurt) -- that the likelihood of someone complaining when something goes wrong is fucking exponentially greater than of anyone saying a simple thank-you. I try to remember that at all times. Kind human contact matters, whether it's between best friends or between a grocery store clerk and customer.

So tonight I enjoyed a nice evening out with our friend John and his younger daughter Sue. Sue and I were having a grand old time at the IHOP -- they didn't have place-mats to color, but the waitress kindly brought us some blank paper and a Sharpie. So after we finished our meals, Sue and I wrote some poems for fun, and one of them was a brief haiku to leave the waitress alongside her tip. It was silly and shallow, but well intentioned.


IHOP Haiku

Hash browns, pancakes, eggs --
lovely servers and good food --
dinner at IHOP.


We each signed our name (Sue added a flower, and I scrawled a peace sign). The waitress seemed really surprised when she came to pick up the empty dishes that I had carefully stacked into a tower. "This is for me?" she asked, and tucked the haiku into her pocket. When she returned, she was beaming. "Which of you is Kelly and which is Sue? Thank you so much. I feel like a person tonight."

Yeah, she really said that.

Yeah. Like all it took to give someone a nice moment was something as small as that. I don't know if most people would find a haiku so cool. But I know I'm going to try it again.

Sandy Floors

Every so often, I'll catch a glimpse of something that sets off a powerful wave of nostalgia, a sense of longing so acute that I actually feel bereft. It's not any one specific thing, but it's always some sort of visual image that calls to mind the 1970s, or New England, or both.

"Take me back there!" I want to scream, though I know it would be useless.

I'm not transported to one particular memory, but to a jumble of impressions. Summer by the shore (probably Maine; possibly Rhode Island). The breeze sings gently; the air warms my skin, but sun and salt tighten it, deliciously. People are everywhere on the beach, a blur of bright colors and red skin and oversized sunglasses.

Then I cross the road, asphalt burning the soles of my feet, and run inside a rented cottage. It's cheap and barely furnished, but it's only one block from the beach. The curtains are ancient checked gingham. Cool and dark here; the floors are covered with a fine layer of sand, pleasantly gritty underfoot.

I am tired even though it is only afternoon, and I am just a child. The cold New England waters buoy you up and then sap your strength. I climb into a creaky old twin bed, easing onto stiff cotton sheets, and shut my eyes. I can swim again later, I know. More sun, salt, sand. I drift away in a cocoon of quiet joy. Summer...

Who wouldn't want to go back?

The Violet Hour

Let's put the "high" in "High Elevations" for a change. I got up very, very early this morning -- not the violet hour, but murky, cranky, and exciting all at once. Just past five a.m., I jumped out of bed to watch the two men's tennis semifinals at Roland Garros. In the first match, my pick won, and I felt happiness, relief, and a sudden exhaustion brought on by too many late nights in the past two weeks.

Waiting for the second match, I wandered over the Internet to Slate magazine and found a delightful little gem of an article called "The greatness of gin," by Troy Patterson. He covers a number of cocktail books, focusing mostly on my own favorite liquor. Amongst the bon mots, one about the cocktail hour and martinis, by Bernard DeVoto, stood out:

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn. But it would not be a martini if we should see him.

Apparently DeVoto liked more vermouth in his mix than I do. But anyway, reading those words, I felt magically transported. What a lovely and accurate description of twilight...and martinis. And unicorns, probably.

Here's to the violet hour, wherever you are, and whatever you drink!

What matters most

Months ago Kiki posted a question about why we write. One of my responses had to do with the love of research, learning, and discovery. Ten-plus years ago, when I began Sanctuary, research consisted of bullshitting my way through a scene and focusing on the romance. Now, research means raiding the Internet for all the information I can lay my hands on, making phone calls to three different people for their expert opinion, and quite possibly annoying the fuck out of my husband by asking him stupid questions before he's had his second cup of coffee. I'm a morning person. He is not.

Today I have been learning about what it's like to be with and take care of someone you love who is dying. (Not personally.) Caring.com doesn't cut it here. I stumbled across a blog, which linked to another blog, which linked to another one, and on and on... I have had a glut of heartache tonight, and more information and personal experience than I know what to do with.

Today I have learned about MRIs, brain scans, chemotherapy side effects, seizures, memory loss, and blindness.

Today I have learned that I am an extremely lucky woman. I knew this already, because every time we sit down to dinner together, Brian says grace (believe it or not), I close my eyes and take a deep breath, filling myself easily with gratitude for the gifts I have been given. It feels so good I don't want to breathe out; I don't want the moment to end. But when it does, I open my eyes and see my family on either side of me, the myriad shades of green on the trees that surround our house, the soft beauty of the kitchen table my father made for us, and I feel twice-blessed, blessed that I have these gifts, and blessed that I am cognizant and coherent enough to appreciate them.

I have shitty days. I have mood swings, and some days I am so insanely self-centered that I think these things actually matter in the Grand Scheme. They don't. They're bullshit.

What matters most to me right now, at this moment, 12:53 AM, May 15th, is respect, compassion, gratitude, and love.

It's late, I'm maudlin, and I'm off to bed before I contradict myself and become a not-so-morning person in seven hours or so.

Sorry to have missed you this evening. Hope to check in with you soon.

~Andi

high anxiety

A friend told me this morning that she had been experiencing some high anxiety lately - her son is about to do end-of-grade testing for the first time, her older son just graduated from college, and she's right at her own midterm for the class in some kind of human resource management thingamajig. I thought of the Mel Brooks movie and immediately wished I hadn't - other than marrying Anne Bancroft, I really think Mel Brooks should have stayed out of the movies altogether; at least I wouldn't be stuck sharing a house with my husband's copy of Blazing Saddles.

I digress.

What she meant was that she was experiencing a high level of anxiety. I originally thought of vertigo. But as my day has progressed, I'm beginning to think that sometimes there's not much of a difference.

Tonight I feel like I'm scrabbling for any kind of grip on the edge of a crumbling cliff - desperate, shaky, weak, and at the very beginning of a freefall, that half a second when your stomach realizes it's about to drop, and drop for a very long time. I'm not an adrenaline junkie. And I hate heights. It makes me impatient, angry, mean. It's supposed to have to do with my menstrual cycles, but tonight it's triggered by something else.

I've done as much as I can with the first three chapters. I'll put a finishing touch on the first scene, maybe run a spell-check, put it off as long as I can, then I'm sending the first chapter out for critiquing to an online critical writing group - a group of writers who do not know me and have no emotional investment in this book at all.

I'm scared shitless. And at the same time, I know that once I do this, once I just post the thing and have done with it, I'll be able to move on, because I'm frankly sick as hell of the first three everfucking chapters.

Plus maybe I'll be a little less of a cunt to my family. They don't deserve this.

~Andi

Open Road

I've been thinking about the open road. Not a particular one -- just the thought in general. I wrote a post for the Daily Revolution last year, about the benefits of travelling in general, and crazy American places to visit in particular. It's been weighing on my mind recently.

How can you live one place forever? I don't know. It's not my experience. I know a lot of people, my boyfriend included, who have done just that. Okay, so in his example, that's not technically true. He moved across his state for college, then moved to a few other places for grad school and a job. But then he got his permanent job, and here we are. However, before college, he lived in maybe two or three houses max, in the same metro area.

Me? I don't even know if I can come up with an accurate count of where I lived pre-college (and during and post? Florida, Indiana, Florida again, New Mexico, Tennessee, New Mexico again, California, New Mexico yet again...). I think...Eliot and York, Maine; Somersworth and Rochester, NH; Gaithersburg and Mt. Airy, Maryland; York, Maine again; Gallup, New Mexico (two houses); York again; Enfield and Canaan, New Hampshire...the list is so long. A minimum of 13 houses in 18 years.

I know there's been a lot of research into how this kind of moving affects kids. I'm sure most of it is significant and affecting. Whatever the fuck. I liked it. A lot.

You know -- I don't know where I'm really going with this. Except I've been in my current house, and town, for coming up on nine years now. I find that incredible. Unbelievable. Impossible. It's a good place for us. But I look at the highway, any highway, and I can't comprehend that this is the end of the road. There is no end of the road, for me. I want to see those mileage signs forever.

How does it end?

It's not supposed to...

Solace

Last weekend my dog died. It was a traumatic experience and I don't really feel like talking about it anymore right now, but an interesting thing happened to me because of it. I found myself comforted, surprisingly, by something I've never really had much interest in: Baseball.

Immediately after leaving my euthanized, gunshot dog at the emergency vet clinic, I had to rush the boys to opening day of Little League. The weather, which had been warm and sunny, turned cold, cloudy, and windy. Eventually it started blowing rain around too. But all of us parents huddled around to watch our kids play.

Tom is doing little league for the first time this year, playing t-ball, and he's loving it. It's a great way to learn the game. And it is a friggin' riot to watch. I found myself comforted by the distraction of the game, the sudden shift in focus, the pure entertainment value of watching a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds learn the rules of the game.

Then this afternoon, as I was starting to feel mopey while hanging out at home without my dog, the boys invited me to some batting practice. We used big bouncy balls and a foam bat, a great way to get used to hitting without having to focus on that tiny little ball. As I watched my 6 year old show my 4 year old how to hold the bat, I had to smile. It was a beautiful thing.

persevere

so i'm writing this pain in the ass scene that has to do with my villain, and i've been working on the damned thing for days now and getting nowhere. tonight i finally figure out what the action of the scene needs to be, which is great, progress. i get to where the action actually happens. again, progress.

then the coffee wears off and so does the goddamned inspiration, such as it is. i'm tired. brian's already in bed and i know i'm not going anywhere with this tonight; i've already missed my self-set deadline, what the fuck difference does another night make at this point?

i alt-tab to another window, i don't even know what i'm looking at anymore. then i remember my desktop wallpaper, which is a silly cartoon image of two characters from a movie-that-shall-remain-nameless with very determined looks on their faces. and i think, it's 11:30. i can do another half an hour. even if it doesn't go anywhere, i can do another half an hour.

so i alt-tab back to the file. and i keep writing. and i make yet another discovery about my villain that fits quite nicely into the assignment we had about our villains a month or two ago, and another piece of the puzzle slides into place.

this is why i stay up an extra half an hour. no, the writing's not perfect by any means; i'll tighten it up later when i'm fresh. but there's a beginning and an ending and by God it's the first three chapters. hallelujia.

~andi

p.s. i got new running shoes today and they KICK ASS.

Desert Rain

view from my breezeway, in the rain

creosote in bloom

cactus in bloom

agave in bloom

Surprises can be so very, very nice. When I went to bed last night, I knew that there was supposed to be a slight chance of rain on Friday. When I woke up, though, it was raining already! It was the typical sort of rain we get here, other than monsoon thunderstorms -- a light, intermittent rain that somehow manages to soak the hard, dusty earth and release the pungent scent of creosote.

Most of my main characters over the last few years love rain. It's not something I do on purpose, particularly -- it's more that I can't imagine a protagonist who doesn't have that love. This is probably a terrible failure of imagination for a writer. But I don't give a fuck.

rain -- Rain -- RAIN!

Treasure Hunt

I'm not at a point where I can do this, but since the two of you are doing so much fun work bouncing ideas around, I thought maybe you would find this exercise interesting. It's from, of course, Writing Begins with the Breath (Hering).

Design a treasure hunt for your characters. Start with an object that has significant meaning to the character. Allow the character to focus on that object, describing it, holding it, imagining where it came from or how it came to be in his or her possession. Then, follow the object where it leads. Let the object, say, a socket wrench, spring you forward to a Rand McNally map of Nebraska. Let the map bounce you into a laundry room off a two-lane road in the Rockies. Keep going. Let object spring to object. Be specific in your descriptions. Enjoy the process. Let curiosity be your guide.

Both of your stories have travel as a starting point (or at least a very important theme) - so this could be a neat way to explore possibilities.

********

Based on both of your responses to my last post, I'm planning to send something out within a month. There's a small agency in NYC that will look at stuff as long as it's "in a mature stage of development" as long as you send in three complete chapters. I have my doubts about their effectiveness given their authors and publications, but it's worth a look. At the same time, there's an arts and music festival coming up over mother's day weekend in Black Mountain (www.theleaf.com) that is a very convenient deadline, plus there's no way I'm going to do a damned thing while I'm there except maybe catch up on my journal. So I'm pushing to get three chapters to readers at the earliest possible opportunity. Thanks to wise comments by my friends, my husband, and the plot monkeys, these three chapters are significantly different than what I started with. Which is fine; it's better. A lot better - or at least, it feels that way to me.

Wonder of wonders, I'm actually keeping up with the schedule. And I love it - the act of writing is so much more joyful than it was before I just accepted that there were some things that didn't belong in the story and ought to just go. Letting go has been a wonderful - if at times very painful - process.

So I hope to catch up with you both this weekend, hopefully? Until then, happy writing, happy imagining, happy running, happy baseball, happy everything, whatever you choose to do.

~Andi

Research Mania

I'm in a position kind of like Lori. I've had some interesting thoughts about where to take Valerie in her new life in Florida, but the words aren't getting set down yet because I went research-crazy (fuck the Internet! love the Internet!).

I was thinking about Valerie living in her uncle J's old trailer, and while I had fun describing it initially, I can't see her staying there permanently. I think it will be a struggle for her to let it go, in all likelihood, but she'll go eventually. Where? That's when the Internet possessed me. I decided that her little tiny town would have a row of shotgun cottages, and she will buy and perhaps renovate one of them. This led me on a delicious wild goose chase through history and floorplans and all sorts of dreamy ideas.

The upshot is that I didn't actually write anything down. None of these events would happen naturally in chapter two. But at the least, I feel like I have more pieces of the puzzle now, and that's a step in the right direction.

Life is a journey, not a destination

And goals give you something to look forward to. Is it really all about acheiving these goals at all? OK, so maybe that gives you a hint of how I did this week. It took me until Wednesday to get around to pulling out the stuff I wanted to look at, then I got sucked into it for the next couple of days. So, by Friday I had written one paragraph and had some idea of what I want to do, but really haven't acheived much that can be shown on paper.

Still, I feel good about it. There is definitely a story there, and I am looking forward to telling it, and sharing it with you. Now it's just a matter of putting it all together, one scene at a time. I started a list of scenes that I want to write, and started writing one, but I get caught up in questions like: where exactly should it begin, and where should it end? What should I name the characters?

As I said before, I want to write this story based on actual events, but at the same time call it a work of fiction. One reason for this is that everyone has their own unique perspective, and time and distance can warp memories into convenient fictions of their own accord. Of course I don't remember actual scenes exactly as they happened, and I want the freedom to make things fit together in a coherant way, as they don't always do in real life.

So I struggle with myself a little bit. I'll be writing a scene and a little voice in my head says, "that's not how it happened." And I have to stop and tell that voice to shut up, I'm the one writing this thing. One thing that is tough for me is names. I've decided to rename everyone, even though if any of the actual people involved read they thing, they will know immediately who they are and who most of the other people are. And it's sometimes hard for me to come up with names.

I also feel that I need to simplify things a bit for the story's sake, and that means eliminating some people / situations that were really important parts of my life at the time, but not really important parts of this particular story that I'm trying to tell. And it's really hard for me to cut these people out of my story, because they are not just made-up characters.

So those are some of the issues that I am struggling with. I look forward to talking to you about these issues and others soon.

Cheers

Lori