Plots and characters are like plants and seasons; they come and go. They bloom, hopefully they shine and then they perish.
But even in their perishing they can serve a purpose.
It’s only natural.
For you NaNoWriMoers right now just write. You can decide what goes into the compost pile later.
Write on!!
Congratulations on your writing accomplishments!
Whether you have written a paragraph or five hundred pages so far this month, you’re doing great.
I once wrote 500 pages in one day. Yep, the Ctrl+v got stuck on my keyboard. When I returned from my walk I had five hundred pages of totally inconceivable gibberish.
I jest, but speaking of taking a walk…
Where are your characters going? Why are they going? How are they going to get there?
Feel free to use the photographs to get the creative juices flowing.
Write on!!
NaNoWriMo has barley started and you’re giving up? If you quit at the starting line how the heck are you going to reach the finish line?
Okay. I understand the pressure and the frustration and the fear and the time crunch you have to contend with [really, I do] but don’t quit. Take a deep breath. Let your shoulders drop (it is okay if the world has to float on it’s own for a minute or two) and remind yourself why you took the challenge to begin with.
The above was my partial response to an aspiring author I sometimes guide (guide sounds less hoity-toity than mentor). She continually strives to improve her skill and decided to challenge herself this year with NaNoWriMo. I was so excited for her.
When she said she was throwing in the towel one week into the 30 day challenge my heart sank.
I had to remind myself of two things: #1 this is HER journey. #2 despondency is common among authors, young and old, aspiring and established alike.
The exchange ended with us both feeling more optimistic. For now.
Another handful of emails followed (not participants in WriMo) mostly venting about criticisms which they said too often feels like bullying.
I read some of the criticisms. Honestly, I considered most of the comments as constructive – a little blunt and crude but valid observations. Constructive criticism is valuable.
There were a few however that did have a malicious feel about them. Asshats!
It is not always easy doing what you love… what you feel driven to do… following your passion. Self-doubt is relentless and Asshats… don’t get me started?!!
Insecurity fluctuates; it lessens with experience as the skin thickens but don’t expect Asshats to turn into compassionate humanoids. Why? Because misery loves company.
I cannot count the number of times I have heard/felt, “I’m too old”, “I’m afraid”, “I am not good enough” or “I’ve been ridiculed/rejected”. Self-doubt
Nor can I count the times I have heard of/read/experienced pointless insults that serve no purpose other than to humiliate a person. Asshats
So it seems Asshats and uncertainty will always be a part of life; a thing we all have to contend with. “But how?” some ask. Don’t quit.
You can’t lie down and quit. I guess you could but then you would be in a coma. Being comatose is not the answer.
You can’t throat-punch or cuss everyone who hates on you. Well, you can but the fines start racking up and…
Before I confess digress I think I’ll just send you to a more inspiring, graceful article.
Oops, a quick tip: Embrace your feelings (pain, anger, fear, etc.) and use them in your writing. Assign your feelings of defeat and grief to a character and then show the character how to overcome. It can be very healing.
Write on!!
Now check out the post by Joan Hall over at Story Empire and be sure to read the comments.
If you are not already following Story Empire you should.
Why?
Because they offer countless resources for writers (especially new writers) and they are a great group of people. They don’t allow Asshats and trolls to hang out there.
This week I’m not featuring renowned poets.
This week let’s look at future poets or should I say not yet notorious composers.
The following poem was taken from
A simple cover for a deep book.
It was written [and I quote] “by MIT students, for MIT students.”
Of the 20+ poems in this little chapbook I chose Almost by Julia Kimmerly.
(I hope 🤞🏼 this links to the free PDF file.)
Ahh you thought MIT was a boring technical institute with some weird shorthand logo that has occult meanings. Maybe that was my line of thinking? No, all I can think of is the Bee Gees so y’all go ahead and read while I sing.
And the lights alllll weennnt out in Massachusetts…
Julia Kimmerly / 2013
it’s been a while since the smile of a pen has styled my page,
ages since mental meandering, penned pondering, wistful wandering
wondering about mysteries, histories, blistering bliss stories
of sinister misters, kissed-hers, twisted listening and
tea: a small plea from me to indulge.
today is a break from the intensity.
it makes a bulge in the tense immensity of stress,
incensed duress.
Dad’s mom’s locket rests in my palm,
her psalms next to his curbed proverbs:
once begun half done
measure twice, cut once
a stitch in time saves nine
but what about when the second half is baffling,
twice doesn’t suffice,
and the stitches come undone
like poorly hitched horses looking for fodder?
what about:
everything in moderation
variety is the spice of life
everything is relative—
relative to what?
it’s all the same insane struggle,
trouble bubbling over from one night to the next.
fight the biting light, the tightening sight as eyelids sigh
sleep is nigh
the group droops with equations left unsolved
greek letters in an unresolved war
equality separating the horror.
symbols swapping sides and constants barring pi’s.
Intensity Has a Taste For Pain.
this feast of information has ceased to be fun.
the yearning of learning gone,
no longer appealing.
the feeling of prolonged gratification
empty.
the anticipation not
tempting.
teachers hold the treat just out of reach,
each time bringing me forward
toward the future, it’s
badder, better, bigger, baller, butter from the stick
but if I don’t get out of this mean fiendish routine—
color outside the confining outline—
i won’t survive.
my thriving creativity of young,
now stifled insensitively,
clung to by what grip I have left.
i want to rip away from the
numerical masochism
hysterical workaholism
compensation for lack of sensation.
i have forgotten how to live,
rotten, now oblivious to what reality does,
sacrificing who I am now, or was, for who I could be.
but that to-be she is only one possible me
a successful breast full of delicious accomplishments.
yes, enticing time now is dimes and cents to my future dollars
a smaller price to pay for a greater later
a relentless satyr of ambition
searing volition to steer myself straight to the top.
but I don’t want to wait and be
a fated one-sided, dull-minded, blind signer
i want to be alive.
strive for more than better letters and wonder numbers
get out of this slumber and
find time for stars and clouds and dimension counting
Mars and How’s and existential doubting
the so-bad-its-good idea talks
the late-night, fate-type of walks
more coffee shops and railroad stops
beer stein hops and sly eaves drops
i want to tout the now and
scout the crowd for smiles and Guastavino tiled lies
(he knows woe woven into faulted vaults).
i want to drive and be driven.
And given the chance, yes i will.
but until the game is won, tassel hassled and the famous cap flung,
i have to persevere
buckle down for my career
gear up for my dear job.
study, read, feed my mind until it wants to be fed.
beg, plead, lead my mind until it wants to be led.
heed my mind until it is ahead, not overrun.
until all is said and done.
Ain’t love grand?
Sure it is… but sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes it is tattered and torn and embittered… Sometimes it’s so snarled and twisted it leaves nothing but ashes in its wake. Take it from Ishmael.
Amazon Barnes & Noble Google Books/ Play
Love IS grand – until it ain’t. If you have a real love and a healthy relationship you should celebrate that every day. Don’t be the characters I write.
Roses From Ishmael was originally published in Once Upon a Dead Gull and later added to Short Stories & Such.
The Real Janna Hill in 