Tree vs Lava

It's been four days.

I'd breakdown the hours, minutes and seconds for you, but I already feel pathetic enough as it is. No need to share my lametude with the world.

Yes, lametude is a word. I said so.

I haven't heard anything back from Agent Chica yet, but I'm not surprised.

At least, the rational part of my brain isn't surprised. She's a busy woman, said it'd be a bit of a wait, and well, it's only been four days. Regardless of the fact that she emailed me less than 12 hours after submitting, to let me know that she'd downloaded my book to her handy-dandy e-reader, I shouldn't be impatient, she's doing me a solid by reading it at all.

Ha.

You know that rational part of my brain? Imagine that it's a small, twiggy tree in the path of an erupting volcano.

Paranoid Lava eats Rational Tree.

Which for some reason reminds me of Jurassic Park. "Dinosaurs eat man...Woman inherits the earth."

Best line of the whole film.

And so not the point that I had in mind when I sat down to write this blog.

Despite Agent Chica's awesomeness, I've been entertaining the idea of sending out query letters to agents while I wait for her response.

This is a Rational Tree plan.

I know it's the smart thing to do. After all, the more chances I put out there, the more likely I'll get a yes, right?

Sizzle, pop, pop, sizzle...

The more chances that I'll get a loud chorus of "Oh hell no!"s.

Plus, sending out queries requires research. I'm too busy hitting the refresh button on my email to do research, waiting for an answer that probably won't come until at least tomorrow, given the time differences.

I look at myself spiraling, and want to scream "Don't go to the coast! Head to high ground!" Unfortunately, the cries of the other villagers about to die are drowning me out.

Inkygirl has the perfect comics for me.

Procrastination is the fear of success. People procrastinate because they are affraid of the success that they know will result if they move ahead now. Because success is heavy, carries a responsibility with it, it is much easier to procrastinate and live on the "someday I'll" philosophy.

I'm convinced that Denis Waitley lives in my head. Because when I read things like this, I see myself so clearly in them, that honestly, they had to have been written for me.

Which incidentally reminds me of something that's been going on at work lately, which doesn't put me in a better mood.

Of course, that's not the point.

The point is, I've given myself until tomorrow at bedtime to send my novel (finished or otherwise) to Ali's agent friend. So what am I doing?

• I'm creating another blog for work stuff.
• I'm working too many hours and not writing during my shifts (not entirely my fault).
• I'm spending all day at my inlaws, and not bringing my book with me to work on.
• I'm updating this blog.
• I'm signing up for SHINE Online, a blogging contest kind of like NaNoWriMo.

I am not, however, writing.

Procrastination, and the fear that fuels it, is my ball and chain, dragging me down into the depths of "you'll never be good enough, so why bother?"

And now, I think I'm going to go take a shower, instead of writing. Or cleaning the house, which will force me to take off time from writing to do tomorrow.

Today is not a good day.

The Paper Bleeds and Deadlines Loom

So my girlfriend, who is a hop, skip, and a jump away from getting herself published (the bitch), wants me to edit her manuscript before she sends it off to her agent.

That's all well and good. I don't mind. Part of me actually gets a contact high from doing it, given that she's so much closer to our shared goal than I am.

But, at the same time, I'm nervous.

As a writer, I know all too well what it's like to have someone take your baby, that you've put your blood, sweat and tears into, and hand it back a few days later, looking like a three year old has attacked it with crayons.

Editing, and being critiqued, makes us better writers. But it's till painful to have your child ripped to shreds by someone that doesn't know it like you do, and could never love it as well as it deserves.

Writers are parents, no matter what anyone says. And as a parent, I feel guilty criticizing Ali's.

It is pretty fun though.

In other news, NaNoWriMo started at midnight last night.

For those that don't know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. In a nutshell, you write 50,000 words in 30 days, or die trying.

Deadlines are good. Deadlines make you accountable to something or someone, so that you stop slacking off. Deadlines make me feel like I'm going to hyperventilate.

Honestly, it's not even the time constraint. I could write that much (probably more) in a month, no sweat. It's the thought of finishing something. Because if I finish something, I have to try and get it published. And that's the scary part.

That's why I envy Ali's bravery. Sending out your baby for the world to reject is terrifying.

I'm determined to do it though. I can't keep living like this. With a giant "What if?" hanging over my head. This is no way to live. No way to know what I'm made of. Because right now, all I'm made of is cowardice.

Ladder to the Top

A friend of mine has gained a huge success in the last couple of days. A success that, while not officially completed yet, is one of those that makes me sort of hate her, as it's a goal that we both have, and she beat me to.

Ali and I get along quite well, and she's well on the way to becoming my best friend, that's for sure. We work together, write together, hang out together...The only thing we're not doing is sleeping together. (Though...Hubba-hubba...)

When one of us is whooping the other at work, we make fun. We cuss one another, and use friendly, healthy competition to make ourselves better. It's how you grow, and given that we do care about each other as much as we do, there's no harm in a little friendly snipping, if it drives us further along.

With this though, I can't resent her. I can't let her success make me grumble and push myself further. I need to be happy for her, and leave it at that.

I'm a selfish person.

Even though she deserves it far more than I do (as I'm the Queen of Procrastination), and I'm not in a position where I can succeed in the same way, I'm grumpy. We have the same dream, and she beat me to it. And the worst part is, she keeps saying how her success is going to help me when it's my time. Which is true, and helpful, and nice. But still annoying.

Damn you, Ali. Why ya gotta be awesome, and make me feel like a slacker?!

I guess this means I need to get off my ass and finish something, doesn't it?

Tuscan Brownies

"Actually, if you knew Frances, you'd know these brownies are a sign of avoidance..."

~Under the Tuscan Sun

Guess what? I'm baking brownies. Mostly to avoid making a decision about what I'm writing about.

I've gone over a few ideas today, and am in the middle of re-reading something I wrote last year, to see if it's finishable. (Yes, that's a word. I said so.) It's a young adult (I think) fantasy novel, though if I re-work it, it might be borderline adult, because well, the romance is a bit thin, which makes it fairly boring for all involved. Unlike some other writers I know, I'm not going to base the whole bit on smut. I'm far more "fade to black" when writing something that my father might end up reading. It's just weird, you know? On the up side, I had a 12 year old read it last year, and she was pissed that I wasn't finished with it. According to her mother, Leah was completely in another world while reading it, which drove her mom nuts, but it's a good sign for me.

On the other hand, I've got a piece I started a while back about a relationship, and the ten years that it involves, full of a lot of back and forth and drama and heartbreak. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that'd be interesting to anyone but me, as I'd want to be accurate with it.

And then there's Rose. Like Anne Rice's Lestat, Rose is a real person. No, I'm not insane, the muse is just that strong. The control is gone, the personality is there, and she makes daily commentary on my life, just to amuse herself. Ages ago, there was a running joke that I'd one day write a Ricean-type novel about Rose, and her journey to becoming a vampire. Whether or not I'd be able to do that without severely pissing off Anne, on the other hand, is the problem, given that two of her characters feature fairly prominently in Rose's history. I'd have to revamp (snicker) them completely, which could detract from the story. But, it has sequel potential, so that's a plus.

Finally, I had this dream a while back about a girl on a fishing vessel (I think the husband was watching Deadliest Catch on our bedroom tv again), who teams up with a scientist to try and save sea turtles. It was a vivid dream, full of villians and adventure and even a little romance, but I know nothing about boats. And living where I do, the practical research would be tough.

While opinions are like assholes, I could do with a couple more. What do you think?

Earl Grey and Procrastination

A friend of mine told me the other day, that in order to figure out what to write about, I need to sit down with a cup of earl grey tea, and just let it come out.

Well, I'm sitting here with my cuppa, and all that's coming out is a new blog about procrastinating. Someone once said (possibly Woody Allen, but he's quoted with, well, everything, so who knows) that "procrastination is like masturbation; in the end, you're just screwing yourself." However, he also said "don't knock masturbation, it's sex with someone I love". So really, he seems to be of two minds of the subject.

Contrary to the way it sounds, my subject is not masturbation.

It's writing a novel. Probably not "the Next Great American", or even a runaway hit like the Twilight saga. If I ever get it done, the odds of it becoming just one more book on a dusty back shelf of a privately owned book store (or worse, a bargain bin pick up at Barnes & Noble), are pretty good.

Oddly enough, I kind of like that idea, though.

The mental image of me walking through a tiny, dimly-lit shop one day a hundred years from now, and seeing my book on a shelf, the spine cracked and the cover art muted with time and light damage. My little mark on the world, there for some brave soul to pick up and flip through, transporting them to another place, another time, another life.

It's a pretty picture in my head, looking at that cover.

Too bad I have no idea what's on it.