Speed writing (or not)

We all move at our own speed.

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty fast walker--I walk with purpose and I’m endlessly irritated by the people in the city who take up the whole sidewalk then walk like snails--but lately I’ve been having doubts.

There’s a guy who works in my building who happens to also take the same trains as me to and from work every day. In the morning we leave the train stop at the same time and walk the same three blocks to the office. But somehow he always gets there a half block ahead of me. Same thing at the end of the day: we leave at the same time—holding the front door open for each other on our way out—and yet he gets to the train platform first. Most sane people wouldn’t even notice this.

So, of course, it Drives Me Crazy! And yes, I have spent way too much time trying to figure it out.

Does he have longer legs? Nope, I’m tall too. Is he some weirdo speed walker? Nope, I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve tried to take steps in time with his (from a ways back so he doesn’t actually see that I’m a crazy person, duh), and STILL he pulls further and further ahead of me. So either I’ve been completely delusional about my fast-walker status for my entire life, or this guy has trolls in his shoes that make it look like he’s walking on his own personal moving sidewalk everywhere he goes.

I’m hesitant to label myself delusional…so I’m going with the shoe trolls.

All of this is silly and pointless really, but it’s been on my mind a lot lately as I get closer and closer to finishing my first draft. (One.More.Chapter.Ahhh!) It’s been just about a year since I started and though I have my share of excuses for why it took this long* the Me in my head keeps saying, “A year?! That’s a long freakin’ time! What kind of writer could you possibly be if it takes you That Long to finish a crappy first draft. A year is an eternity.”**

And yet, is it?

I’ve learned a lot from this draft. I know it’s far from finished***, but I also know that my next first draft won’t take as long. I know that, though the draft is crappy now, I can make it better. I’m trying to convince myself that my speed is okay and necessary and none of anybody’s business.

So, I’m trying to just breathe and ride out the end of this draft with happy thoughts, because I know a new challenge is waiting in the next round. It’s okay that the guy with shoe trolls gets to the train before I do, because I still always make it in time.

Plus, there’s the woman from two cubes over who asked me earlier this week how I got to the train so gosh-darn fast. At least I’ve got her beat.

*Work, school, family drama, and lately the whole packing-and-getting-ready-to-move-to-a-new-city thing.

**The Me in my head can be really mean. (So I kick her, sir!)

***Oh the revisions, they LOOM!

The Voices Stopped Talking (or why writers are similar to mental patients)

It's frustrating when I've decide that "Today, I'm going to write!" and the voices never come.

I grab my writing necessities: Laptop? Check. Notebook and colorful pens? Check, check. Candy, soda, water, coffee, tea, gum? All there—and yes, I drink A LOT while I write. It’s a problem.

So I take my bag of writerly goodies, jaunt down to the local café (Panera, Seattle’s Best—depending on the day) and settle in for some quality time with my work in progress. I buy myself a coffee. (“Drinks again?” you ask. “I have to buy SOMETHING,” I say.)

I open my document. Sip. Reread the last chapter. Sip. Silence. I stare at the blinking curser with my hands poised over the keys, ready to fly. Sip. Nothing. Okay, time for a break. I check Twitter—Oh, Maureen Johnson, why you so funny? I check Facebook, another friend pregnant—I’m falling WAY behind, annoying, back to Twitter.

Eventually I force myself to turn off the wireless on the laptop.

Back to writing. More staring. More sipping. Chocolate? Why, don’t mind if I do. I type a few sentences. I delete the sentences. How bout some tunes? Music always helps, I say.

Except some days it doesn’t. Some days I sit there drinking my coffee/water/tea/soda and only get out a few measly paragraphs that I KNOW I’ll end up cutting later. There are no voices in my head. Where did all the voices go? I must have left them at home on the couch where I wish I had stayed to watch that Law & Order SVU marathon.

It’s frustrating when this happens. I’ve set this day aside, I’ve made the time, ignored my laundry and the million other errands I need to get done on my day off, just so I can write. But no. The voices in my head refuse to make an appearance.

I can push through it, and force myself to write something (Something is always better than nothing, in my opinion—I can always fix it later, and sometimes it will turn into something I can work with.) or I can pack it up (Literally. I’ve spread my crap on every inch of this table.) and go home.

Either way, it’s a frustrating day.

The fact is, though, that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Some days the voices just won't stop (don't tell any medical professionals, please) and some days they don't show up at all (for most people this is a good day, but no). And all you can really do it keep writing. Even if it's bad. Even if it's a struggle to get through even one sentence. If we only wrote when the voices were loud, then nothing would ever get finished.

Self-bribery (or book-deprivation for my own good)

I think, for many of us, much of our life is dictated by bribes. Now, you may call them incentives or rewards—those are really nice, sparkly words—but let’s be honest with ourselves here. When your mom said, “Eat all your green beans and you can have ice cream for dessert,” that was a bribe.*

This continues in life, evolving slightly to more important things than vegetables (extra credit in class if you participate, an extra slice of pizza if you work out, time to read some funny blogs if you do 20 minutes of work**).

As we get older, and more “mature” (ahem, yeah right), our bribing evolves. We no longer need someone else to do it for us. We are more than capable of dangling that carrot in front of our own noses. Two things are necessary for this self-bribery to be successful:

1. Somewhere, deep down in our tiny, selfish hearts, we must actually want or need to accomplish the task. If I’m trying to bribe myself into cleaning my closet I can guarantee it won’t work. I don’t really care about a clean closet,*** so promising myself Oreos if I organize it is pointless.

2. The reward has to be really good. Otherwise you might find yourself in a situation like this:

Mama Juju: Eat your green beans and you can have an Ice Cream Sandwich [Yum, remember those!!]

Me: But I don’t want an Ice Cream Sandwich.****

MJ: *sputters*

Me: *smiles innocently* [Read: I win.]

If you’re struggling to get something done, whether it’s eating your vegetables or writing a book, try a bribe (or reward, if you want to be all glowy and positive about it). Learn what will work for you as a writer and go at it:

“Finish this scene and you can have that Diet Coke.”

“Write for twenty more minutes and you can watch Glee.”

“2000 words and you can shower.” [Note: using hygiene as a bargaining tool can be dangerous. Leave this one to the professional self-bribers, please. For all our sakes.]

So, if it takes a bribe to get you to sit down and be productive, I say do it. Just make sure you’re following through on both ends of the bargain. I’m currently bribing myself with good books. (And let me tell you, I already want to cheat.)

I bought two books yesterday: Stephanie Perkins’ Anna and the French Kiss and Richelle Mead’s Last Sacrifice. They’re sitting on the bookshelf right next to my desk, taunting me, begging me. “Read me, read me,” they whisper. But so far (less than 24 hours in) I’m holding strong. When I get to the part in my story where the MC finally confronts the villain (and this has been a long time coming, ya’ll), then I can read them.

And I have no doubt that both will be just as delicious as an ice cream sandwich. [Also, go buy those books here and here.]

*This is, of course, the positive reinforcement version. Some of you might have gotten a more negative, life-of-hard-knocks version such as, “Eat your green beans or no dessert for you!” This is more threat than bribe and, though common, I’m going to ignore it. It doesn’t fit in my Bribes-for-life theory, so I’m pretending it doesn’t exist. #Science

**Sorry, boss.

***Sorry mom.

****This is always a lie. Obviously. But sometimes, it just feels good to argue, right?

The End (Or how come it feels like I'll never finish writing this book?)

It should be easy.

Just type The End and be done with it, right? Apparently not.

I've been on the downhill side of my WIP for a couple of months now and gravity says it should be getting easier, moving faster the closer I get to the bottom, but it isn't.

It is SO far from easy.

Sometimes I just stop and think* about when it was easy, way back at the beginning. “Remember the day you pounded through the first 10k words like it was nothing?” I say aloud. “The words just came and you knew they were right. What happened to that? When did your writing get so repetitive and boring. Just finish already!”

Don't get me wrong, excitement and a love of the story are in there too (somewhere). But at the moment they're getting out-shouted by the negatives.

The loudest negatives being dread.

Finishing means actually moving forward in this process. It means revising. And revising some more. And eventually it means querying (which, let's admit it, is freaking scary). Right now I'm living in my little writing bubble--not telling too many people about what I'm working on, and letting even fewer of them read some scraps of it. I like that bubble. No pressure but my own in my bubble—and that's plenty.

But at the same time I feel like I’m treading water. I keep writing and writing, the plot keeps getting more complicated with every scene, and that list of revisions that I’m keeping (but trying not to look at) is getting longer.

And as much as I’ve enjoyed this story and discovering what it’s truly about in this first draft (and despite the complaining, I have enjoyed it**) , I can’t wait to get started on revisions.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right.

I say that now and then in a month I’ll be complaining about those too. (“Damn revisions, why can’t I go back to happy writer-bubble-first-draft time.”) But right now, I have a good idea what changes are going to need to happen and I’m excited about them. I know they’ll make this story better. Of course, this makes staying focused and finishing that much harder—I’m ready for the next step!

But no.

I guess, I need to find the fun in this rough*** draft again. I have some big, exciting, important scenes still to write. I have some characters to *ahem* kill off, and some others to torture some more with annoying boys and way-too-peppy friends.

There’s no lesson here. No solution. Sometimes you just have to keep your butt in the chair and keep taking those baby steps towards the end—no matter how much you wish you could skip over the journey.

And since it's the holiday season and all...just follow Kris Kringle’s advice and keep putting one foot in front of the other. (But keep your butt in the chair while you do it! You cheaters.)

* This ‘thinking’ is really just a form of procrastinating and happens often when I should be forcing myself to finish a scene. It’s usually followed by me reorganizing my desk and stalking people on Twitter.

**No, really. I can tell you don’t believe me but for the most part it has been great. Frustrating at times? Yes. But I learned a lot. About myself, my writing, my characters. You name it—I even learned which candy helps me write. (Peanut butter M&Ms, if you’re in the area and want to bring me some. I’m looking at you, roomie.)

***Oh man, the roughness.