Blue Alice

Chuck Wendig had another prompt that gave me some inspiration.  The prompt was ‘There is no exit.’  This is what I came up with.  I tried something different and wrote in 2nd person present tense.  I think it worked for this piece.

There are three things you know you can count on in your life.

1.  The world will always find a way to temper kindness with cruelty, lest you get the wrong idea of its nature.

2.  The wind will forever pull you back out to sea, and it has no qualms about stranding you.

3.  Blue Alice will always be in the corner of the pub, draining mugs of rum and ale, telling stories of past glory to anyone who will buy another round.

You used to pay her in mugs for her tales.  Cheeky little shit you were, attracted to the glory she spoke of like it was precious diamonds.  You wanted all she spoke of, adventures and treasure and the sheer unfettered freedom her kind of life could give someone if they only had the courage to pursue it.

Those stories taught you many things, but you learned more when you gave your courage full rein.  You’ll never be a quarter of the storyteller Blue Alice is, but you’ve seen your fair share of strangeness, of wonder, and black-hearted vileness.

The latter, perhaps, never so plain as when you catch a glimpse of your reflection.

Blue Alice accepts the rum and takes a deep swallow as if it might quench some long-suffering parch.  She licks her lips and sets the mug down, fingers still entwined in the handle.

“What tale may I offer ye today?  Something adventurous and daring?  Perhaps ye wish to hear about the cursed pearls that won back a war.  Or maybe something mysterious, such as the sirens who lurk at shipwrecks so they might pry a bargain from the lips of a desperate sailor in their blackest hour.”

You say nothing, for it occurs to you to look past Blue Alice’s words.  You notice her eyes.  They must have been striking, long ago, as the clearest blue this side of the Caribbean.  Now, yellowed and bloodshot, they’re just sick.  Her skin has gone sallow and discolored from drink and ruin.  Her facial scars, which once must have struck fear and dread into those who came against her, especially when she flashed a devilish grin containing no trace of mercy, now only paint her a sad and weary creature.

“No, none of those,” you say.  You drink your own rum for a moment and try to gather the words that scatter as a school of startled fish.

Blue Alice tilts her head and studies you.  You find it uncomfortable for the position to be switched.

“I heard tell you met yourself a genuine sea witch out there.  Mayhap you ought should be tellin’ the story this time.”

“I don’t want a story,” you say.  You wipe at your mouth and sigh, frustrated.  There’s still blood under your nails and on your coat.  Would that the last voyage had only been a tale.  “I want an ending.”

Blue Alice hums and swirls the run around the bottom of her mug.

“There is no exit,” she says.  “You stick around long enough, survive enough, you come to realize a few things.  One being that every ending is nothin’ more than another beginnin’ disguised up in magic or faith or solace.  Nothin’ truly ends.  It just becomes something else.”

“No.  There has to be an ending.  Otherwise, the concept wouldn’t even exist.  There has to be a way of getting out.  For good.”

“Why?”

So you tell her.

There’s no fanciful euphemisms or rousing prose.  You tell it as it happened.  The legend.  The voyage.  The map.  The island.  The witch.  And how everything you followed left out that the treasure was another kind of hell, one someone else fought and bled and wrecked themselves to contain.

“You lost someone.”

“Lost implies they might be found again,” you say.  “She’s not lost.  She’s ended, more or less.”

The magic of the hurricane saw to that.  It ripped her apart worse than any musket or cannon.  It tore at her until she was less than skin and blood, less than soul.  Whatever remained, if anything, was finer than strands of corn silk and left drifting in the ocean.

It should have been you.

“So don’t tell me there ain’t a way.  There was for her.  Now I need another.”

Blue Alice ruminates on that while more rum is poured.  You drink yours down, barely tasting the liquid scorch.  Time passes.  Music plays.  Someone starts a fight and someone else ends it.  But it’s just noise.  After the hurricane took her dying screams nothing sounds quite real.

“Maybe there is something,” Blue Alice says when the sun is down and the tide has come in.  She pulls a vial of black liquid from her vest.  “Drink this, and it shall give you what you seek.”

You take the vial and turn it over in your hands.  It’s dark as pitch with an oily residue.

“Poison?”

“Nay.  More akin to a wish, if you will.  Best to be sure, though.  Ye can’t be wishing yourself back.”

There’s never been anything sweeter fall upon your ears.  You uncork the vial at the table and down it in a single gulp.  You think, let it be a good ending.  The bar winks out around you, and then back again.

But you are not in your seat.  You’re in Blue Alice’s, looking back at yourself from her eyes, from her body.  She smiles using your mouth.  It looks stiff.  You’ve not smiled in many months.

“What is this?”

“A way to make as many endings as ye need.  Make them worthy.”

She leaves you alone with a full mug of rum.  You find yourself unable, or maybe unwilling, to follow.

Before long someone else arrives.  Young.  Impressionable.  Eyes too bright, ears too eager.  They fill another mug in front of you.

“Give us a tale, then, Alice.  Something full of adventure and daring.”

Blue Alice drinks her rum and opens her mouth.  Out comes a story with a fitting end.

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An update

 

Writing is hell.  Even on a good day.  One thing it has taught me ever since I began is that nothing goes according to plan.  Even if there’s no good reason why it shouldn’t, even when the plan went perfectly and it’s done and it’s everything you saw in your head so all you need to do is, you know, do it again.

The latter has been my lesson during the past year.

I published ‘Count Your Crows’ and I loved it.  I also hated it, and felt indifferent toward it, all usual emotions I experience when I’ve completed something I’ve slaved over with blood, sweat, and tears.  I was ready to work on the next one, and I wrote it.

About five versions of it.  All 50k words or more.

And I couldn’t use any of them.

Sometimes stories are like that.  Sometimes they don’t work out, and so you have to figure out if they’re worth reconstructing yet again, or if it’s time to put them away for good.

I took time to think about it.  I worked on other projects, other characters.  But I kept coming back to Fred and Taz, so I decided to approach their tale again, but I had to rethink that approach and the conclusion I came to is this: their story won’t be a novel.

I wanted it so badly to be a novel.  To be a series of novels.  To see book after book, thick ones, on the shelf at a bookstore.  I wanted it to take both hands to hold the book open while reading.

Because the novel is the standard, right?  That’s what people consider real writing, real work.  And saying you write novels is just so much more impressive.

But I’m not good at writing novels.  The scope is too big for my attention span.  I lose threads and get burnt out.  I end up tangled in a web of my own making, and fixing it doesn’t so much require patching as it does a jug of kerosene and a match.

But I’m good with short stories.  After talking with another writer who knows my work and my work habits, I had to admit that writing shorts was more within my skillset than a novel.  I can certainly write a novel if I push myself, but I get far more joy out of writing short stories, out of pulling my characters’ headspace into hyper focus.  I can also finish a short story, and in more reasonable time, which goes a long way to preserving one’s sense of sanity in this precarious profession.

So that’s what I’m doing.  I’ll be taking ‘Count Your Crows’ off of Amazon soon to replace it with the revamped collection of short stories for Fred and Taz that is 50% completed.  As of today I have 5 stories fully finished for the collection.  I started writing them April 1st.

So, that’s the update on what I’ve been doing since I posted last.  Writing is a bumpy journey that is certainly not linear, or even well paced, but I still love it, even when I want to strangle myself for loving something so contrary.

The Girl With Two Shadows

For the prompt ‘rebellion’ in Chuck Wendig’s latest flash fiction challenge.

the-girl-with-two-shadows

Once, there was a girl with two shadows.

Her name was Taz and they were both there when she woke up.  One shadow was herself, just over four feet tall with short hair with mussed in every direction.  The other shadow was slightly bigger, with bushy hair that curled.  That shadow followed her steps, but not her movements.

Taz jumped up and down, waved her arms around, and danced until her feet were sore.

The shadow would tilt it’s head as if to say, what on earth are you doing?  Other times it would shake, it’s shoulders bunched up and shadow hands melting away where they clasped over the face in silent laughter.

One day Taz held out her hand as the sun was setting in the west.  The other shadow took her shadow’s hand, and they stayed that way until night seeped through and made them one.

“What happened to her?” Taz’s mother asked the town Alders.  Her mother shook with righteous fury under the bruises and the indenture collar they forced on her.

“We don’t know,” they said.  They actually said quite a bit, but none of it was helpful.  They tried to find out, though.  They performed spells of removal and spells of unbinding.  They made Taz drink mixtures of herbs steeped in brine.  They took knives and tried to cut the shadow away.

The other shadow flipped them off and stuck out its tongue, and stayed very much attached.

“You have to belong to someone else,” Taz told the other shadow one night.  “Why are you here with me?”

The other shadow brought its hands together to made a shadow bird flapping its wings, and then wavered to become a storm cloud and a black lightning strike.

In the dark and silence of her room, Taz heard a faint caw and smelled ozone.

Taz asked her mother about it, but her mother turned away, shoulders tight and angry as she went to work.  Taz asked the Alder’s when they tried their next experiment with fire and holy oil.  They said she was infected with a nasty spirit, don’t ask again, we’ll fix it.

Taz got the distinct impression everyone was keeping something from her.

That night, when her mother took the whiskey bottle to bed, Taz stole the matches and climbed out the window.  She snuck past the houses and the edge of town to a ravine that cut its way through the dusty landscape.  She walked until she came to the deepest part, where the walls rose twenty feet high on either side above a dry, sandy bed.

Taz gathered dry roots and driftwood and piled them with tight bunches of dried grass. With the matches she lit the tinder and fed it until the fire crackled and popped in the dark.

Taz turned her back to the fire and greeted her shadows that stretched out on the ravine walls.

“I think they made me forget who you are,” Taz told her other shadow.  “No one wants me to remember except me.  I need your help to do that.”

As if only waiting for permission, the other shadow turned to Taz’s and placed its thumb on her forehead.

Taz gasped as her forearm spasmed in pain.  She clutched at it and cried as a black mark bubbled to the surface of her skin.  Three long slashes made a triangle that held a circle inside.

Then both shadows reached out from the wall, across the sand, and gestured to the fire.

Taz understood.  She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and thrust her arm into the blaze.

There was a scream, but it did not come from Taz, for the mark on her skin writhed like a living thing, wrenching to and fro, unable to escape the flames that did not hurt Taz.  The mark seeped out of her skin and ran off like water, sizzling itself out on the coals.

Taz pulled her arm back.  It tingled and felt over warm, but not burnt.  She gazed up at the other shadow in awe.

Taz remembered.

She remembered her sister.  Taz remembered running side by side with her, crows overhead, watching lightning arc down from the sky and strike the two of them.  It fused them, their spirits, together.

Taz remembered her heart tearing in two as the Alder’s separated them.  Taz remembered reaching for her sister as her she was loaded into a wagon with others, forced to go to war.  The Alders held Taz down and marked her arm, and the memories seeped away like water into dry land.

“Your name is Fred.”

The shadow could not grin, but Taz felt the pride and love radiate as Fred’s shadow embraced Taz’s.

The next morning the Alders took her again and put her in the room with all the tools, herbs, and books of magic.  They tried more things they thought would sever her extra shadow.

“We will fix you, darling,” one said, as if that were a comfort.  “The dark cannot hold against the light.”

“You don’t understand anything at all,” said Taz.

With Taz’s memories came the lessons Fred taught her.  Lessons about balance and nature, magic and willpower, and, above all, the chaos of love.

“I’m sure it seems that way to you now,” one Alder started, and then stopped.

For Taz’s two shadows were growing and melted into each other.  They became one and filled the wall, and then the corners, then the ceiling.

They swallowed the Alders’ own shadows and smothered them.  The Alders fought each other to run for the door, but one by one they fell to the ground.  Triangle marks burst onto their skins.  Their eyes clouded with confusion, and they slept.

The girl with two shadows walked home with the key to her mother’s collar. 

“It’s time to find Fred,” Taz told her mother.

Later the Alder’s woke on the floor of that terrible little room.  None of them remembered why they were there.

Writing Update

Okay, writing update:

Rewrites are DONE on the first couple chapters, which is great, because I’m tired of looking at those monstrosities.  Going back to redo the beginning is always hard and I always try to do all the editing at once on them because I want them to be ~pretty.  They aren’t, not in the slightest, but that’s what copy and content editing is for later.

I cut out a bunch of excess flab on the story, about seven to nine chapters worth, including a POV character I really liked but the didn’t work for the story as it needs to be told.  I also added a completely new character who does fit and is pretty awesome, they add a whole new dynamic to the story that was lacking.

I have a good outline!  I’m tweaking it as I go to keep it updated, but it’s concise and helpful, and color coded, so I am ecstatic with its existence.

I have a loose outline for the entire series, which was fun to do.  I now have a good idea of my core and secondary characters, main events, and how people are gonna die.  I probably spent a little too long writing up the latter, but I can’t help it.  Plotting out angsty death is fun.

Yesterday was a productive writing day despite a recurring headache.  I wrote about 3000 words and I’m loving how the scenes played out.  Two words: train robbery.  *squeals!*

I have only a couple more days for writing or rewriting in since I’m preparing to take a trip to see my brother in North Carolina.  Cannot wait to get there!  My mom is going for the first time, so I’m going to enjoy taking her around to my old haunts and visiting the beach again.  I plan to come back with shells, and hopefully a tan instead of a burn.

Once I get back from the trip I’ll be rotating my rewrites and edits with writing the bare bones of the next book.  I’ll be doing that through Camp NaNoWriMo and I’ll provide a profile link for my progress bar.  That’s the plan right now, at least.

And, to sign off, have a picture of my perpetually happy Boston, now dubbed Muse Dog, who helps bolster my creativity and general mood.  She’s good luck for writers:

Ohana means family.
Muse Dog believes in you, you can do it!

Cheers!

Procrastination in Layers

chapter six

So, first off, hey guys!  Long time, no see, sorry about that.  January was filled with breakneck speed catch up after the holidays, followed by sickness riddled February, which is drying out into a hopefully sickness-free March.  Blogging was so far down on the totem pole of things I had energy for that it was less than a speck of dust.

But I’m semi-back now, so this space will be getting some new posts here and there.

Now, on to the updates.  The first draft is complete.  It is an ugly little thing I love and abhor with the same breath.  I struggled for an entire month with lung phlegm and a handful of chapters from a new character’s POV that, eventually, had to be done away with.  It went the way of the loogie, in other words.  Not because the chapters were bad (although, yes, they were bad) or because they were unnecessary, but because they just do not fit right now.  Like champagne and wine glasses at a table full of moonshine in mason jars, these chapters refused to work with the overall ambiance.  Sucks, yes, but they may be useful later in the next book somehow, so I’m not totally bummed about the discovery.

So, I am now on to editing everything else, which is my favorite part of the process anyway, but I am finding way more landmines I left for myself than I remember creating.  See, when I’m in the thick of creating I will go as far as an idea carries me, and if it stops being interesting I will stop, mid-sentence more often than not, and then throw in a note to my future editing self.

Mostly, these notes consist of bored now, moving on to something else, deal with this later.  Or, asdfghjkl omgwtfidk where I’m going with this, figure it out in editing.  And, the always lovely, HAHAHAHAHAHAH I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING IT SUCKS TO BE YOU READING THIS LATER.

It’s times like these that I really dislike my past writing self.  I can be such a whiny, thoughtless, self-centered procrastinator.  Why do I never think of my editing self with compassion or care?  Why must I create unnecessary tripwires that send editor-me face first into a mud pit?

The short answer is because writer-me thinks it’s funny.  Writer-me takes joy in being an utter brat.  Writer-me is often sleep deprived, under caffeinated, under inebriated, and stretched thin upstairs so the thought of being a prick, even to my future self, is enough to keep writer-me moving forward with the creation process.  Because creating is hard.  It hurts.  It takes more than it gives, leaving me wrung out and with the sense of having been hollowed.

And so procrastinating then leads to procrastinating now.  I’m working with chapter six and I really, really, with the fire of a billion suns, hate chapter six.  It’s a pivotal chapter.  It’s the first domino of a really bad choice that leads into the epic free fall of other bad decisions that lead to oh crap situations that make the rest of the book fun.  It’s necessary.  It’s needed.

And I want to set it on fire.  Or blast it into space.  Or throw it off the edge of a cliff and listen to it scream on the way down.

But I can’t bring myself to delete it.

So I went to a different page and wrote a blog post that I’ve been procrastinating for two months.

Oh, the irony and layers.

NaNo Lessons: Character Voice

I’ve talked before about the challenge of writing the same character at different ages, but I had a difficult time with it this November.  The series I’m writing, Witches of Texas, is not a new story for me.  I’ve been writing the main characters since I was seventeen or eighteen.  They have evolved with me into adulthood, and their old stories tackled adult themes from a grown up perspective.  Their personalities were firm and established.  They came to me as thirty-somethings with chips on their shoulders and a wider knowledge of their world and how they related to it.

Then I had to decide to write their origins when they were teenagers and young adults.  Should be easy, right?

Yeah, no.

The biggest challenge has been their voice.  You see the world differently as a teen than you do at twenty-two and more different still at thirty-three.  I have to keep in mind how they end up, and then find out what makes them that way, all the while trying to keep a consistent thread in their voice that will bridge the gaps between those ages so they don’t seem to hop all over the place.

Yesterday I talked about writing through the garbage, and a lot of that garbage was failed attempts at finding their voices.  I wrote many scenes that completely threw their voices off, or made them so out of character it might as well have been a completely different story.  By the middle of the month frustrated didn’t even begin to describe my state of mind.

So I broke away from the story and wrote a scene with their older selves.  It was a stupid scene, just the main characters bickering with each other over a goat herd and a pile of nicknacks, but it brought back the rhythm I was missing in their origin story.  I figured out I was making everything too dark and the characters too reactive, I wasn’t allowing them enough agency to really say what they thought or to act in the way they wanted to.  It was me forcing them along with the shambles of the plot instead of following them.

So I started a new page and kept the plot in mind, but let them wander around screwing things up to make it happen.  Will I keep all of that for the final drafts?  No.  But the exercise of getting back into their natural voices reminded me how to write them.  It reminded me what these characters held in value, what their real motivations were, and what they sound like inside, and out, of their heads.

Characters change over the course of their story, and their lives, but even the characters who go through a galactic amount of crap still have a recognizable thread from beginning to end.  Whether it’s cutting sarcasm, the drive to succeed, unkillable optimism, or a need to protector something else, parts of that survive their transformation.  I managed to find the bits that survive in my characters.

NaNo Lessons: Write that Garbage

Every first draft is a mess.  It’s a handful of diamonds covered in a ton of raw sewage and garbage.  It is imperfection and weirdness crossed with this expression: 

It sounds fine when you talk about writing garbage, or when you read about others talking about it.  But it doesn’t feel fine when you actually sit down and write it.  Even if it’s your 8th frickin’ year to do it.  I go through this every November, because outside of NaNo I fall into the unfortunate habit of editing as I write. Which slows production epically.  Yet I keep doing it because I can’t stand to have red squiggles underlining my words or the same word used three times in a single paragraph.

But NaNo demands you overlook those glaring blemishes to get on with the story.

And, you know, actually finish under a deadline.

It sucks, it’s hard, and it’s the best kind of motivation to just ignore what’s underfoot and keep going.

My head is full of garbage writing and garbage ideas and garbage scenes.  Thing is, I know that, and I get scared of letting it out because it’s, well, garbage.  I know I can do better.  I know I have done better, and I really don’t want anyone else to ever see this kind of blech.  That’s just the insecurities and ticks of doubt talking, though.  Once I push them out of the way and let the garbage flow forth, I trod through a lot of yuck, but I end up with some puddles of hey, that’s not so bad, I can work with that.

Writing is work, and it’s messy, but you can’t make it pretty and tight and awesome until you’ve sorted the parts of it that aren’t.  Most of writing is just holding your nose and diving in over and over.  Then there comes that threshold where you can either back off or keep going.  For me, that is the end of November.  I usually keep it up for a few days, maybe a couple weeks, but then I slip back into editing as a I go.

This time I’m working to consciously break that habit.  I came out of this NaNo with a lot of good material, but I still need to write at least 70% of new material for the book.  So I am not going to edit it until I get that 70% written.  What I have now is a seeping, saggy, soggy mess.  It’s a glaring eyesore and my fingers itch to beat out spelling mistakes and horrible writing.  But I’m going to keep going.  Even when I slip up and waste time editing last night’s passage, I’m going to stop, take a breath, and keep writing.

Because I’ve seen a glimpse of what treasures are hidden under the garbage prose and dialogue.  I want to see them in their entirety, and I can’t until I have the entire fetid bundle, complete, in my hands.  I just need to trust myself and my instincts to get me there.

Cheers.

NaNo Lessons: Self Discipline

Self discipline is something no one else can teach you.  You have to do it for yourself and find what works.  For me, it was a simple phrase: you messed up, let’s try again.

I have a day job.  Fortunately, it’s a day job I thoroughly enjoy, but it’s still challenging work and it does leave me drained at the end of the day.  When I get home, despite all the new ideas and scenes rattling around my brain, the only thing I want is food and Tumblr, in that order.   So I tell myself, just spend a little while on Tumblr, then go write.  You’ll have plenty of time to write.

Cue obnoxious, braying laughter, because five hours later I’m still on Tumblr.

I am a selectively competitive person, and NaNo is always included in that selection, so I had to figure out a game plan.  Social media, blogging, email, all those distractions and open tabs were too tempting.  I would check one or the other, just for a second, and lose thirty minutes.  When it happened in the morning before work, which was my prime writing window, I knew I had to make a change.

So, bye-bye internet.

I turned the wifi off.  I tossed the phone (gently) to the other side of the room.  I put on a music mix, and got down to business.

It was horrible.  Like being Tom Hanks on Castaway and fixing your own dental problems.  Like reaching for the bowl of chips and discovering you already ate the last one and didn’t realize.

In no way was this easy.  I turned the wifi on multiple times in a fit of childish stompy feet.  I justified it in every way possible.  Then I sighed, acknowledged what I was doing, and turned it off again.  I messed up, so I tried again.

And again.  And again.  And after a while I didn’t miss the internet.  I would even forget I hadn’t turned it off because I got straight to writing, bypassing go, not worrying about the $200.  It took time.  It took doing it over and over.   And it took being calm with myself, acknowledging that I didn’t meet my goal, but saying try again.  This is writing, not open heart surgery.  If you mess up, only fictional people may die, but they can be resurrected.  You can try again.  And again.

It’s become second nature to judge and taunt or belittle ourselves mercilessly when we make mistakes.  After all, that’s all we see when we look at social media or the news or the people around us.  It’s become “acceptable” and expected to kick people when they’re down, to expose their faux pas for all to see, and to rip them to shreds in a duel edged and misguided attempt to shame them into doing better while elevating ourselves as above them.  Then, when we screw up, we turn the same viciousness on ourselves and become depressed and angry when it doesn’t help us improve.

I can’t work under that kind of negativity.  I refuse to.  For too long I did that to myself and to others and it did nothing but make me feel like dirt.  It took years to come out of that.  I love myself, I love my imperfections, and I screw up.  I’m human, but my mistakes do not define me or my writing.  So I just acknowledge that I fell short, that I need to dust off my knees, and try again.

And that was not meant to turn into some kind of inspirational rant, but whatever.  Sometimes those happen, too.  The main point is, NaNo helped guide me back into self discipline.  Making a new habit, especially a productive one, takes time.  Takes vigilance.  But more than that, it takes guts to look at yourself with compassion and say, hey, you fell short.  Let’s try again.

Cheers.

 

NaNo Lessons: The Crazy Ideas

Wild.  Hair brained.  Weird.  Fantastic.  What the hell are you drinking and can you stop.  You know what kind of ideas I’m talking about.  They’re the ones that creep into your head while you’re trying to write something else.  Something more professional.  Something that actually, you know, makes sense.  These ideas come to us when our brains are too constricted by boundaries that mean well, but aren’t always necessary.

If you’re like me, or any other writer, you get doubts.  You write something off the wall and think, no one is gonna get this, or this is taking it too far.  Those little doubts nibble their way in through the skin and bed down like ticks that turn into wire that turn into fences and before you realize it, they are restricting your craft and imagination.

Well, get out the tweezers and the cigarette lighter, because it’s time to pull those ticks out and kill them dead.

Starting NaNo I had a PLAN.  An outline, one that was logical and cool and had just the right amount of surprises, or so I thought.  Within a week of writing to that outline my brain rebelled.  I got so b o r e d.  Well, okay, I thought.  Let me just scrap it and see what happens.

“Time travel!” my brain screamed.

“Um.”

“And orphans.  And a wagon train.  And throw in that freak lightning storm with the teenage thunderbird.”

“I don’t think–”

“DO IT.”

I rebelled against my brain for a while.  I waffled and poked at the bloated carcass of my outline, all the while falling behind in my word count.  I was so damn invested in that outline, even though I knew and posted that outlines are changeable.  Still.  It bugged me.  I wanted to stick to a plan, to write the right way for once.

And that’s when it hit me.  I had doubt ticks, a rash of them, stuck in me.

Doubt ticks are invasive little critters.  They crawl in the cracks left by insecurity and make a home for themselves.  I wanted to be “professional”.  I wanted to write to a logical formula.

I was trying to write like someone else.

I am a messy person.  A messy writer.  My life and mind is chaos and I don’t make logic leaps, I make intuitive leaps.  More often than not, if I trust those intuitive leaps, I end up being right.  That is me, that is how I work, but I still admire people who are neat and organized and can churn things out with a formula.  But there is a big difference between admiring someone else’s methods and holding them up as The Way I Should Write.

Pulling doubt ticks out is hard.  Setting them on fire is satisfying.  I wrote the weird time travel wagon train with orphans and the angsty teenage thunderbird.  It made no sense for the overall story and will, probably, never see the light of day.  But you know what?  It was FUN.  It was ME.  And getting the idea out on paper put it in the light where I could see all the ways it wouldn’t work, and the smaller pieces that did.

Plus, once that crazy idea was out, it was like clearing the blockage in a stopped up sink.  My writing sessions went smoother.  Ideas –some crazy, some not– flowed through.  Writing through the crazy opened up the other parts of my brain that made the intuitive leaps and produced material that will end up in the final version.

And, through it all, I got a better handle on what my story is really about.