Do Not Power Off or Unplug

Today my computer issued this warning: "Do not power off or unplug your machine. Installing update 5 of 26." 

Yikes! Has it really been that long since my computer updated?  Seriously, where have I been?  How did it happen that my writing computer has been silent and I have been unproductive for so long?  Bad, bad writer

If I were my own employee, I would have placed myself on probationary status by now:

 "So...how long has it been since you showed up for work?"


(Cough) "About...four weeks." (squirming)

"Weeks?"  Steepled fingers.  "I think months."

"Months?  Maybe.  I guess so.  But you know how summers are at my job.  Nine hour days in 90 degree heat.  With kids.  All day."  Big sigh.  "It really wears me out."

Silence.

"I'm not as young as I used to be." 

More silence.

"And now chamber choir rehearsals have started up again.  We're already singing Christmas music."

"That wasn't part of your job description.  Why are you letting it interfere with your duties?"

Silence.  Shuffling feet.

"I like singing Christmas music."

 "You don't like writing?"

Really long pause.

"Well?"

"I'm thinking."  Chewing lower lip and frowning.  "I like how I feel when I'm done, when the story really comes together.  But it's hard work.  And I work hard all day."

Silence.

"I've been reading a lot of great fiction.  You know, um, for research.  A writer's gotta know what's out there."

Pen tapping on desk.  "I think a plan of action will help you get back on track."

"Do I have to quit singing Christmas music?"

"Not if you can work it into your plan.  Where's your day planner?"

"Here." An avalanche of books and papers slides to the rug as I dig out the planner and blow dust from the cover.

"Write this down: 

1. reorganize your work station so you don't waste time 
2. set a writing schedule, time of day, days of the week and the month 
3. set a daily word count
4. meet with other writers to stay plugged in and encouraged 
5. read a good book on writing technique

"I'm already working my way through Writing 21st Century Fiction by Donald Maass."

"That's good, but don't get bogged down. You need to finish your rough draft.  What's your word count so far?"

"About 30,000 words."

"That's a great start. Since you have work to catch up on, you should consider putting in some overtime.  Go someplace where you won't have distractions if you can.  And consider signing up for NaNoWriMo."

I nudge a paper on the floor with my toe.

"What's the matter?"

"I sorta don't like my manuscript anymore.  The characters are boring and the story is a snoozer."

"Every writer feels that way at some point.  Once you get the rough draft finished, you'll gain momentum and feel like it's worth telling again."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me.  I've been there."

I feel better already.

"So, sign the plan of action and I'll place it in your file.  You have two months to show significant improvement."

 "Wow, you're strict."

"You have no idea."


 In two months

What Do Productive Writers Do To Meet Deadlines?

I’m always hesitant to use myself as an example of productivity. Sure, I’ve written books under some pretty extreme conditions. But then again, I’ve gone months without writing anything worth publishing in a book.

But a website called RescueTime featuring a program to help increase productivity conducted a study of writers who participated in NaNoWriMo. And they found several interesting characteristics shared by those who were most productive.

First, they found that over 30% of the top word-churners stopped to eat dinner.

Secondly, the most productive ones wrote most between nine p.m. and midnight.

Some wrote in marathon stretches of five hours – or more. (The longest one of their survey participants wrote was 10.48 hours. I say, “wimp.” I’ve written for 12 hours many times.)

And they limited social media when writing.

And most important to our NovelMatters community—they had a support group of other writers.

See why we love you so much? 

Write the Story you Want to Read

"Filled with restlessness and longing, he began to read." The History of Love by Nicole Krauss (page 74).

We've all heard it before: write the book you want to read. We give mental assent to this phrase: Yes, yes. What I want to read. Only that.

And yet.

We sit down to write and the screaming memes drown out the book we mean to write. The voices of people who would judge the work before it sees light of day (we ascribe this, usually without knowing if it is true or not). The voice of mom, or our Sunday School teacher, or whoever. If only we could be left alone with our thoughts.

Dig around for some cup of courage that allows us to write through the din of voices. We tell ourselves no one will read the darn thing anyway, save some glassy-eyed agent's assistant. Who will know if we pour our misunderstandings onto the page?
Banish the memes and what is left? The basket is lighter. Honest prose. True story.

And yet.

There is the doubt that we are not up to the task. A story grand as one we want to read certainly requires a steady hand. And look. Our hands tremor. Our word reach is puny. We must look up the word rigour in the dictionary because we most certainly are using it incorrectly.

Sign up for NaNoWriMo and learn to let the words fly, land where they may. We sprout wings and realize trusting ourselves isn't the point. That writers are, primarily, untrustworthy folk. There's joy in that.
Memes exiled, the issue of self trust resolved, we solider on with the scraps of truth left to us. The basket is nearly empty. True story.

And yet.

There is the story. The tapestry in our minds has turned to a single clanging gong on the page. Stiff, shrill, obvious. We have misplaced our campfire enthusiasm, shelved our wide-eyed curiosity in favour of experience. By accident we bought into the social media gimmick that word count and to-do lists, and deadlines mean we have arrived (where, exactly?).
It turns out we must rid ourselves of ourselves. Dissolve ego in the acid of honest prose, good story. The basket is empty.

And yet.

We are left with exactly all we had in the beginning. Nothing more than our restlessness and longing.