A New Ring of Hell...I Mean: Time for NaNoWriMo

I'm starting to feel like the Dunkin Donuts guy. Gotta blog. Gotta tweet. Gotta comment on blogs and tweets. Gotta feed and bathe and educate the toddler. Gotta prep a piece for that blogroll. Already prepped that piece for the blogroll! Gotta put in my 40 hours a week at the day job. Gotta polish and submit that short story. Gotta finishing editing manuscript and get it back to Madame Agent. And now, the King Rat of gotta-do's: Gotta get ready for NaNoWriMo.

I know, I know...I don't have to do it. Just like I don't have to change my clothes every day (this will be reduced to once a week starting tomorrow...sorry in advance to all who encounter me). But I'd like to at least try.

As the days grow shorter and darker, as my body assumes it's time to hibernate and tries to take my brain with it, 30 days of frenetic chaos amidst the exalting cheers and miserable groans of my fellow writers sounds like bliss. Or one of the rings of Dante's version of Hell. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

NaNoWriMo gives me a clear word count goal, a strict deadline, and NO ROOM FOR EXCUSES. Facebook? What's that? Forums? Don't exist during the month of November. Twitter? Well, I'll probably still dink around on twitter.

But the point is, this is the month for hard focus, quick showers, strong fingers (and coffee), and writerly mania. For those already in the ranks of NaNo, I salute you! For those who will be sitting this out or have no idea what I'm talking about, I'll see you in December.

Now, excuse me while I prepare to UNLEASH FIRST DRAFT HELL!

P.S. If you'd like to buddy me for NaNo, I'm hjacques1.

P.P.S. Even if you're my buddy, don't get in my way while I UNLEASH FIRST DRAFT HELL. kthanksbye

The Writer, The Warning, and the Judo Hobo

You know that image of The Writer? It's black and white, and he's maybe wearing a button-up shirt under a thin sweater (either expensive cashmere or scratchy, threadbare wool). He's near a typewriter, a stack of cool, white pages turned neatly down beside it. He's either sitting cross-legged and smoking or standing, kind of slouched, one elbow leaned against the bookcase, a cigarette dangling between elegant fingers? Yes, my go-to image of The Writer is a thin, middle-aged man in the late '50s, looking somehow both roguish and refined.

Is he sensitive? Only to the troubles of his fellow man. Does he ever second-guess himself into paralysis? Not so long as there's a single swig of the hard stuff left anywhere in his country estate/cabin/loft.

So, why the hell can't I be that guy? The obvious answer is that I'm not a guy. Also, that image is a snapshot. It doesn't take into account months of agonizing brain block, rejection, or the sneering, leering disappointment of family. If I hear "real job" one more time, I will start stripping. Just kidding. I am, after all, someone's mother now. Side note: the image also doesn't take into account the fact that The Writer may very well have WRITTEN IN THE NUDE.

I used to be very well-adjusted. And by that, I mean I didn't give a shit about most things. If you define "well-adjusted" as anything else, I don't need to hear it. But now, when I've actually written a few novels AND gotten an elusive agent, I'm a freaking mess. I tremble when I can't twist my words into fine images, swoon when my dialogue arrives flat, and spend literally eighteen hours a day pogoing through the interwebs trying to entice followers and hoping they like me. (read: not literally). Worst of all, I've had to take on a diplomatic mildness in order to not offend. And, believe me, my natural state is one of offense.

There's that old wife's tale that artists are prone to mental illness. Well, it may be more than a tale. But I swear I didn't start out like this. I think that the road to publication is making me crazy. Not interesting crazy. Not awesome crazy. Just stupid old batshit crazy. I'm a failed submission away from joining the hobo army (FYI, this awesomeness comes up when you google "hobo army": Judo Hobo) that occupies the wooded area behind my office. And even if they let me join the army, I'd probably only be a private, maybe a corporal on account of I have all my teeth.

So, let this be a warning to you. Lose the image of The Writer. Practice your craft. Share opinions. Read a lot. Always tug your ear twice when passing through the Hobo Wood, once for luck and again as a sign of respect. And don't let the crazies take you down.

SiWC Round-Up

I got back from the Surrey International Writer's Conference (SiWC) late last night. It was, as would be expected, located in Surrey, B.C. (Canada). For those of you who don't know, Surrey's town motto is "The Future Lives Here", which they say isn't meant to be a threat. I'll be the judge of that.

I attended something like thirteen hours of focused classes and one kick-ass blood spatter workshop put on by Dan (A thousand apologies if I misremembered your name. I was crazy giddy from the blood!) of the Vancouver Police Museum. I met some fantastic authors, listened to a couple of brilliant key note addresses (thank you Ivan Coyote and Robert Dugoni!), and met some fabulous writers, a couple of whom I "knew" from online forums/twitter and many of whom I did not.

If you get a chance, I suggest you check the conference out. It's not cheap, but it is a great value. Thoughtfully and comprehensively organized, with ample opportunity to pitch to agents/editors, receive critiques, and network 'til the break of dawn (not suggested, as the workshops start pretty early).