This rare Saturday post is to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be Krista G. but Krista V. Since I plan to publish under my maiden name (which, I'll just tell you, is Van Dolzer, since I'm certain you'd never guess), I thought it might be best to start streamlining everything now. Not that I'm planning to be published anytime soon (although agents, if you're reading this, feel free to change my mind)--this is just a preemptive strike.
I'll still be Krista G. on the message boards (at least until I go all kamikaze and ditch my current accounts for new ones), so to anyone who wanders over here from there, yeah, that's still me. And just so I can sneak another military reference in (and another parenthetical aside), allow me to assure you I haven't gone AWOL--I'm still here, and the same old Krista G./V. I've always been.
Finally, a Word of the Week point to the person who comes up with the best guess at my married last name. (That would be the G. part of Krista G., for those of you who are feeling slower-witted on this Saturday.) And to those of you who already know it, keep in mind that the best guess is not necessarily the closest one, but the one that makes me smile biggest:)
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Query Update
You’ve been itching/chomping at the bit/waiting on pins and needles for the numbers, haven’t you? Well, itch/chomp/wait no longer.
Total queries: 76
Pending queries: 7
Full requests: 4 (1 pending, 1 request for revisions)
Partial requests: 10 (2 pending)
Rejections: 42
Non-responses: 13
Totally psyched about that request for revisions, but since it would involve some pretty serious editing, I’m kind of…thinking right now. Regrouping. Actually, I’m taking some time to think about the entire project (which explains why I’ve only sent out one additional query since my last query update). But as I’ve been thinking, I’ve noticed a few things.
First, I’ve received no more requests since my last query update. Not too unexpected, I guess, especially since I’ve only sent out that one query. But what makes it a little more unexpected is that, between my last two query updates, all I got were requests. No joke. From mid-November to mid-December, I received exactly four query responses, two partial and two full requests, which just goes to show this business can be, and often is, a series of ebbs and flows. But as I mentioned in a previous post, those ebbs and flows have nothing to do with our worth as writers. They just are what they are. And we just are what we are. Surprisingly little correlation.
Second, non-responses and form rejections--the vast majority of those forty-two, by the way--are just a part of querying. It’s nothing personal, and no amount of bellyaching and/or composing vicious rejoinders and then posting them anonymously in that or another agent’s blog comments is likely to change it. Professionalism goes a long way in this and every industry, and in this Google-able world we live in, those sorts of slip-ups will probably come back to bite you. Now you’re all the last people on earth who needed to read that, as you’ve been nothing but cheery and delightful around here, but I just thought I’d mention it, since we can all use reminders.
Well, that’s all I got. Anyone else down in the query trenches with me? How’s it going?
Total queries: 76
Pending queries: 7
Full requests: 4 (1 pending, 1 request for revisions)
Partial requests: 10 (2 pending)
Rejections: 42
Non-responses: 13
Totally psyched about that request for revisions, but since it would involve some pretty serious editing, I’m kind of…thinking right now. Regrouping. Actually, I’m taking some time to think about the entire project (which explains why I’ve only sent out one additional query since my last query update). But as I’ve been thinking, I’ve noticed a few things.
First, I’ve received no more requests since my last query update. Not too unexpected, I guess, especially since I’ve only sent out that one query. But what makes it a little more unexpected is that, between my last two query updates, all I got were requests. No joke. From mid-November to mid-December, I received exactly four query responses, two partial and two full requests, which just goes to show this business can be, and often is, a series of ebbs and flows. But as I mentioned in a previous post, those ebbs and flows have nothing to do with our worth as writers. They just are what they are. And we just are what we are. Surprisingly little correlation.
Second, non-responses and form rejections--the vast majority of those forty-two, by the way--are just a part of querying. It’s nothing personal, and no amount of bellyaching and/or composing vicious rejoinders and then posting them anonymously in that or another agent’s blog comments is likely to change it. Professionalism goes a long way in this and every industry, and in this Google-able world we live in, those sorts of slip-ups will probably come back to bite you. Now you’re all the last people on earth who needed to read that, as you’ve been nothing but cheery and delightful around here, but I just thought I’d mention it, since we can all use reminders.
Well, that’s all I got. Anyone else down in the query trenches with me? How’s it going?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A (Showing and) Telling Example
I got to thinking about yesterday’s post, about stripping a scene down to just those bits of information a movie would convey, and decided to give it a try with Bob. So I hunted down the shortest scene I’ve written (why experiment with ten pages?) and pruned it of every bit of telling I could find. I’m sure I missed some, but if you can ignore that, and remember that this is a rough, ROUGH draft, I’ll let you read it:) Here it is:
Two hours later, they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth was matching her pace.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He relaxed. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now. He grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
“Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. As he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him a sad smile. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
What do you think? No, really, you can say it, because I think it’s missing something, too. For one thing, we hear none of Seth’s thoughts, and since I’m writing from a close third-person point-of-view, that’s a problem. Also, as agent Kristin Nelson mentioned in her post yesterday, there are times when telling is warranted, even required, to communicate vital pieces of information. Plus, all the sparkle’s gone. So here’s the un-pruned original, now with the telling bits in blue:
Two hours later, Mr. Hermes had run out of things to blather about and they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth, like an ever-faithful guard dog, was matching her pace--and grasping madly at some topic of conversation.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said at last, since that was the best he could come up with.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh,” was all he said. It was the best he could do with his insides fluttering the way they were.
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause. But she sounded like she was trying to hold off a snort.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He actually felt himself starting to relax. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained, like a smiley face balloon deflating. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to see her smile again and know that he’d been the one to put it there. And he didn’t want tomorrow to be the last time he ever saw her. So he grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked, letting the words tumble off his tongue before he had a chance to think better of them. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
He’d already come this far; he might as well go all the way. “Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard, felt his Adam’s apple bob. He’d heard of Toothpicks, of course, dirty weapons used to kill a Toother with the electric pulses from his own Wingtooth, but he’d never seen one. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. He wanted to tell her about his Wingtooth--and the headaches--but he couldn’t, not without going back on his word. Still, as he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him the same sad smile his mom had used to tell him there was no Santa Claus. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
Still not satisfied? Me, neither. The scene needs trimming, as it could still do without some of this telling, and because there are always words to cut. Like I said, though, this is a very rough draft, so I’ll be coming back to it. The version I end up with will likely be somewhere in between these two, if I don’t scrap or rework it altogether.
My final word, then, is that a scene needs both showing and telling, though much more show than tell. And getting the balance right takes practice--but doesn't everything?
Two hours later, they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth was matching her pace.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He relaxed. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now. He grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
“Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. As he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him a sad smile. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
What do you think? No, really, you can say it, because I think it’s missing something, too. For one thing, we hear none of Seth’s thoughts, and since I’m writing from a close third-person point-of-view, that’s a problem. Also, as agent Kristin Nelson mentioned in her post yesterday, there are times when telling is warranted, even required, to communicate vital pieces of information. Plus, all the sparkle’s gone. So here’s the un-pruned original, now with the telling bits in blue:
Two hours later, Mr. Hermes had run out of things to blather about and they were strolling back across the parking lot. Adair had fallen behind the others, and Seth, like an ever-faithful guard dog, was matching her pace--and grasping madly at some topic of conversation.
“Your dad seems nice,” he said at last, since that was the best he could come up with.
“He is.” She sent him a sidelong look. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Seth looked sideways at her, too. “For a shark, you mean.”
“No,” she replied, looking away. “For a person.”
“Oh,” was all he said. It was the best he could do with his insides fluttering the way they were.
“I’m sorry about your…tissue,” she said after a pause. But she sounded like she was trying to hold off a snort.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied, giving his blazer pocket a weak pat. “It should come out in the wash. Maybe.”
“I’d buy you another one,” she went on, grinning slyly, “but I don’t think they sell anything like that in the Strip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said again, with a small smile of his own. “I’m sure you could try Myron’s or something.”
“Can’t,” she replied, still grinning that sly grin. “No time. I’ll be getting ready for the Last Banquet tonight.”
He actually felt himself starting to relax. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her expression slowly drained, like a smiley face balloon deflating. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other after that.”
His smile faded, too. “Oh. Right.”
They were nearly to the limo now, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to see her smile again and know that he’d been the one to put it there. And he didn’t want tomorrow to be the last time he ever saw her. So he grabbed her elbow.
“How about dinner sometime, then?” he asked, letting the words tumble off his tongue before he had a chance to think better of them. “Or a movie? Or, I don’t know, cactus tipping? Or all three?”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “Cactus tipping?”
He shrugged. “My parents sent me to Wyoming for summer camp one year. The counselors up there talked about going cow tipping. But we don’t have any cows.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her elbow, which was still clenched inside his fist. “Right.”
He let it go. “Well?”
She glanced up at his face, then over at the group--or maybe just at her father--then down at the ground, then up at his face again. “Sorry, Clumsy,” she said at last, only able to meet his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His shoulders drooped. “I guess you’re right,” he mumbled. “Cactus tipping could be kind of dangerous.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone before it reached her eyes.
“And what about the movie? Dinner?”
She just shook her head.
He’d already come this far; he might as well go all the way. “Why not?”
She chuckled without much humor. “Because in my neighborhood, sharks are about as common as cows--and Toothpicks aren’t harmless bits of wood.”
Seth swallowed hard, felt his Adam’s apple bob. He’d heard of Toothpicks, of course, dirty weapons used to kill a Toother with the electric pulses from his own Wingtooth, but he’d never seen one. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to.
Adair started to walk away, toward the rest of the group, and he didn’t stop her. He wanted to tell her about his Wingtooth--and the headaches--but he couldn’t, not without going back on his word. Still, as he watched her glide away from him, long red hair swaying gently as she moved, he couldn’t help but call after her, “We could still make it work.”
She stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flashed him the same sad smile his mom had used to tell him there was no Santa Claus. “No, Clumsy,” she murmured, just loud enough to reach his ears. “We couldn’t.”
Still not satisfied? Me, neither. The scene needs trimming, as it could still do without some of this telling, and because there are always words to cut. Like I said, though, this is a very rough draft, so I’ll be coming back to it. The version I end up with will likely be somewhere in between these two, if I don’t scrap or rework it altogether.
My final word, then, is that a scene needs both showing and telling, though much more show than tell. And getting the balance right takes practice--but doesn't everything?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Showing vs. Telling--at the Movies
My husband (who I normally call Honey Bear--and will for the rest of this and every post, since it has so much more character than plain, old “my husband”) is one of those someday novelists. You know the ones. They’re always saying things like, “Someday, when I write my book, I won’t spend so long coming up with character names,” or “Someday, when I write my book, I’ll outline it first.”
Those are the kinds of things Honey Bear always says, at least. And when he says things like that, I smile and respond, “Of course you will, Honey Bear.” Because we all know how those someday novelists are.
But for all of my pleasant-faced condescension, I usually find myself thinking about the points he makes (like that whole outlining thing, for instance), and tweaking my ideas about writing accordingly. In fact, something he said recently changed my entire mindset about the story-old struggle between showing and telling: “Someday, when I write my book,” he said, “I’ll probably write it like I’m describing a movie, since I see more than hear the scenes in my head.”
That got me thinking about movies in general, and the methods by which they communicate their stories, and I realized something: Movies, by their very nature, have to SHOW EVERYTHING. I mean, how annoying would it be if the character wandered onto the screen and some disembodied voice announced, “Margaret was tired when she got home from the party, and her feet hurt”? Instead, we see Margaret stagger through her front door, toss her purse on the console, massage the back of her neck, and plop down on the sofa to take her heels off.
It takes a lot longer to say all that, of course--the movie communicates that information in a few seconds--but that’s why they say a picture’s worth a thousand words. So maybe we picked the wrong medium, but now we’re stuck with it, and all the description that goes along with it.
Now I realize film and literature aren’t exactly interchangeable; both have their own rules and standards, and one of the advantages of books is their ability to interpret the action in (hopefully) witty or unexpected asides. Heck, even movies benefit from the occasional voiceover. (The fairy-tale-esque narration at the beginning of PENELOPE, for example, is spot-on.) But just as voiceover should be used sparingly in film, so should tell-heavy asides be used only once in a while in books--no matter how witty or unexpected.
Those are the kinds of things Honey Bear always says, at least. And when he says things like that, I smile and respond, “Of course you will, Honey Bear.” Because we all know how those someday novelists are.
But for all of my pleasant-faced condescension, I usually find myself thinking about the points he makes (like that whole outlining thing, for instance), and tweaking my ideas about writing accordingly. In fact, something he said recently changed my entire mindset about the story-old struggle between showing and telling: “Someday, when I write my book,” he said, “I’ll probably write it like I’m describing a movie, since I see more than hear the scenes in my head.”
That got me thinking about movies in general, and the methods by which they communicate their stories, and I realized something: Movies, by their very nature, have to SHOW EVERYTHING. I mean, how annoying would it be if the character wandered onto the screen and some disembodied voice announced, “Margaret was tired when she got home from the party, and her feet hurt”? Instead, we see Margaret stagger through her front door, toss her purse on the console, massage the back of her neck, and plop down on the sofa to take her heels off.
It takes a lot longer to say all that, of course--the movie communicates that information in a few seconds--but that’s why they say a picture’s worth a thousand words. So maybe we picked the wrong medium, but now we’re stuck with it, and all the description that goes along with it.
Now I realize film and literature aren’t exactly interchangeable; both have their own rules and standards, and one of the advantages of books is their ability to interpret the action in (hopefully) witty or unexpected asides. Heck, even movies benefit from the occasional voiceover. (The fairy-tale-esque narration at the beginning of PENELOPE, for example, is spot-on.) But just as voiceover should be used sparingly in film, so should tell-heavy asides be used only once in a while in books--no matter how witty or unexpected.
Monday, January 25, 2010
(Work-in-) Progress Report: Bob
Word count (to the nearest thousand): 31,000
Status: Still working on the first draft
Attitude: Upbeat
Considering that I’ve been writing Bob for more than three months now, 31,000 words (11,000 more than last time) really isn’t all that much. But the thing is, I spent a solid half, maybe two-thirds, of the past month on vacation and/or stuck. And when I say stuck, I mean fingers-dead-over-the-keyboard, spit-dribbling-down-my-chin, writer’s-block-the-size-of-the-polar-ice-cap stuck. So 31,000 words is an accomplishment. Heck, 31,000 words is enough to throw a party over.
Rest assured, Bob is still very much Not Perfect Yet. But being able to put words and sentences and whole chapters behind me has left me in a sparkling mood these past few weeks. And the farther into this one I get, the more I love the characters and the storyline and just the world I’m (slowly) building. Yes, my excitement for this project is actually increasing, which is unusual. What’s even more unusual is that my excitement is increasing even as it’s taking longer to write. And when I say longer, I mean MONTHS longer; at this rate, I expect to finish Bob’s first draft in about twice the time it took me to produce my others. But that’s all right. Someday, he’ll be finished.
A few more notes on Bob. He’s young adult science fiction (have I mentioned that already?), set about thirty-five years in the future. His MC’s name is Seth Tucker. And he’s set in Las Vegas, which, I might add, is no longer the city of sin but the biomedia capital of the universe.
So how about you? I’d love to hear more about your works-in-progress. Genres, word counts, current status--fill us in.
Status: Still working on the first draft
Attitude: Upbeat
Considering that I’ve been writing Bob for more than three months now, 31,000 words (11,000 more than last time) really isn’t all that much. But the thing is, I spent a solid half, maybe two-thirds, of the past month on vacation and/or stuck. And when I say stuck, I mean fingers-dead-over-the-keyboard, spit-dribbling-down-my-chin, writer’s-block-the-size-of-the-polar-ice-cap stuck. So 31,000 words is an accomplishment. Heck, 31,000 words is enough to throw a party over.
Rest assured, Bob is still very much Not Perfect Yet. But being able to put words and sentences and whole chapters behind me has left me in a sparkling mood these past few weeks. And the farther into this one I get, the more I love the characters and the storyline and just the world I’m (slowly) building. Yes, my excitement for this project is actually increasing, which is unusual. What’s even more unusual is that my excitement is increasing even as it’s taking longer to write. And when I say longer, I mean MONTHS longer; at this rate, I expect to finish Bob’s first draft in about twice the time it took me to produce my others. But that’s all right. Someday, he’ll be finished.
A few more notes on Bob. He’s young adult science fiction (have I mentioned that already?), set about thirty-five years in the future. His MC’s name is Seth Tucker. And he’s set in Las Vegas, which, I might add, is no longer the city of sin but the biomedia capital of the universe.
So how about you? I’d love to hear more about your works-in-progress. Genres, word counts, current status--fill us in.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Word of the Week Wrap-up
Thanks to everyone who participated in the inaugural round of Word of the Week. I’m sure more will join in next time, when they realize how much fun they’re missing. But if not, I guess we’ll just have more points for less people. Nothing like a little point inflation to boost one’s self-esteem:)
And now for the definition. A kris, according to the all-knowing Merriam-Webster, is a Malay or Indonesian dagger with a ridged serpentine blade. (Can't help but grin wickedly as I type that.) Keep that in mind as you read the two winning entries:
Myrna Foster: “Kris, I'd say your nickname is more of a proper noun than just a plain old noun, but maybe you don't like being proper?”
Charity Bradford: “The taunting never stops. 'Kris cross, polka dots, if he touches you get your cootie shots!'”
Yeah, I don't think krises like being proper--and I'm pretty sure, if he touches you, you'll need more than just cootie shots:)
A point to both winners, who, you probably noticed, were also the only two people to play the game. See how generous, albeit Communistic, I am? Makes you want to play next time, doesn’t it? (Although you should in no way construe that as a promise to evenly distribute the points every time.)
In any case, have a great weekend, all! I’ll be back next week with a (work-in-) progress report. And maybe a query update. And maybe a few other thoughts that have been rolling around my brain of late...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Massacring the Art of French Cooking: Reine de Saba
Today is my birthday, the big two-six. Now I tell you that not to solicit your happy birthdays (although you're welcome to leave your best birthday songs in the comments, if you like), but as an explanation for why we baked a cake.
Some friends invited us over for dinner Monday night, so we decided to turn it into an early birthday celebration and offered to make dessert. So we needed to bake a cake and, since it was going to be my birthday, not just any cake--the great Reine de Saba, or Queen of Sheba, a chocolate and almond masterpiece rumored to be Julia Child's favorite cake.
We first encountered the mighty Queen when we rented JULIE AND JULIA several weeks ago. My husband and I are closet foodies, so JULIE AND JULIA sounded interesting to us both. (Yeah, my husband's pretty cool like that.) By the end of the movie, all we had to do was take one look at each other, and we knew: We needed a copy of MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING.
Now French cuisine is to the culinary world what Shakespeare is to the literary one: that aged sage who seems more myth than truth, whose works are thick and incomparable and define the entire discipline. So the Queen of Sheba is more than just a cake; it's an aspiration, a distant mountain peak, a legend.
We made sure we had all the right ingredients and equipment. We made a special trip to procure the things we lacked. And then we started baking. My husband separated his first eggs (six of them, no less--the Queen doesn't trifle with silly things like baking powder). I beat my first egg whites (until soft peaks started to form, then added a tablespoon of sugar and kept beating, until there was nothing soft about them). We folded everything together. And then we eased our cake rounds into the oven and set the timer for twenty-two minutes (three less than Julia called for, just in case our oven wasn't properly French).
Twenty-two minutes later, when I inserted my fork exactly three inches from the edge (should have been a needle, but I figured a tine was good enough), it came out a little dirty. Three more minutes on the timer, then another fork into the cake. This one came out clean. Which meant it was time for the final test: the jiggle.
According to Julia, the center of the cake should "move slightly" when jiggled. The whole point of the Queen is to leave her slightly underdone so as to preserve her creamy texture.
So we jiggled. And got nothing.
There was nothing we could do about it by then, of course, so that was exactly what we did. We iced her as if nothing unusual had happened (in nearly half a pound of butter mixed with four squares of baker's chocolate), we pressed a few leftover slivered almonds into her sides, we took her to our friends' place. And when it was time for dessert and I sampled the first bite, I knew: We'd ruined her. The Queen of Sheba was as dry as a slab of day-old bread. Chocolate and almond day-old bread, but day-old bread, nonetheless.
What makes this an even greater tragedy is the fact that we're on a no-dessert diet for the next month and a half. Our health insurance company does these wellness challenges, and for each one you complete, you get a partial refund on your premiums. So the first wellness challenge is to not eat or drink any desserts, treats, or soda for two months. Two whole months. You do get a few free days, so you've got to make the most of them. And we wasted one of ours on the over-baked Queen.
Still, we will not be defeated. We refuse to be bested by the French. So we're planning to crack that cookbook again in about a week and give another recipe a try. If our next attempt is a success, I'm sure you'll hear about it. And if our next attempt is as, uh, massacre-ful as this last one, I'm sure you'll hear about that, too:)
Some friends invited us over for dinner Monday night, so we decided to turn it into an early birthday celebration and offered to make dessert. So we needed to bake a cake and, since it was going to be my birthday, not just any cake--the great Reine de Saba, or Queen of Sheba, a chocolate and almond masterpiece rumored to be Julia Child's favorite cake.
We first encountered the mighty Queen when we rented JULIE AND JULIA several weeks ago. My husband and I are closet foodies, so JULIE AND JULIA sounded interesting to us both. (Yeah, my husband's pretty cool like that.) By the end of the movie, all we had to do was take one look at each other, and we knew: We needed a copy of MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING.
Now French cuisine is to the culinary world what Shakespeare is to the literary one: that aged sage who seems more myth than truth, whose works are thick and incomparable and define the entire discipline. So the Queen of Sheba is more than just a cake; it's an aspiration, a distant mountain peak, a legend.
We made sure we had all the right ingredients and equipment. We made a special trip to procure the things we lacked. And then we started baking. My husband separated his first eggs (six of them, no less--the Queen doesn't trifle with silly things like baking powder). I beat my first egg whites (until soft peaks started to form, then added a tablespoon of sugar and kept beating, until there was nothing soft about them). We folded everything together. And then we eased our cake rounds into the oven and set the timer for twenty-two minutes (three less than Julia called for, just in case our oven wasn't properly French).
Twenty-two minutes later, when I inserted my fork exactly three inches from the edge (should have been a needle, but I figured a tine was good enough), it came out a little dirty. Three more minutes on the timer, then another fork into the cake. This one came out clean. Which meant it was time for the final test: the jiggle.
According to Julia, the center of the cake should "move slightly" when jiggled. The whole point of the Queen is to leave her slightly underdone so as to preserve her creamy texture.
So we jiggled. And got nothing.
There was nothing we could do about it by then, of course, so that was exactly what we did. We iced her as if nothing unusual had happened (in nearly half a pound of butter mixed with four squares of baker's chocolate), we pressed a few leftover slivered almonds into her sides, we took her to our friends' place. And when it was time for dessert and I sampled the first bite, I knew: We'd ruined her. The Queen of Sheba was as dry as a slab of day-old bread. Chocolate and almond day-old bread, but day-old bread, nonetheless.
What makes this an even greater tragedy is the fact that we're on a no-dessert diet for the next month and a half. Our health insurance company does these wellness challenges, and for each one you complete, you get a partial refund on your premiums. So the first wellness challenge is to not eat or drink any desserts, treats, or soda for two months. Two whole months. You do get a few free days, so you've got to make the most of them. And we wasted one of ours on the over-baked Queen.
Still, we will not be defeated. We refuse to be bested by the French. So we're planning to crack that cookbook again in about a week and give another recipe a try. If our next attempt is a success, I'm sure you'll hear about it. And if our next attempt is as, uh, massacre-ful as this last one, I'm sure you'll hear about that, too:)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Word of the Week
I'm introducing a new series on the blog today, which I'm calling--you guessed it--"Word of the Week." You can think of it as the writerly equivalent of an improv game, with strange rules and random points that really don't win you much. But I'm hoping it'll be kind of fun, and also build our writer vocabularies with strange and random interesting and very useful words.
To play, just leave a comment that uses the current Word of the Week. It can be a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, or even a novella, but keep in mind that I've read HAMLET and am a firm believer in the idea that brevity is the soul of wit (which, as we all know, is one of the few worthwhile things Polonius ever said).
Now your comment shouldn't necessarily define the Word; rather, it should use the Word in a creative way. So if the Word were penny loafers (not actually a word, of course, but you get the idea), I might submit the comment, "Bill, your penny loafers are showing," or even, "As she dumped her pocket change into Jerald and Josephina's chubby palms, Liza mumbled under her breath, 'Here's your stupid penny, loafers.'" But then, the real Word of the Week isn't likely to be so mundane. Or recognizable:)
And now for the game's two rules, one of which I care about and the other of which just seemed like a good idea (I'll let you decide which is which): You may submit only one entry, and you may NOT look up the Word's actual definition. Now I realize I can't really police that second rule, but the game will be much more fun, and funnier, if everyone plays along.
On Friday, I'll reveal the Word's definition and award however many points I feel like awarding. And the winner/winners will receive fame and glory immemorial, or at least until we play again.
You got that? You ready to play? All right, here's the inaugural Word of the Week, which is a noun: kris.
Happy commenting.
To play, just leave a comment that uses the current Word of the Week. It can be a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, or even a novella, but keep in mind that I've read HAMLET and am a firm believer in the idea that brevity is the soul of wit (which, as we all know, is one of the few worthwhile things Polonius ever said).
Now your comment shouldn't necessarily define the Word; rather, it should use the Word in a creative way. So if the Word were penny loafers (not actually a word, of course, but you get the idea), I might submit the comment, "Bill, your penny loafers are showing," or even, "As she dumped her pocket change into Jerald and Josephina's chubby palms, Liza mumbled under her breath, 'Here's your stupid penny, loafers.'" But then, the real Word of the Week isn't likely to be so mundane. Or recognizable:)
And now for the game's two rules, one of which I care about and the other of which just seemed like a good idea (I'll let you decide which is which): You may submit only one entry, and you may NOT look up the Word's actual definition. Now I realize I can't really police that second rule, but the game will be much more fun, and funnier, if everyone plays along.
On Friday, I'll reveal the Word's definition and award however many points I feel like awarding. And the winner/winners will receive fame and glory immemorial, or at least until we play again.
You got that? You ready to play? All right, here's the inaugural Word of the Week, which is a noun: kris.
Happy commenting.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
A Grassroots Earthquake Relief Effort: Haiti
This rare double post is to inform you that, in light of the massive earthquake that hit Haiti on Tuesday, my husband and I have decided to make a donation to our favorite humanitarian aid organization, LDS Humanitarian Services--and you get to determine how much we donate.
Just leave a comment in the section below sometime between now and nine o'clock Friday night. (I've got kids; I go to bed early.) For every unique comment (one per person) made on this post, my husband and I will donate one dollar to the earthquake relief effort in Haiti. Our donation will help provide personal hygiene and newborn care kits for earthquake victims, as well as food, water, medicine, and other needed supplies.
LDS Humanitarian Services, a branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is a well-respected aid organization and provides emergency and other relief around the world. They bring clean water to small towns and villages in developing countries, provide neonatal resuscitation training to doctors and nurses in these same nations, and supply food and vaccinations to those in need. They also provide vital disaster relief and have made an impact in such places as Indonesia, India and Pakistan, the Sudan, the Gulf Coast, and now Haiti.
If you’d like to make a donation yourself, check out their online contribution form. And don’t forget to leave your comment here.
Book Recommendation: THE FIRE IN FICTION (Plus a Really Long Subtitle) by Donald Maass
I’m only about three chapters into literary agent Donald Maass’s latest how-to-write, THE FIRE IN FICTION: Passion, Purpose, and Techniques to Make Your Novel Great, but I can already tell it’s going to be worth recommending. His instruction is spot-on, and since he uses gobs of sample passages from contemporary fiction, it’s also a great way to come across new novels to read (albeit most of them from the adult market).THE FIRE IN FICTION addresses, among other things, the difference between protagonists and heroes, and how to humanize both. It explores the nature of secondary characters and villains, and how to make them pop. It describes techniques for developing can’t-cut scenes and for creating memorable settings--and that’s just in the first three chapters.
I picked up one of Mr. Maass’s earlier books, WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL, after I noticed it on several agents’ lists of must-reads for writers and found it to be a worthwhile way to spend a few hundred pages. But I like THE FIRE IN FICTION even better, mostly because the hints and advice he includes in this one are more applicable. I’ve already written about a page of notes of specific changes and additions I plan to make to my current work-in-progress. And I’ve been happy to see that several of his suggestions I’m already doing.
Unfortunately, this book recommendation is only going to be useful to those of you who are writers, but since I figure that’s most of you, I guess that’s okay. And if you are a part of that writing majority, definitely check this one out. At the very least, you’ll be able to tell Mr. Maass you’ve read one of his books when you query him, and that’s some darn good personalization:)
Friday, January 8, 2010
Not a Winner, But Not a Loser, Either
My entry for Natalie Whipple's contest didn't win, but I still like it enough that I wanted to share it with you. Admire Natalie's gorgeous Prismacolor sketch for a while, then check out the scene I wrote to go along with it: Bright yellow sunlight, strong for this time of year, roasted the faerie’s wings as she approached the window. Why did the sun insist on shining even when the worlds were falling apart?
“What are you doing, Lego Lass?” she snapped as she alighted on the ledge.
The fair-haired elf didn’t even turn. “What does it look like, Feya?”
The faerie flitted into the cabin, aquamarine wings beating in a blur. “You can’t still be playing with those silly blocks.”
“I don’t see why not.” Lego Lass added another Lego to her model--of the ruined Minas Morgul, Feya noted with disgust. “Morgoth the Wise has kindly agreed to sponsor me. Says I have real talent.”
“That’s not the point.” Feya zipped back to the window and stabbed a finger southward. “The point is, the bridge between the worlds is breaking. And you’re the only being who can fix it.”
“Gloigan’s the Master Builder in these parts,” Lego Lass replied, plucking another Lego from her heap. “I’m no dwarf.”
Quick as a spell, Feya shot across the room and knocked the block away. “Stop this, Lego Lass! Stop acting like this is none of your affair. The bridge needs Elven magic. Besides, without it, there’ll be no more of these stupid Earthly toys.”
Lego Lass just picked up another Lego.
Feya could only sputter. “But you’re a part of this world!” she cried, flying dangerously close to the elf and her tower, within swatting distance. “Aren’t you?” And with that, she ripped one of its spires off.
That was enough: Lego Lass froze, then paled, then trembled. “It doesn’t seem like it,” she whispered, but then her cheeks began to flush. “It doesn’t seem like I’ve ever belonged to this place!” With a savage shriek, she ripped another spire from its base. “First Mother won’t even come up with another name for me, just calls me after my saintly older brother! And then Mr. Tolkien doesn’t even mention--doesn’t even mention--that I exist at all!”
“At least he didn’t overlook your entire species,” Feya muttered, but the elf didn’t seem to hear her.
“I built the bridge that brought him here!” Lego Lass was raving. “I built the bridge that took him home! I did! It was mine, my own, my--”
“You know,” Feya interrupted, calmly inspecting her fingernail, “who you sound like.” She looked up from her cuticle long enough to catch the elf’s eye. “Don’t you?”
Lego Lass froze again, paled again, and dropped the spire. “What am I doing?” she mumbled into her hands, long blond hair falling across her face. When she finally raised her head, her cheeks were red and splotchy, but her eyes were resolute. “What do I have to do?”
“What are you doing, Lego Lass?” she snapped as she alighted on the ledge.
The fair-haired elf didn’t even turn. “What does it look like, Feya?”
The faerie flitted into the cabin, aquamarine wings beating in a blur. “You can’t still be playing with those silly blocks.”
“I don’t see why not.” Lego Lass added another Lego to her model--of the ruined Minas Morgul, Feya noted with disgust. “Morgoth the Wise has kindly agreed to sponsor me. Says I have real talent.”
“That’s not the point.” Feya zipped back to the window and stabbed a finger southward. “The point is, the bridge between the worlds is breaking. And you’re the only being who can fix it.”
“Gloigan’s the Master Builder in these parts,” Lego Lass replied, plucking another Lego from her heap. “I’m no dwarf.”
Quick as a spell, Feya shot across the room and knocked the block away. “Stop this, Lego Lass! Stop acting like this is none of your affair. The bridge needs Elven magic. Besides, without it, there’ll be no more of these stupid Earthly toys.”
Lego Lass just picked up another Lego.
Feya could only sputter. “But you’re a part of this world!” she cried, flying dangerously close to the elf and her tower, within swatting distance. “Aren’t you?” And with that, she ripped one of its spires off.
That was enough: Lego Lass froze, then paled, then trembled. “It doesn’t seem like it,” she whispered, but then her cheeks began to flush. “It doesn’t seem like I’ve ever belonged to this place!” With a savage shriek, she ripped another spire from its base. “First Mother won’t even come up with another name for me, just calls me after my saintly older brother! And then Mr. Tolkien doesn’t even mention--doesn’t even mention--that I exist at all!”
“At least he didn’t overlook your entire species,” Feya muttered, but the elf didn’t seem to hear her.
“I built the bridge that brought him here!” Lego Lass was raving. “I built the bridge that took him home! I did! It was mine, my own, my--”
“You know,” Feya interrupted, calmly inspecting her fingernail, “who you sound like.” She looked up from her cuticle long enough to catch the elf’s eye. “Don’t you?”
Lego Lass froze again, paled again, and dropped the spire. “What am I doing?” she mumbled into her hands, long blond hair falling across her face. When she finally raised her head, her cheeks were red and splotchy, but her eyes were resolute. “What do I have to do?”
Feya fluttered over and, when Lego Lass held out her hand, settled on her palm. “I think you already know,” she said, glowing suddenly like one of Mr. Tolkien’s flashlights. Like a beacon. “Your satchel’s by the door.”
It's my playful homage to the genre's creator, as well as the first thing I thought of when I saw that elf. (“Wow, she looks like she could be Legolas's kid sister!”) Hope you enjoyed:)
Monday, January 4, 2010
Contests, Contests Everywhere--Too Bad Bob Isn't Ready!
The title says it all, especially since one of these contests is being hosted by an agent who mentioned in her sidebar that she’s looking for a young adult dystopian along the lines of a book that COULD BE BOB’S FIRST COUSIN. Sigh.
In any case, that contest, hosted by agent Mary Kole of Andrea Brown Literary Agency fame, is over on her Kidlit blog. Submit up to the first 500 words of a finished middle grade or young adult manuscript and win as much as a 15-page critique. There are other prizes available, all of them smaller critiques, which still seems like a pretty good deal. Pop on over there and check it out--you have until the end of the month.
Another agent, the always awesome Nathan Bransford, is hosting another contest, this one with a writing prompt. Come up with your best teenage diary entry or unsent letter and enter it in the comments section of the aforementioned post. Winners will receive copies of Jennifer Hubbard's THE SECRET YEAR and critiques from/consultations with the man himself, but be forewarned: About a million people will probably enter this contest, so, er, don't get your hopes up. Oh, and you only have until this Wednesday, so don't delay.
Also, one of Nathan Bransford’s clients, Renaissance woman Natalie Whipple, is hosting an artsy contest. Interpret her vivid elf-and-faerie drawing in 500 words or less and win a Natalie Whipple original. Or a 30-, 20-, or 10-page critique. Or a query and/or synopsis critique. Submissions close this Thursday, so you’d better scoot.
Authoress will also be hosting another Secret Agent contest next week (that’s the first 250 words of a finished manuscript, for the uninitiated). She’ll be taking entries next Monday, and since this month’s secret agent is looking for anything middle grade or young adult, the slots are sure to fill up fast. So, come Monday morning, you should probably be waiting with your mouse poised over the send button. It may be the only way you get in:)
Finally, the magnanimous Myrna Foster is giving away a hot-off-the-press copy of Shannon and Dean Hale’s graphic novel CALAMITY JACK (with illustrator Nathan Hale). Just mention that title in the comments section of her post and you’re automatically entered to win. She’ll close the comments later this week, so don’t dilly-dally.
Well, there’s the roundup. If there’s anything I’ve missed, feel free to mention it below. And good luck!
In any case, that contest, hosted by agent Mary Kole of Andrea Brown Literary Agency fame, is over on her Kidlit blog. Submit up to the first 500 words of a finished middle grade or young adult manuscript and win as much as a 15-page critique. There are other prizes available, all of them smaller critiques, which still seems like a pretty good deal. Pop on over there and check it out--you have until the end of the month.
Another agent, the always awesome Nathan Bransford, is hosting another contest, this one with a writing prompt. Come up with your best teenage diary entry or unsent letter and enter it in the comments section of the aforementioned post. Winners will receive copies of Jennifer Hubbard's THE SECRET YEAR and critiques from/consultations with the man himself, but be forewarned: About a million people will probably enter this contest, so, er, don't get your hopes up. Oh, and you only have until this Wednesday, so don't delay.
Also, one of Nathan Bransford’s clients, Renaissance woman Natalie Whipple, is hosting an artsy contest. Interpret her vivid elf-and-faerie drawing in 500 words or less and win a Natalie Whipple original. Or a 30-, 20-, or 10-page critique. Or a query and/or synopsis critique. Submissions close this Thursday, so you’d better scoot.
Authoress will also be hosting another Secret Agent contest next week (that’s the first 250 words of a finished manuscript, for the uninitiated). She’ll be taking entries next Monday, and since this month’s secret agent is looking for anything middle grade or young adult, the slots are sure to fill up fast. So, come Monday morning, you should probably be waiting with your mouse poised over the send button. It may be the only way you get in:)
Finally, the magnanimous Myrna Foster is giving away a hot-off-the-press copy of Shannon and Dean Hale’s graphic novel CALAMITY JACK (with illustrator Nathan Hale). Just mention that title in the comments section of her post and you’re automatically entered to win. She’ll close the comments later this week, so don’t dilly-dally.
Well, there’s the roundup. If there’s anything I’ve missed, feel free to mention it below. And good luck!
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Year's Evolution
With the start of a new year, I, like everybody else, have been thinking about goals. I don't like calling them resolutions, because resolutions seem so short-term and easy to ignore. So I'm calling them goals, because I am going to achieve them.
Now I obviously have goals in other areas of my life, but I'm sure you're only interested in my writing ones. And my writing goals are the most interesting, anyway, since I realized not long ago that I've been doing them all wrong.
In the past, my writing goal has always been to publish a book. It's not so bad as far as an ambition goes, I guess, but it's a pretty lousy goal, mostly because I have little control over whether I attain it. So this year I've been trying to come up with something completely within my power to achieve. But that, as it turns out, hasn't been so easy, either.
You've probably heard of Stephen Covey's SMART goals, which are specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-based goals. I'm not a huge fan of the acronym, since it's a little too cutesy for my tastes--and since achievable and realistic mean essentially the same thing--but I appreciate the sentiment. So with those ideas in mind, here's how my writing goal for the year evolved.
My biggest problem, obviously, had to do with achievability: I was trying to attain something that I didn't completely control. So I decided to set a goal this year that focused solely on the writing. My first thought was to make Bob perfect--that is, ready to query--by the end of the year, but I didn't like that idea, either, because as much as I agree that goals should be time-based, I already knew I didn't want to set an arbitrary deadline. I've done that in the past and discovered that my writing only suffers for it. I'm not the sort of person who needs outside motivation to get her work done, so I became more concerned with hitting the deadline than working toward what the deadline was supposed to be helping me achieve: slow, consistent effort that would (eventually) result in a finished, perfect manuscript. So deadlines were out.
But what about that idea of slow, consistent effort? My next thought was to set a weekly number of hours I wanted to spend writing, but I was worried that I'd have a hard time deciding what that number should be. My weeks can be so erratic (and for anyone with a two-year-old or six-month-old, I'm sure you know exactly what I mean), and I didn't want to set myself up for failure. When I voiced this concern to my husband, he suggested that I start with something low, some number that I'm already pretty certain I can do, and then increase it bit by bit until I'm stretching to reach my goal--but still mostly reaching it.
This seemed like a great idea. (Aren't spouses wonderful things?) So here it is, my writing goal for 2010: I will write for at least five hours every week, roughly one hour every weekday, no matter how, no matter what.
Now I know what you're thinking: Five hours every week? That's it? And two years ago, when my two-year-old was six months old and sleeping like a sloth, I would have thought the same thing. But I'm starting low and testing it, and then I'll have to see where it goes. It'll be a grand adventure. And somewhere along the way, I'm hoping to declare Bob complete.
So what are your writing goals for the new year, and how do you plan to achieve them? And if you have any advice for me, I'd love to hear it.
Now I obviously have goals in other areas of my life, but I'm sure you're only interested in my writing ones. And my writing goals are the most interesting, anyway, since I realized not long ago that I've been doing them all wrong.
In the past, my writing goal has always been to publish a book. It's not so bad as far as an ambition goes, I guess, but it's a pretty lousy goal, mostly because I have little control over whether I attain it. So this year I've been trying to come up with something completely within my power to achieve. But that, as it turns out, hasn't been so easy, either.
You've probably heard of Stephen Covey's SMART goals, which are specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-based goals. I'm not a huge fan of the acronym, since it's a little too cutesy for my tastes--and since achievable and realistic mean essentially the same thing--but I appreciate the sentiment. So with those ideas in mind, here's how my writing goal for the year evolved.
My biggest problem, obviously, had to do with achievability: I was trying to attain something that I didn't completely control. So I decided to set a goal this year that focused solely on the writing. My first thought was to make Bob perfect--that is, ready to query--by the end of the year, but I didn't like that idea, either, because as much as I agree that goals should be time-based, I already knew I didn't want to set an arbitrary deadline. I've done that in the past and discovered that my writing only suffers for it. I'm not the sort of person who needs outside motivation to get her work done, so I became more concerned with hitting the deadline than working toward what the deadline was supposed to be helping me achieve: slow, consistent effort that would (eventually) result in a finished, perfect manuscript. So deadlines were out.
But what about that idea of slow, consistent effort? My next thought was to set a weekly number of hours I wanted to spend writing, but I was worried that I'd have a hard time deciding what that number should be. My weeks can be so erratic (and for anyone with a two-year-old or six-month-old, I'm sure you know exactly what I mean), and I didn't want to set myself up for failure. When I voiced this concern to my husband, he suggested that I start with something low, some number that I'm already pretty certain I can do, and then increase it bit by bit until I'm stretching to reach my goal--but still mostly reaching it.
This seemed like a great idea. (Aren't spouses wonderful things?) So here it is, my writing goal for 2010: I will write for at least five hours every week, roughly one hour every weekday, no matter how, no matter what.
Now I know what you're thinking: Five hours every week? That's it? And two years ago, when my two-year-old was six months old and sleeping like a sloth, I would have thought the same thing. But I'm starting low and testing it, and then I'll have to see where it goes. It'll be a grand adventure. And somewhere along the way, I'm hoping to declare Bob complete.
So what are your writing goals for the new year, and how do you plan to achieve them? And if you have any advice for me, I'd love to hear it.