the pieces of my life

I wish you people could see the graveyard of abandoned posts I have in my WordPress drafts folder. It’s a very sad folder, filled with half thoughts, nuggets of ideas, and bits of wisdom I wanted to share, but never finished. They eventually became irrelevant or uninteresting to me or just lost. I think one of my new year’s resolutions should be shorter posts that I can finish writing in a single sitting. Not that that’s relevant to today’s post. I just wanted to mention it as I thought of it.

November has come and gone. November brought a fabulous turkey with even better bourbon-cranberry sauce, the remains of my pneumonia (which had me taking a medicine that I couldn’t take within two hours of calcium, which meant a crazed planning of the timing of my milky coffee, which meant I’d often not be human until close to lunch time), and of course NaNoWriMo.

Nanowrimo is done my friends. And, yes, I am a…

I confess, I had extra motivation this year. About halfway through I started experimenting with the program Scrivener. And I am completely hooked. I don’t even use most of the features, but the ability to easily jump back and forth between chapters and even scenes (as opposed to either keeping the entire novel in a single Word doc or opening forty Word docs and scrolling them individually to find my place) was amazing. But I used it on a trial basis. And had to win NaNoWriMo. Because Scrivener promised 50% off for winners (coupon to come soon!). So that was the motivation.

But happily, I didn’t need too much of a motivational push. Because I’m definitely into my new story. I’m loving my visits to the 1930s (the novel takes place in August of 1935). The research has been fun and it’s a new form of escapism, retreating to a world where my protagonist doesn’t even have a phone, never mind an iPad 2. The novel is a mess, in total disarray. I realized midway that I need to restructure it, but that’s what December is for. I need to step back and look at the arc of the plot and figure out how to play with the tension and form to get it where it needs to be. I actually was quite surprised at how the book turned out. I thought for sure I knew what my main character was going to do–if you recall I had actually plotted this out ahead of time–and she completely surprised me! That’s the best part of writing; when things don’t go at all as planned.

Now onward to December! Time to get my hands dirty ripping this novel apart. It’s not that different from all that purging I’ve been doing. Gotta make a big ol’ mess before everything finds a place!

My lovely hubby just made me the most lovely whiskey sour to put me in the appropriate (non-suicidal) Dorothy Parker state of mind for my Nanowrimoing this evening (she may have written about martinis, but she was a fan of the whiskey sour, which I think is my new drink).

It’s good to be me.

“I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.”
–Dorothy Parker

I’m trying a novel idea with my, uh, novel. When I was writing Continuity, I had pages of notes, Excel spreadsheets trying to keep track of dates and events, and a while when I was sitting with my calculator, playing with, “Wait, if she was born here, then she was how old when he did this, and how old would he have been?” Dates are an important element of Continuity, so it was imperative I kept track, but it was challenging.

For my next novel, which is an historical novel, I’ve created a timeline. I don’t know yet if this will really help, but so far it’s been great because I have lots of room to lay out the back story, real historical events, and pieces of my story. I’m hoping this will help me insure the flow is right, and that I don’t accidentally have events in my story happening out of place with the historical events surrounding them. I’ve been playing with a timeline program called Tiki Toki, and so far it’s been quite easy to use.

This is the first time I’ve had a solid idea of where the novel is going to end. I spent about three years working on Continuity, and I didn’t have the ending for about a year and a half. And then it took that second year and a half to tweak it, perfect it, and get it just where I (or actually the character) wanted it to be (and that’s all before my agent’s revisions and then those rewrites and….).

This month, I plan on using Nanowrimo to get my novel started (National Novel Writing Month: During the month of November, write a 50,000 word novel). I love Nanowrimo. I’ve done it many times in the past. I don’t think anyone can write a novel in a month. Let’s rephrase that. I don’t think anyone can write a solid, well-plotted, well-crafted, interesting novel in a month. But I think that Nanowrimo is fabulous for that initial word dump, for getting past your internal editor and just getting the words down on the page. Starting the novel is the absolute hardest thing to do and Nanowrimo gives you a deadline for doing it. Are you doing Nano? If so, put me down as a writing buddy (my Nano handle is jbrown).

Meanwhile, I’ve got a few thousand words to write today, so I leave you with this thought:

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. –Thomas Mann

Day 12 of Nanowrimo (and yes, I’m totally behind) (the challenge [modified] “And then she said to me, ‘I know Barack Obama is really talented. But don’t you think your expectations are a bit too high? Don’t you think it’s dangerous to put him on a pedestal?’):

Chaim jumped to my defense. “If she doesn’t like the word, don’t use the word! She’s a guest in our community. She doesn’t know our ways”

Lilach quickly agreed. “Yankel, use another word.”

“Fine, fine. But can you imagine…”

I jumped in. “And can you imagine the alternative? That hotheaded, arrogant, socially repressive McCain?” I sawed into the brisket until I realized that there was absolute silence.

“Perhaps we change the subject,” Tzippi said quickly.

“No, no. I’d like to hear this,” Yankel said, a little snidely. “I’d like to understand how this little one could think that a man with Muslim roots, a man who has publicly sided with the Palestinians, could possibly be a better choice than one who has fought America’s wars, who has come out on the side of Israel, who wants to return real values to our country.”

“Bush has done a truly—” I stopped myself quickly, censoring the “fucked up” out my speech as I saw the flash of fear cross Tzippi’s face—“messed up job with this country and this old man is going to change things? If there’s any hope of ending the war, if there’s any hope of getting health care back on track, if there’s any hope at all of the United States being able to hold our head up when we face other nations, then we’ve got to go with Obama.”

“I really don’t see how the Obama devotees can ever in future mock the Moonies, the Scientologists or people who claim to have been abducted in flying saucers. This is a cult like the one which grew up around Princess Diana, bereft of reason and hostile to facts. The man has no experience.”

Tzippi entered in the fray, clearly seeing that things had the potential of spinning out of control. “Don’t you think that, just possibly, your expectations are a bit too high? Don’t you think it’s dangerous to put him on a pedestal?”

“I don’t think I’m putting him on a pedestal. I’m just not pulling McCain out of the gutter.”

“Listen—” Yankel started, clearly getting hotter by the moment, but Lilach jumped up right then.

So, I am to some degree doing Nanowrimo this year. But let me come right out and admit this: I’m cheating. Yep, cheating. I’m a cheater, cheater, cheater. The FAQ clearly states, with no ambiguity:

Do I have to start my novel from scratch on November 1?

Yes.

This sounds like a dumb, arbitrary rule, we know. But bringing a half-finished manuscript into NaNoWriMo all but guarantees a miserable month. You’ll care about the characters and story too much to write with the gleeful, anything-goes approach that makes NaNoWriMo such a creative rush. Give yourself the gift of a clean slate, and you’ll tap into realms of imagination and intuition that are out-of-reach when working on pre-existing manuscripts.

I’m not starting from scratch. Not even close to scratch. The plain truth is I actually liked the novel I started last year, and I’m determined to finish it. I plan on writing 50,000 words–or really the completion–of this novel, however many words that takes. It goes against the rules. They’ll kick me out! They’ll publicly chastise me! They’ll, they’ll, they’ll… Okay, they won’t do a damn thing because it’s all on the honor system and there are no real prizes other than the satisfaction of writing. They don’t give a hoot what I do.

Just wanted to come clean with you guys. But I still need your help. I’ve got one line to work in tomorrow (and, Emily, I will be taking liberties with it, just because the action takes place pre-election), but I still need more props, lines, tidbits, etcetera to work in.

I’m a little behind. But I’ll catch up. That’s just the kind of slapdash, half-assed, writing-without-editing kind of person I am.

Day 9 of Nanowrimo (the challenge: “a french baguette”):

I hid my iPhone under the table, so I could surreptitiously text Gary what was going on. It was rude, I know, but it wasn’t breaking any rules. Luckily, I was very good at the one-handed text. He was having an early breakfast in Paris before his shoot began as I was having a dinner that wouldn’t rate many Michelin stars.
Just served something brown. Could be meat. Might be a basketball. Can’t tell. I texted while smiling across the table.

Gary texted me back immediately. Just served an absolutely delectable French baguette—crispy outside, buttery inside. Spreading on Nutella as I drink the most perfect café au lait I’ve ever experienced. I could practically see the taunting smirk on his face. A moment later he wrote, I’d share it with you if you were here.

I smiled as a blob of what looked like carrot slaw filled with dried out looking raisins was slapped onto my plate. “Can you have slaw with meat?” I whispered to Tzippi. “Isn’t the sauce dairy?”

She shook her head. “Mayonnaise is parve. No dairy in it.”

I texted back, I’d give you all my carrot slaw if you were here.
Tzippi saw me peering under the table cloth. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly.

Whoops, caught. I’ll text later. xxxooo

A bientot, he wrote back.

“Try this,” Tzippi said, watching to make sure I put my phone away. “You’ll love it.” I looked at the blackened noodles of a kugel on my plate and forced a smile. A bacon cheeseburger, I love, I thought, as I smiled widely at Lilach at the end of the table and forced a large bite down my throat.

“Delicious,” I choked out. I didn’t even have any excuses not to eat. One can’t plead lactose intolerance at a meat dinner.

I’m back to Nanowrimo, but, as usual, I’m stuck. Anyone got anything for me? A line, an object, an anything I can work into this thing? Look at that poor word counter in the right hand column. It’s hungry for more words! Feed it!

To Nano or not to Nano, that is the question. And I have just 13 1/2 hours to decide….

I have 2 days, 3 hours, 20 minutes, and 20, no 19, no 18, no 17 seconds left to write 4,553 words, which would be fine if I had even one–just one–child-free moment in daylight hours. I do not. And, in this month of November, I have: written two profiles, one book review, copyedited a 400-page novel, made my holiday cards (which is only a big deal if you’ve seen the holiday cards I make), hosted Thanksgiving, planned a Hanukkah party, completed my holiday shopping, and so far, written 45,447 words. So bite me if you don’t understand while tonight’s blog is paltry. I give you here a little randomness:

• Does Steve ever think, “For God’s sake, Blue, just f’ing tell me what you want instead of making me play stupid games every damn time!”
• I made chili-topped baked potatoes. Adam sat down and said, “I’m really not hungry.” Pie ate six slices of red pepper dipped in dressing. Doodles said, “All I’m having for dinner tonight is milk.” Anyone else out there hungry for chili (homemade!) topped potatoes?
• My daughter is the devil.
• For Thanksgiving dinner Doodles ate one crescent roll, three crackers with peanut butter, and chocolate cake that was shaped like a turkey.
• Overheard statement that I decided to not investigate: Adam, giving the kids a bath: “Doodles, don’t do that. God made your p*enis just the right color.”
• And actual, true argument between my son and a friend that I had to referee tocoday: “Jenny? Doodles just said that my bathroom at home doesn’t have a bathtub, but it does!”
• Thanksgiving was nice, but things didn’t really heat up till Pie, Doodles, and I found the Styx concert on PBS. Even though Doodles ordered me, “Don’t sing!” I could help but hum along. Man, Paradise Theater is all an album should be!

Oh, damn! 2 days, 3 hours, 1 minute, and 14… no 13… no 12… no 11…
Gotta write!

Day 24 of Nanowrimo (challenge: use “”After so many of years of trying to NOT get pregnant who knew it would be so hard to GET pregnant?! Who knew that there are really only about 48 hours of each month in which most of us can get pregnant? Why didn’t they teach us about our fertility limitations during health class? I feel like you’re in a club in which I long to belong — the mommy club”):

“I have a brother.” I sat back down and took a sip of my martini. Not bad. Not the best I’d ever had—just a splash too much of vermouth for that—but good enough. “I have a brother. An older brother.”

“Older brother?” My mom looked genuinely confused. “I never figured for that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

My mom smiled guiltily. “Well, I guess I used to fantasize a little about your birth mom.”

“You did?” I asked, rather shocked.

“Yes.” My mom laughed just a little. “I pictured her as a very young woman—pregnant with you as a teenager. She’d find us one day and look at what a wonderful young woman you’ve become—”

“Not so young any more,” I interrupted.

“These fantasies happened a long time ago,” my mother teased. ”But she’d look at you in awe and tell me that she did the right thing in giving you up, that she was happy I raised you.”

“This is eye opening,” I said.

“What can I say?” My mom sipped at her wine. “I think there was some guilt in your adoption. It happened so fast, and I knew nothing about the birth parents. I always felt a little like it was too good to be true, like I was stealing you away. I always wanted reassurance that I was indeed the better parent for you.”

“Mom—” I started, but she stopped me.

“No, no. I’m not looking to you for reassurances. Those days were such a blur and so devastating. I spent all those years—so many of them!—trying not to get pregnant. Who knew it would then be so hard to get pregnant? The things your father and I did—”

“Um, do I really want to know?”

She shrugged. “You’re thirty-two years old. Surely you know by now your father and I have sex.”

“Had sex. Exactly twice. Once when you didn’t get pregnant with me and once when you did get pregnant with Jocelyn.”

“Alisa, I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you here.”

“I know. And I know I’m a grown-up. But the idea of you and Dad having sex is still a vastly unappealing one. But go on. I can take it.”

“I tried acupuncture and herbs—which weren’t very easy to come by in the 70s—I measured my temperature and check for discharge. Did you know that there are really only forty-eight hours in the month when you can get pregnant? They didn’t teach me that in my high school health class. I remember when your aunt, Della, got pregnant. She was three years younger than me and she and your uncle Seth had only been married for three months. They hadn’t even been trying! When Jason was born, I felt like there was some secret mommy club and Della got to be a member but I was being blackballed. I wanted in so badly.”

I took my mom’s hand from across the table and gently rubbed it with my thumb. “I know,” I said softly.

“So when the opportunity to adopt you came up, I jumped at it. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t want to wonder why it was all happening so quickly. I just wanted to be a mother. Later, I started to imagine things. Why did she give you up? Did she miss you? Who was she? I guess, I’m just telling you that I fantasized about your birth mother, too, I had pictured her in my mind. Another child never entered the picture. So, what’s this big brother of yours like?”