
Today’s guest blogger is a very special woman. She’s rip-roaringly funny (though she’ll tell you she’s not…don’t believe her) and she’s a super talented author. A few years ago, she was a finalist in Dorchester’s American Title contest and as a result, had her first book, the historical TRUE PRETENSES published.
Since then, Karen has struggled to find where she fits into the publishing arena. She’s a writer that I look to for inspiration because she’s so dedicated to her dream. I’m really excited to have her here at Plotmonkeys…with a message that is straight from the heart….but is guaranteed to get your butt in your chair with your fingers on the keyboard!
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I’ve always loved to write. After I grew up and got my very own place, I’d come home from work and spend evenings and weekends writing novels on my portable typewriter. People sneered that I didn’t have a life, ostensibly because it didn’t mirror theirs. My life with the characters I created was my own, and I loved it.
Except for the keys, the typewriter had none of the features of today’s computers. I didn’t have to go out and buy a whole new keyboard every time—make that every day—I slopped coffee on it. No goofing around with different fonts, because there was only one. No changing characters’ names every week. (’Fess up: How many of you have used “Find and Replace” to give your villain the same name—if only temporarily—as your boss-from-hell, or your two-timing ex, or even that snotty girl with the oil-free hair, oil-free complexion, and fully formed bazoombas, who taunted you for being her opposite back in seventh grade?)
With the typewriter, I had nothing between me and the blank page except the wheels of my imagination. No editing or cutting and pasting as I went, and—perhaps best of all—no crashing hard drives resulting in the loss of all my work because I was too lazy to back it up. (’Fess up: Can any of you come up with a better any other reason for not backing up your work?)
I didn’t have to worry about a thing except writing the book, even if most of it was dreck. But I loved it.
As the years went by, and the manuscripts (and rejection letters) stacked up, I got married, became a stay-at-home mom, and let my husband persuade me that the computer made life much easier than my corroded, beat up, faithful old typewriter. He was right. But with the daily demands of raising three autistic children and tracking down my husband’s misplaced keys, it became increasingly harder to get my tush in the chair every day to write, until it dropped to the very bottom of my list of things important to me (the writing, not my backside).
Oh, I tried all the old tricks to get back into the groove. Like carrying a spiral notebook in my purse, or as I like to call it, “The Black Hole.” Enough said.
Or re-reading what I’d written so far to put myself “in the mood” to write new stuff. That’s where my Word program ceased to be the angel on my shoulder, offering sound advice to help make my book the best it could be. Instead it morphed into “Word Devil”, who lured me astray into a dark, vicious cycle of perpetual self-editing, till I polished and sanded all the life out of the three chapters I’d managed to write—and in so doing, sucked the joy out of writing altogether.
My favorite trick was rewarding myself with a chocolate for every page I wrote. This worked so well that soon I was too busy writing pages to stop and eat the chocolates I’d earned. Then my husband offered me a chocolate for each bathroom tile I chiseled free of soap scum, followed by a chocolate for every picket of fence I whitewashed. Before I knew it, I was back to landscaping, car detailing, and some light roofing, while he took over the computer to play “Beast Slayer IV: Conquest of the Nine Galactic Kingdoms of Lasotania.” I’m too embarrassed to admit how many months went by before I realized he’d stopped tossing chocolates my way.
Then he gave me a laptop for Christmas, a sure sign he still believed in what I’d always loved to do—or maybe he was just tired of having to share the desktop. Yet by then, my writing kavorka was so bad, I couldn’t even get started on a new book.
Julie (the only fellow writer I know diabolical enough to do this) played on my worst fears to get my rear in gear: She told me if I didn’t write three chapters and a synopsis by a date less than a month hence, I would have to apply for a job with a certain well known major retailer, whose career opportunities my husband is notorious for half-jokingly suggesting to me.
That worked, as did a surprise reward from fellow writer Phyllis, aka “The Good Cop who doesn’t have an uncle named Guido.”
But then I stumbled to a halt again, not knowing where to go from there, especially with a synopsis that was a less effective sales tool than my weekly grocery list.
That’s when Cheryl, a participant on our chapter’s Book Challenge loop (members write a book in a year for the chance to win a prize at year’s end), came up with an idea she got from another loop: Write 100 words every day, for 100 days.
What I’ve written here, up to this sentence, is a little over 800 words. Surely I could do an eighth of this each day?
It seemed like a simple enough challenge, so I started doing it—and I easily topped 100 words every day. Before long, my two most endearing traits—greed and competitiveness—kicked in with a vengeance, and I woke up each morning wanting to write more than I’d written the day before, just to see if I could break a new record.
Suddenly, my writing was once again a priority. Just as I needed that cup of coffee first thing each morning, I needed to write every day. I found myself using it to fill in little gaps during the day. When there were 20 minutes remaining before the 5 o’clock newscast, I used that time to knock out 300 words.
I became such a fiend about producing words each day, I stopped worrying about all the little things that had been bogging me down—little things the Word Devil had whispered and at times even yelled in my ear. I plucked him off my shoulder, stuffed him screaming into The Black Hole never to be seen again, and just wrote. Granted, most of what I wrote was superfluous rubbish that seemed to serve no purpose other than to inflate the daily word count, but I also knew I could always go back and fix it later. The important thing was I was writing, getting the words down, and filling that blank page—because there was nothing else to do with it.
It was like being back on my old typewriter again, with nothing between me and those long empty stretches of white space . . . except the freshly greased wheels of my wildly spinning imagination.
On Day 1 of those 100 days, I wrote 549 words. My lowest daily count was 226; my highest 3,218 on the day I finally typed THE END—not on Day 100, but Day 75. The total word count of the book was about 20,000 words over what it should’ve been.
That hadn’t happened since I wrote those early manuscripts now holding up my bed. Now I want to do the challenge again—just as soon as I go back and fix the aforementioned rubbish.
Try it yourself. A hundred words is really nothing, and can take less than a quarter of an hour. Don’t worry if it’s rubbish. Thanks to the computer, you can always fix it later, and it’ll be easier than if you had that typewriter. Make your internal editor—the Word Angel—cool her wings until the book is done. Cast the Word Devil out of the details. His ultimate aim is to take you away from your writing and make you waste time on something less fulfilling and more futile—like housework.
Still stumped? Try picking a “word for the day.” Nothing common or outlandish, but challenging enough to make you think of how to use it in your story. An example is “slug.” It can be in any form—a noun (garden slug, slugs from a shotgun) or a verb. (Out of ammo, she slugged him with the butt of her shotgun.) Write at least 100 words, and make sure “slug” is one of them. Then pick another word—like “bubbles”—and rinse and repeat. See where this exercise takes your story. Like me, you may find yourself writing more than you intended—and that’s worth a lot of chocolate!
All you need is that blank page and the power of your imagination—that same power you’ve always had, that made you fall in love with writing in the first place.
And with that, there’s only one thing to do.
Just write.
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