Tuesday, February 28
59,000 and counting
So it's a stupid way to measure a novel, but I passed through the 58,000 and 59,000 word counts tonight in my two hours at the Greeley library. So, while stupid, it's sometimes all we've got to measure progress. So I'll take. And with another hour late last night, and the two tonight, I'm at 42 hours of work on this novel so far this year. Which I figure is enough to stop working and go watch the season premiere of the Amazing Race. Which is what I'm going to do.
Monday, February 27
Two more hours
I was able to put in two more hours on the novel yesterday while camped out at Cheyenne's Public Library. I started reading/editing from the top and got about 28 pages into it before time ran out.
Meanwhile, at the start of the year, I made a "resolution" to write 20 hours per month; in January I had 25 hours. So far in February, I'm at 14 hours. With two days -- well, nights now -- left to go in the month, that leaves three hours a day to hit the goal. I'm going to pretend it's NaNoNovember and give it a shot (knowing that if I get one more hour, I'll be able to say I "averaged" 20 hours in the first two months, which is cheating I know but so what). But before I do, I'm off to downtown to listen to my son play in an all-league honors band concert. So I'll be getting a late start tonight. I'll keep you posted.
Meanwhile, at the start of the year, I made a "resolution" to write 20 hours per month; in January I had 25 hours. So far in February, I'm at 14 hours. With two days -- well, nights now -- left to go in the month, that leaves three hours a day to hit the goal. I'm going to pretend it's NaNoNovember and give it a shot (knowing that if I get one more hour, I'll be able to say I "averaged" 20 hours in the first two months, which is cheating I know but so what). But before I do, I'm off to downtown to listen to my son play in an all-league honors band concert. So I'll be getting a late start tonight. I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, February 23
Transcript 1
The transcript of a conversation that happened earlier today.
Me: What are you doing?
Myself: No much.
Me: I know.
Myself: So? What's it to you.
Me: We've got things to do.
Myself: Like what?
Me: Duh -- writing the great American novel.
Myself: That's so last century.
Me: No it's not.
Myself: Yes it is. Besides, we've already done that. Seven freaking times already -- well, OK, maybe two of them are truly worthy and brilliant, but still: what do we have to show for it? Nothing.
Me: That's exactly my point.
Myself: About what?
Me: About everything. Get with it.
Myself: With what?
Me: With everything. You know we tend to review our life three times each year: September, when the kids go back to school and is, contrary to the natural world, a time of beginnings, school, TV seasons, new cars and so on; December, right before the solstice or New Year's since the calendar says start over, and now, of course, birthday time.
Myself: Oh yeah. That's right. Birthday time. Another year has passed and we do tend to review, don't we. Well, you do.
Me: Yes, we do. Have you? Our birthday is coming up, y'know. Just a few more days.
Myself: I know, and no, I haven't given it much thought, not so much, no.
Me: I have.
Myself: You have? Of course you have.
Me: Sure. I always do it.
Myself: Well, that's true enough. You are the one who cares more about those sorts of things.
Me: 'Those sorts of things'?!? Wake up man, this is our life, this is our existence we're talking about. It's not 'those sorts of things.' It's everything. It's why we exist. It's the centerpiece of our life, or it should be--
Myself: Now, we've been over this before…
I: Hey dudes, what's up?
Myself: We're ranting about lack of writing progress again, methinks.
I: We are?
Myself: Well, he is.
Me: Someone has to. And why aren't you guys more worked up about this problem, that's what I want to know.
I: What problem?
Me: See!
Myself: I'm not sure yet, actually. I'm just guessing. The usual stuff from him.
Me: Well, you're right. I am ranting about our lack of progress. Because every time, it's the same thing: what have we done lately? Nothing. Have we published? No. Have we contracted with an agent? No. Have we even tried to find an agent? No. Have we finished a novel to our satisfaction? No. Can we just focus on one project at a time? No.
Myself: We'll, we're busy. And it's not like were miserable or anything. Life goes on. Life is good. The weather is warming up, spring is in the air and all that. And you've got pretty high standards when you ask if we've finished to our 'satisfaction,' Mister It Has To Be Perfect And Perfect Is Impossible To Achieve.
I: I've been working out.
Myself: Yes, you have, and you're looking good.
I: I could use a haircut, though.
Myself: It's been awhile, yeah.
I: Last summer, I think. Maybe September? Early October. Looks like crap now.
Me: Hey! Can we focus here? I hate to be a jerk, but c'mon. We're not happy with our career, right? We agree on this? We're not happy with our career options, our prospects, our opportunities of more of the same, right? We have dreams. We have ambitions. We have long-term mental health to consider, right? We know what we have to do, we've listed it a dozen times, some right here. We're a fiction writer. We must write fiction. It's what we do. We must publish fiction. So c'mon. Let's focus. We've got to focus, guys, and nail this down. And not just another plan, not another six-month outline, or a list of deliverables or a visioneering session or tasks, but actual action. Real work this time, OK? We've go to find a way to do it. We need a method, we need a way, we need a process to make it what we do, to make it a routine part of everyday life and let everything else fall in behind our writing time. Right?
I: You're saying I can't walk the dogs at dusk? See the mountains color purple at night and the stars come out?
Me: No.
I: Or go to the gym? Run?
Myself: Sounds like it.
Me: No, I'm not saying that.
Myself: What about TV? Movies? Novels? Magazines? The Web?
Me: Well that's an obvious spot worth reviewing. TV particularly.
Myself: How about the guitar? Blogging. The kids. Scrabble. Dog shows. Deck-building? Studio-finishing? Lawn-replacement-therapy? What about following bicycle racing; the Euro season is coming y'know, and the big guns are in California right now. I was thinking of building a fantasy cycling team this season. What about dreaming of travel? Looking for jobs?
Me: This is what I'm talking about, exactly. All these distractions.
Myself: Friends?
Me: Friends? Almost all of our friends are virtual, dude, e-mail boxes in California and Texas and Illinois and Florida and Washington and Arizona and Utah and Chicago.
Myself: Not all of 'em.
Me: Most of 'em. Besides, we're anti-social, remember? It's what's going to make us a great writer, the willingness -- nay, eagerness -- to sit alone in a room and type.
I: Make us? Future tense? Don't get negative, now, dude, we already are a great writer.
Me: Well, you're the only one who thinks so. My point is we have to make an effort to prove it to everyone else. Anyone else. Someone else, even. Just one person, even, the right agent, perhaps, for example.
Myself: So, what's your big idea?
Me: Who, me?
I: Yeah, you. What's are we going to do?
Me: Well, I don't have one. But that's what I wanted to talk about. I want to schedule a meeting so we can figure out how we're going to make this happen this year. We're not getting any younger, y'know.
Myself: Well, right now's not good. The Olympics are on, dude, and ESPN 2 has California Tour race highlights later, and American Idol is voting four people off tonight and we taped Lost from last night. Two more Netflix arrived today.
I: And I really should get over to the gym for awhile tonight, do some cardio, work the abs.
Myself: The dogs need walking.
I: I could get a hair cut, too, if I didn't have that stupid irrational hair-cutter-pseudophobia.
Myself: C needs help with the props for the movie we're filming this weekend.
I: I’m thinking or reinventing myself, my style. Adapting one, for example. Suits. Glasses maybe. A decent haircut.
Myself: R won't raise herself. I like spending time with K, too.
I: The laptop needs some work, too. And I keep meaning to add the new Yellowcard and Death Cab For Cutie CDs to my iPod. And the Andrew Bird. Oh, and those old Clash albums.
Myself: Laundry. The dishes. The garage is a mess.
I: And I've got those songs lyrics I've been working on.
Myself: I owe Krell a letter. Haven't really heard from Champ in a while either. Or Mel Bay Jr. I should write them, get back in touch. Olsen too. Schedule another lunch with Jared to make sure we're both still on track.
I: The family research is just sitting there from last summer, too. It needs to be organized, cataloged, written up, coordinated, all that. Shared.
Myself: There's all this online stuff I keep meaning to show Hagerty, but it's so hard when we can't e-mail in real time.
I: And we've still got print those short stories and novel chapters for Krell and Jeff and your brother.
Myself. Yeah. We should do that.
I: Yeah. We should.
Me: Sheesh. All we need is an hour a day, super early, late at night, sometime. Ninety minutes tops. Oh, never mind. Just forget it. I'm gonna go work on the novel tonight.
Me: What are you doing?
Myself: No much.
Me: I know.
Myself: So? What's it to you.
Me: We've got things to do.
Myself: Like what?
Me: Duh -- writing the great American novel.
Myself: That's so last century.
Me: No it's not.
Myself: Yes it is. Besides, we've already done that. Seven freaking times already -- well, OK, maybe two of them are truly worthy and brilliant, but still: what do we have to show for it? Nothing.
Me: That's exactly my point.
Myself: About what?
Me: About everything. Get with it.
Myself: With what?
Me: With everything. You know we tend to review our life three times each year: September, when the kids go back to school and is, contrary to the natural world, a time of beginnings, school, TV seasons, new cars and so on; December, right before the solstice or New Year's since the calendar says start over, and now, of course, birthday time.
Myself: Oh yeah. That's right. Birthday time. Another year has passed and we do tend to review, don't we. Well, you do.
Me: Yes, we do. Have you? Our birthday is coming up, y'know. Just a few more days.
Myself: I know, and no, I haven't given it much thought, not so much, no.
Me: I have.
Myself: You have? Of course you have.
Me: Sure. I always do it.
Myself: Well, that's true enough. You are the one who cares more about those sorts of things.
Me: 'Those sorts of things'?!? Wake up man, this is our life, this is our existence we're talking about. It's not 'those sorts of things.' It's everything. It's why we exist. It's the centerpiece of our life, or it should be--
Myself: Now, we've been over this before…
I: Hey dudes, what's up?
Myself: We're ranting about lack of writing progress again, methinks.
I: We are?
Myself: Well, he is.
Me: Someone has to. And why aren't you guys more worked up about this problem, that's what I want to know.
I: What problem?
Me: See!
Myself: I'm not sure yet, actually. I'm just guessing. The usual stuff from him.
Me: Well, you're right. I am ranting about our lack of progress. Because every time, it's the same thing: what have we done lately? Nothing. Have we published? No. Have we contracted with an agent? No. Have we even tried to find an agent? No. Have we finished a novel to our satisfaction? No. Can we just focus on one project at a time? No.
Myself: We'll, we're busy. And it's not like were miserable or anything. Life goes on. Life is good. The weather is warming up, spring is in the air and all that. And you've got pretty high standards when you ask if we've finished to our 'satisfaction,' Mister It Has To Be Perfect And Perfect Is Impossible To Achieve.
I: I've been working out.
Myself: Yes, you have, and you're looking good.
I: I could use a haircut, though.
Myself: It's been awhile, yeah.
I: Last summer, I think. Maybe September? Early October. Looks like crap now.
Me: Hey! Can we focus here? I hate to be a jerk, but c'mon. We're not happy with our career, right? We agree on this? We're not happy with our career options, our prospects, our opportunities of more of the same, right? We have dreams. We have ambitions. We have long-term mental health to consider, right? We know what we have to do, we've listed it a dozen times, some right here. We're a fiction writer. We must write fiction. It's what we do. We must publish fiction. So c'mon. Let's focus. We've got to focus, guys, and nail this down. And not just another plan, not another six-month outline, or a list of deliverables or a visioneering session or tasks, but actual action. Real work this time, OK? We've go to find a way to do it. We need a method, we need a way, we need a process to make it what we do, to make it a routine part of everyday life and let everything else fall in behind our writing time. Right?
I: You're saying I can't walk the dogs at dusk? See the mountains color purple at night and the stars come out?
Me: No.
I: Or go to the gym? Run?
Myself: Sounds like it.
Me: No, I'm not saying that.
Myself: What about TV? Movies? Novels? Magazines? The Web?
Me: Well that's an obvious spot worth reviewing. TV particularly.
Myself: How about the guitar? Blogging. The kids. Scrabble. Dog shows. Deck-building? Studio-finishing? Lawn-replacement-therapy? What about following bicycle racing; the Euro season is coming y'know, and the big guns are in California right now. I was thinking of building a fantasy cycling team this season. What about dreaming of travel? Looking for jobs?
Me: This is what I'm talking about, exactly. All these distractions.
Myself: Friends?
Me: Friends? Almost all of our friends are virtual, dude, e-mail boxes in California and Texas and Illinois and Florida and Washington and Arizona and Utah and Chicago.
Myself: Not all of 'em.
Me: Most of 'em. Besides, we're anti-social, remember? It's what's going to make us a great writer, the willingness -- nay, eagerness -- to sit alone in a room and type.
I: Make us? Future tense? Don't get negative, now, dude, we already are a great writer.
Me: Well, you're the only one who thinks so. My point is we have to make an effort to prove it to everyone else. Anyone else. Someone else, even. Just one person, even, the right agent, perhaps, for example.
Myself: So, what's your big idea?
Me: Who, me?
I: Yeah, you. What's are we going to do?
Me: Well, I don't have one. But that's what I wanted to talk about. I want to schedule a meeting so we can figure out how we're going to make this happen this year. We're not getting any younger, y'know.
Myself: Well, right now's not good. The Olympics are on, dude, and ESPN 2 has California Tour race highlights later, and American Idol is voting four people off tonight and we taped Lost from last night. Two more Netflix arrived today.
I: And I really should get over to the gym for awhile tonight, do some cardio, work the abs.
Myself: The dogs need walking.
I: I could get a hair cut, too, if I didn't have that stupid irrational hair-cutter-pseudophobia.
Myself: C needs help with the props for the movie we're filming this weekend.
I: I’m thinking or reinventing myself, my style. Adapting one, for example. Suits. Glasses maybe. A decent haircut.
Myself: R won't raise herself. I like spending time with K, too.
I: The laptop needs some work, too. And I keep meaning to add the new Yellowcard and Death Cab For Cutie CDs to my iPod. And the Andrew Bird. Oh, and those old Clash albums.
Myself: Laundry. The dishes. The garage is a mess.
I: And I've got those songs lyrics I've been working on.
Myself: I owe Krell a letter. Haven't really heard from Champ in a while either. Or Mel Bay Jr. I should write them, get back in touch. Olsen too. Schedule another lunch with Jared to make sure we're both still on track.
I: The family research is just sitting there from last summer, too. It needs to be organized, cataloged, written up, coordinated, all that. Shared.
Myself: There's all this online stuff I keep meaning to show Hagerty, but it's so hard when we can't e-mail in real time.
I: And we've still got print those short stories and novel chapters for Krell and Jeff and your brother.
Myself. Yeah. We should do that.
I: Yeah. We should.
Me: Sheesh. All we need is an hour a day, super early, late at night, sometime. Ninety minutes tops. Oh, never mind. Just forget it. I'm gonna go work on the novel tonight.
Tuesday, February 21
Observations: three
Observation one: there are few things sadder than having an hour to write, a caramel mocha and a dead laptop battery. (OK, there are thousands of things sadder, but none were obvious to me an hour ago.
Observation two: After a week of fighting a lingering head cold and frigid outdoor temperatures, I'm feeling better. I wanted to write tonight. Really. I did. See above.
Observation three: Instead of writing, I picked up some Borders three-for-two books (Anne Tyler, Jeffrey Eugenides and Dave Eggers' '05 Best Nonrequired Reading plus a James Blunt CD) then, when the coffee was gone, wandered over to Office Depot and picked up a jump drive so I can finally easily print stuff off my laptop (copies now coming, guys), five blue report covers to bind my novels when I print them off and business card paper so we can spread the word about Westley's blog.
Observation two: After a week of fighting a lingering head cold and frigid outdoor temperatures, I'm feeling better. I wanted to write tonight. Really. I did. See above.
Observation three: Instead of writing, I picked up some Borders three-for-two books (Anne Tyler, Jeffrey Eugenides and Dave Eggers' '05 Best Nonrequired Reading plus a James Blunt CD) then, when the coffee was gone, wandered over to Office Depot and picked up a jump drive so I can finally easily print stuff off my laptop (copies now coming, guys), five blue report covers to bind my novels when I print them off and business card paper so we can spread the word about Westley's blog.
Friday, February 17
Not just cold
But freaking cold. The edge of nowhere is even more forsaken when it's -11 F degrees, which it is right now. The high today: 1. Yeeesh.
Wednesday, February 15
Vonnegut
Saturday, February 11
3,500 words
I had the chance to work for a bit over two and a half hours tonight and was able to add about 3,500 words to the middle of the Les Dempsey Tries Again novel while sitting under a watercolor of blue and green lilies at Margie's Java Joint.
I also finished reading Company by Max Barry. When I bought it a week or so ago I told K only half jokingly that I wanted "to check out the competition." Barry's third novel, like his second, is set in large part in the modern corporation, which due to my day job is something that frequently pops up in the background of my novels. Company, like his earlier Jennifer Government, was entertaining, had a clever premise but is also flawed. It's the perfect sort of book for me to read because it's good enough to get published, it covers the same types of topics I'm interested in writing about, and I finish them thinking, well, that's pretty good, but I can do that. So there you go. And tonight I got 3,500 words and two and a half hours closer to doing so.
I also finished reading Company by Max Barry. When I bought it a week or so ago I told K only half jokingly that I wanted "to check out the competition." Barry's third novel, like his second, is set in large part in the modern corporation, which due to my day job is something that frequently pops up in the background of my novels. Company, like his earlier Jennifer Government, was entertaining, had a clever premise but is also flawed. It's the perfect sort of book for me to read because it's good enough to get published, it covers the same types of topics I'm interested in writing about, and I finish them thinking, well, that's pretty good, but I can do that. So there you go. And tonight I got 3,500 words and two and a half hours closer to doing so.
Why?
"Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do and try." - Saying, adjusted
"Do or do not -- there is no try." -Yoda
"Do or do not -- there is no try." -Yoda
Thursday, February 9
Friends in same places
So I had lunch with my novelist pal Jared yesterday, and we were both moping and groaning about our lack of effort on our novels. Well, mostly he was moping and and groaning about it because he's noticed I'm moving forward, but I was certainly commisserating with him, because I know exactly what he was talking about.
It was just about a year ago that I read and edited his novel Wrath, and it was about 10 months ago that he and I met with agents and sat in on seminars at a writer's conference in Colorado Springs. He told me he still hasn't finished making some of the corrections and typos I caught when I proofed it for him. Still, at least he's further than I am, since he let me read his novel and give him an edit. I've still yet to return 'the favor' and let/make him read mine.
So, I told him how I set a goal of writing 20 hours a month through May, about 15 hours a monthy over the summer and then back up to 40 hours by next November. And I told him I clocked 24 hours in January, and I had 7 hours so far in February. So by the end of the conversation, he came around to deciding to set what sounds like an easy goal of 30 minutes a day, or about 3 hours a week, to work on his books. I'm going to hold him to it, primarily because it means I have to keep ahead of him.
I wonder if this is how them big city New York literary types do it.
It was just about a year ago that I read and edited his novel Wrath, and it was about 10 months ago that he and I met with agents and sat in on seminars at a writer's conference in Colorado Springs. He told me he still hasn't finished making some of the corrections and typos I caught when I proofed it for him. Still, at least he's further than I am, since he let me read his novel and give him an edit. I've still yet to return 'the favor' and let/make him read mine.
So, I told him how I set a goal of writing 20 hours a month through May, about 15 hours a monthy over the summer and then back up to 40 hours by next November. And I told him I clocked 24 hours in January, and I had 7 hours so far in February. So by the end of the conversation, he came around to deciding to set what sounds like an easy goal of 30 minutes a day, or about 3 hours a week, to work on his books. I'm going to hold him to it, primarily because it means I have to keep ahead of him.
I wonder if this is how them big city New York literary types do it.
Dedication
It's hard to be dedicated, I suppose. You'd think it would be easy. You'd think it would be easy to do the things you like to do, but it's suprisingly hard, I think. If you like doing it, what's stopping you from doing it all the time, or at least as often as you can? Life. Responsibility. Commitments. Television. Those sorts of things.
Why is that?
I bring it up because, obviously, as this blog is about my so-called writing career, I like to write. It's what I should be doing all the time, physical stamina permitting, food-and-shelter permitting, parenting-permitting. I like to write fiction. I want to write fiction. I need to write fiction. I hope to get paid to write fiction, or more accurately, I hope to make money from writing fiction. I like writing fiction. I think I'm good at it, at least I'm good at the process of writing fiction. And yet. It's hard to be dedicated enough to do the thing I like to be doing even for just 45 minutes or an hour every day.
It should be done. It should be a matter of will power, if nothing else. Self discipline. Dedication.
And yet...
Why is that?
Why is that?
I bring it up because, obviously, as this blog is about my so-called writing career, I like to write. It's what I should be doing all the time, physical stamina permitting, food-and-shelter permitting, parenting-permitting. I like to write fiction. I want to write fiction. I need to write fiction. I hope to get paid to write fiction, or more accurately, I hope to make money from writing fiction. I like writing fiction. I think I'm good at it, at least I'm good at the process of writing fiction. And yet. It's hard to be dedicated enough to do the thing I like to be doing even for just 45 minutes or an hour every day.
It should be done. It should be a matter of will power, if nothing else. Self discipline. Dedication.
And yet...
Why is that?
Tuesday, February 7
Friends and relatives
So my friend Shaw checked in today with an e-mail asking we redirect his link over there on the right to his new blog, which we've done. Shaw and I grew up together playing Whiffleball, riding skateboards, inventing sports games on paper and carpets andbackyards. He's the only friend from the old hillside neighborhood I'm still in touch with. How far do we go back? On the Bicentennial I gave him a massive headache when we were wrestling and I accidentally slammed him into the brick wall of his parents entryway. That was nearly 30 years ago. Whoops. We pioneered Frisbee golf, card football and Fantasy football in the 1970s. After college, we lived in the same apartment building and worked on scripts for a TV show, actually completing a pilot episode script (Max?) we never did anything with and working on a movie length script, too. His dream is to write screenplays, and he has some funny, clever ideas. Check out his blog. "Patience comes to those who wait?" that's his.
My newest friend Jeff is playing a gig in about 10 days, so if you're anywhere near Bloomington, Ill., check it out on Feb. 18 and give us a full report. He and I are in a creative dual in '06: he's finishing one song a month, and I'm supposedly finishing one short story a month. The current score: 100 Year Picnic 1, Edge of Nowhere 0. (I've finished a couple of stories, I just haven't mailed them to him to prove it yet....)
My relatives, meanwhile, Paul and Nick, have been annoyingly silent on their blogs. No links for them.
My newest friend Jeff is playing a gig in about 10 days, so if you're anywhere near Bloomington, Ill., check it out on Feb. 18 and give us a full report. He and I are in a creative dual in '06: he's finishing one song a month, and I'm supposedly finishing one short story a month. The current score: 100 Year Picnic 1, Edge of Nowhere 0. (I've finished a couple of stories, I just haven't mailed them to him to prove it yet....)
My relatives, meanwhile, Paul and Nick, have been annoyingly silent on their blogs. No links for them.
Monday, February 6
George Brett says
So, I saw Hall of Famer George Brett speak on Saturday morning at a Friends of Baseball fundraiser. I also had a post up here most of Saturday and Sunday, but then I somehow deleted it yesterday when I put next post below. Technology is my friend. Anyway, then I couldn't remember what the post said. Go figure. But I just did, while I was out running in the dark with Westley, two miles under the beautiful edge-of-nowhere starscape. What George said about baseball I thought applied to my writing career. They are:
1) Don't think. He said the best baseball players and other athletes are those who don't think on the field or court. He said the more you practice, the more you play, the less you have to think. And the less you have to think, the better off you'll be. He won three batting titles, cheated with pine tar and made the Hall of Fame with one of the highest yes vote in history (98%, fourth highest to be exact). The point applies to me, too: The more I write, the more practice I get, the more natural it becomes and the better off I'll be. So: don't think.
2) Expect to win. He told a story about how when he came up the Royals weren't that great, and they took the field hoping to win. Then, when they started winning and their confidence grew, they took the field expecting to win. And of course, they were perennial winners for the next decade. So, this applies to me too, as I'm am a notorious hoper: I hope to get my book published, I hope to find an agent, I hope to finish a novel, blah blah blah. So, if I listen to George, and I should, then I should expect to finish my novels, I should expect to find an agent, and I should expect to get it published.
1) Don't think. He said the best baseball players and other athletes are those who don't think on the field or court. He said the more you practice, the more you play, the less you have to think. And the less you have to think, the better off you'll be. He won three batting titles, cheated with pine tar and made the Hall of Fame with one of the highest yes vote in history (98%, fourth highest to be exact). The point applies to me, too: The more I write, the more practice I get, the more natural it becomes and the better off I'll be. So: don't think.
2) Expect to win. He told a story about how when he came up the Royals weren't that great, and they took the field hoping to win. Then, when they started winning and their confidence grew, they took the field expecting to win. And of course, they were perennial winners for the next decade. So, this applies to me too, as I'm am a notorious hoper: I hope to get my book published, I hope to find an agent, I hope to finish a novel, blah blah blah. So, if I listen to George, and I should, then I should expect to finish my novels, I should expect to find an agent, and I should expect to get it published.
Sunday, February 5
Progress report
So a good weekend of writing effort is ending... I worked for about 2 1/2 hours on Friday night at Margie's Java Joint while Connor practiced with his band. I thought it would be dead but there was an art opening going on for the first two hours I was there with a large lively crowd milling about enjoying the watercolors, drinking the wine and enjoying the guy with guitar. I remained focused and found a big problem in the middle of the novel.
Then Saturday, while Connor had his drum lesson, I sat at Borders Cafe and figured out the big problem, cutting and pasting and like a sculpture removing a bunch of excess.
Then today, I spent more than 3 1/2 hours at the Cheyenne Public Library while the kids were in class up there and finished fixing the problem in the middle and writing a couple thousand words to move the story in a good direction (if the author can be trusted to have a valid opinion on his own work).
Anyway -- just wanted to bring y'all up to speed. I've got 103 pages of single spaced 12 points Times Roman type in the service of a novel. Progress!
Then Saturday, while Connor had his drum lesson, I sat at Borders Cafe and figured out the big problem, cutting and pasting and like a sculpture removing a bunch of excess.
Then today, I spent more than 3 1/2 hours at the Cheyenne Public Library while the kids were in class up there and finished fixing the problem in the middle and writing a couple thousand words to move the story in a good direction (if the author can be trusted to have a valid opinion on his own work).
Anyway -- just wanted to bring y'all up to speed. I've got 103 pages of single spaced 12 points Times Roman type in the service of a novel. Progress!
