Happy Halloween Hormones

As you know, my other ongoing saga (besides writer's schlock) is the peri-menopause roller coaster. This does not help me with the challenges of writing and so, today, on Take a Witch to Work Day, I'd like to pause from the serious business of character development, in order to pay homage to the cast of characters currently starring in the Monica show.

The problem isn't so much that I'm dealing with temporary multiple personalities; the problem is trying to guess which one is gonna crawl out of bed every morning. And believe me, it's as much a surprise to me as it is to my increasingly nervous partner. I have found ways to live with Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful and Psycho (although I'd prefer to call her something else - maybe She Who Must Not Be Named.) All of these things are livable. It's the combined effects and the unpredictability that get ya.

If I could get up in the morning and find a little note on my bedside table letting me know who's in charge each day, that would be very helpful. 

Dear Mon, It is I, Bloated. Don't even try the green slacks - you'll just feel bad. Have  a great day.

Or, maybe this:

Dear Mon, If you didn't make a list yesterday, you may as well cancel today. Stay in bed. Love, Forgetful.

Or:

Dear Mon, Itchy and Sweaty here. Just wanted to let you know that whatever you choose to wear today will be unbearable by 1:00 pm. Love you!

And if it's You Know Who, there'd just be a dead rodent or something. Not pleasant, but at least I'd know. Sometimes I don't know it's her until I find myself yelling at the shower for being too wet.

The good news is; today, I am free to be. I am wearing my witch hat as I type this and I look forward to a day of guilt-free witching. I think I'll start by pretending the vacuum is broken. Then, I'll lie and say some kids told me they are coming to trick or treat tonight and I'll go buy candy. Then I'll eat it. (There are no kids - I live on the dark side of the moon.) 

However you spend your day today, remember: It's Halloween! Embrace your inner witch!

Writing process nonsense

Have you ever driven in a snowstorm? I mean a real white-out. I've done it a few times and it's horrible. You waited one minute too long to get off the road and find a place to wait it out and now it's too late. If you pull over, you're stuck and at risk of getting hit by the next idiot who waited one minute too long. Now, all you can do is grit your teeth, lean over the wheel you have in a white-knuckle death grip, and stare at the two red dots in front of you. The tail lights of the car in front of you are all that exist. You are staying in the tire ruts by feel now, and praying for the driver of the car in front of you like he or she is your dearest love.
I am in the midst of a writing snowstorm. The wind is howling around me with the voices of characters. The snippets of scenes I was driving toward with such anticipation are swirling into a whiteout of indistinguishable blur.
Sitting here at the keyboard, with undeniably white knuckles, I am focused on the tail lights of the last scene I wrote but I have no idea where it is leading me. Right now, I just need to keep moving forward and not think about the possibility of it getting worse.
So, I'm writing about the writing which makes me think about the story which, in theory, should keep my wheels in the ruts until I can see again.  (I'm still taking suggestions for Jackie's Homeword that pulls her out of the Vale and brings her to the waking world. That was a few posts back.)
Thanks for indulging me - if I brought up POV or plot structure to the dog once more . . .
So . . .
I have about 50 pages of something. Well, mostly nothing, but some of it could end up being something. Right now, it's a bunch of scenes that have popped into my head and demanded recording. Today, I have them spread out across my office and while it would seem the logical next step is to put these in order and read them, what I see in my head is a bunch of disgruntled actors.
The seven principle characters of this tale (as it now exists) are milling about the semi-lit, cluttered stage of a dusty theatre. They are each bent over their own script muttering about how little is available to them. I hear their questions from my place behind the typewriter in the fourth row:
"But my script starts half way through. What's happened to me before this? And where is the end of the script? What happens to me next?"
I have no answers for any of these questions, so I ignore them and pretend to write. See how I strike each key with confidence? C-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-c-e.
"Okay," mutters the lead. "I see where you're going with this, but what is my motivation?"
My head pops up. That one I can answer.
Jackie: Your motivation is to know your mom who you lost as a child. When you realize that the mysterious things occurring in your dreams are somehow connected to her, you grab that thin rope with both hands. When you begin to finally understand yourself after all your floundering, you tighten your grip. When the ramifications of the outcome are revealed, you plant your feet firmly and square your shoulders. But when you realize that your little sister Desi, is the key to it all - and is in grave danger - that's when you suddenly embody your best self. And you think that your superhero cloak is your mom's - that 'finding' her has changed the outcome. But no, Jackie, it was you all along.

See? That helps. Thanks for listening. I think I see the back bumper of the car in front of me.

Creativity

I am fairly typical in that I tend to communicate when I feel good. In terms of this blog, you don't hear from me on the bad days. But today, I am plunging into new territory to share where I am in the new writing project, and it ain't pretty.
The process of writing is (I assume) completely unique to every person. There are some generalities, some 'schools of thought' that might categorize us to some degree. But how we actually go about gettin' a book from A to Z will have as many variations as there are writers.
I have written three long stories now - a 'practice' Young Adult novel, and two Middle Grades stories. One of the latter is in early draft, let-the-yeast-rise mode, and the second is about to be released into the world in the next few months.
Now, I am in the early stages of another YA novel and am hyper-aware of the process. After three outings to get the basics of construction, I am attempting to move into a more artful approach to the process. Don't sound like an artist at all, do I?
I was going to list all the reasons why I am so left-brained but since that's a myth, and I'm giving up labels for Lent, I'll just tell you that I am not a stereotypical artist (I can't give up all the labels at once. How will I communicate?)
I think I have a decent imagination and competent communication skills. Turns out, you can't do a mash-up of those two things and get a book.
So, I am learning as I go, but for me, the bigger challenge is cultivating my true creativity, which, I gotta say, feels like a tenuous thing most days. I have ideas, I have some skill, I have a good work ethic. I am eager to learn and improve. What I lack is faith in the creative process.
I imagine people who grew up in an atmosphere of creativity are less fearful about this chaotic state in which I find myself. I imagine. I don't know. Maybe it's this uncomfortable for everyone.
Right now, I have more questions than answers. I see some characters clearly, others change a bit from day to day. I hear voices (in a good way) and then when I write one of those nice clear voices, I just hear me. I feel the texture of the dream world called The Vale, but I don't convey it adequately. I know bits and pieces, and I desperately want to be patient and wait to hear the story, rather than force it, but the other part of me (currently eschewing labels such as Virgo) is demanding qualitative evidence of progress.
I find myself doing weird things - or at least they seem weird to practical Me:
Yesterday I listened to a physics lecture on cosmology about the amount of "space" in the universe that is not what we know as matter. It was practically (had I understood the damn math) an invitation to find The Vale. Really.
I'm reading Genetics for Dummies because my villain is a Geneticist (and it took me almost an entire morning to decide if he worked at a University or ran a private lab.) I look through magazines and try to find the facial features of the characters I see in my head. I stare at a painting called, Out of this Dream, which I am convinced has something to tell me about the novel. I ask my characters questions as though I'm hosting a show called, "Welcome to my Novel". In the bottom of my backpack lives a blank, hand-made leather-bound journal that I used as inspiration for the one in my story. I want to make it look older and more worn. I don't know why. Stop asking.
It would be extremely helpful if a small fairy-god-mother type character would show up right now and tell me which of my recent weirdnesses can be filed under "creative work" and which are concerning behaviours I really shouldn't be writing about in a public forum.
I think I am allowing my creativity to direct me, but there is a strong possibility that I am losing it, tottering on the brink of sanity, with a brick of menopausal hormones tied to my waist.
I think I`ll go stare at the picture. Here, hold these bricks.

Don't throw the hatchet at your sister when the sun is going down.

I've heard some crazy lines in my life, but here's the topper:

"Don't throw the hatchet . . . "

No, no, that's no the end of it. Listen:

"Don't throw the hatchet at your sister . . ."

Still not it. Wait for it . . .

"Don't throw the hatchet at your sister when the sun is going down."

Just sit with that for a moment. Throwing a hatchet isn't the problem for mom. Throwing the hatchet at your sister doesn't faze her. But throwing the hatchet at your sister as the sun is going down? Nope, Too dangerous. Here comes Mom.

I love rural life.