Still Writing

I am gearing up for my other job -- teaching.  School starts soon, and I have been very busy. 

I am still writing, though, working on the mystery novel nearly every day.  *Sigh*  It was flowing like Niagra River.  Now it's like the water at the bottom.  I can't say I am stuck, exactly, but fifteen pages a night are not dripping off my fingers the way they were three weeks ago. 

I am determined to finish.

NaNoWriMo

Several years ago, I was challenged by a friend to take the NaNoWriMo Challenge.  This stands for National Novel Writing Month.  Yes, such a thing does exist.  It is in Novemeber.  And for this challenge one pledges to write a complete 50,000 word novel in 30 days.  It is not as easy as it sounds.  It is quite difficult, in fact, because when you must write 2000 words a day, it seems you can't even come up with word number 1.

However, I started the mystery novel.  I don't know how many days ago, but I know it was after my trip to Mississippi.  It is now July 22 (I think), and I am 120,000 words in.  It is flowing fast and furiously, much like the Missouri overflowing its banks.  I am learning, however, that one should probably do some serious planning before writing a mystery novel.  Otherwise you stare at the screen asking yourself, "Does she already have that piece of infomation?  When did that clue come in?  I can't give that away yet." 

It is especially hard for me because I am a write by the set of her pants type of girl.  I write whatever comes, fix it later, and the characters become real and take over the whole show anyway.  Hard to do with a mystery because she CAN'T take over -- she doesn't know it all, much as she thinks she does. 

I will have to ask friends to do serious critiquing of this one, to make sure there is logical flow and the clues make sense.  But I am enjoying the process!

Loss for Words

I found out this morning that my favorite bookstore is closing. Across the country.  There are no other bookstores in NEPA, unless I want to drive to Wilkes-Barre, and I don't.  Want to.

What is the world coming to?  Fareneheit 451 predicted we wouldn't have books -- they'd all be burned.  Bradbury got it right on the whole house thing -- I call all of those cookie cutter houses that face inward and you drive by looking at their backside with no porches and no neighborhood camaraderie "Farenheit 451 houses" -- but he may be a bit off on his burning books idea.  They -- the ubiquitous "they" -- aren't burning books, they are digitalizing them. 

The effect is the same: no books.  Those eReaders have their place, no doubt.  But it is not the same as opening a new release, sniffing glue and paper, feeling the roughness of the page,seeing words indelibly left for generations to come, to read and analyze and ponder and laugh and share and enjoy.  eReaders? Read it, erase it, download a new one.

This will be the end.  The end of wall to wall bookshelves.  The end of rereading that favorite book because there was that ONE scene that the author did so well!  The end of purchasing classics for my nephews and niece, letting them turn the pages as we snuggle, as I once turned the pages when I snuggled with my favorite adults. 

Here's a question to ponder:  If Jefferson hadn't collected 1000s of books, how would we know what he read?  How would we know what influenced him?  How would we turn to those books ourselves to learn what he learned?  If future generations read only downloadables that unload when you finish them, how will we know what influenced the next great leaders of our nation?  How will they share those ideas, when they themselves cannot go back to reread that book for that ONE exquisite thought?

Don't worry, people, I'm sure when the time comes there will be an app for that.

The Process

Over the past several days, I have had ideas floating in my brain, ideas that I wanted to expound upon in this arena.  One was about the smell of mint, which led to the idea that fragrances take us to memories, which ended with the idea of childhood and a tall glass of tea -- mint, of course.  Another idea was about an old barn that I passed as I was driving, a white delapidated barn with shoots of something -- trees?-- growing in its gutters.  That idea led to another topic, that of the loss of the art of driving, and I still might write about that some day, so I won't elaborate now.

But then this morning I checked the blogs I follow; such a kind service these nice blogspot people provide, that the ones I follow appear in my dashboard!  One of the blogs mentioned a book called The Writer's Compass.  It describes a seven-stage process to help writers go from idea floating in Never Never Land to finished, edited, publishable work.  It looks very interesting and helpful, which is the key.  I may end up buying it, and I am writing about it here so that if I forget the title, I can look here and find it again!

This leads me to mention another book, Quitter.  This book describes how to go from job you work to put food on the table to dream job.  I heard the author discussing it on the radio.  One of the things he said is that you have to start working toward it now, and not by taking time away from your family: "Sorry, kids, we can't go to the park because I have to work on this dream job."  No.  If it is important enough for you to work at it at all, then it comes out of your time, i.e. early mornings or late nights.

I don't have family that needs my attention, but I do like my sleep.  This could be the catalyst that helps me --finally -- put action behind idea!  I already have my dream job; I teach at a Christian school and I wouldn't trade it for the world!  But I also want to be a successful writer, and I believe I have some talent.  It is just a matter of making that talent get off its butt!

Character Sketch

I have begun the mystery novel.  I am copy/pasting here some of the descriptions of characters.  Let me know what you think.

Tom Norton had worked his way up through the trenches; years of rock-turning and late nights and hours on hold had left him with permanent lines between his bushy eyebrows and around his mouth and a decided rightward tilt to his neck. His wife had left him a few years ago for someone younger and handsomer, but Molly had always thought Tom was relatively pleasant-looking, even if he was fast approaching retirement. He was tall and broad, but not paunchy, and he still had a full head of dark hair, though it was graying now, and blue eyes that glittered. Or, as right now, snapped.

Fern Haggerty sat at the desk. Of an age with Molly's parents, if they'd been alive, Fern had dyed red hair done up in a bee hive, black glasses to match the era, and clothes from a clam bake movie. She was one of those old bitties who always managed to be either a borough worker with access, a post office worker, or a waitress, and she let it be known that if it was worth knowing she knew it.

Police Chief Markus Oden was wedged behind his desk. Wedged, because the small room was barely big enough for a desk and two chairs, let alone his bulk behind it. He managed to stand and stick out his hand. His hazel eyes were full of sympathy, but he didn't mention it, and Molly was grateful. When he withdrew his hand, he ran it through gray hair that never made it to the top of his head and pulled on his earlobe. It was a gesture with which Molly was familiar, and it made her smile. Oden must have a lot on his plate.

All of these are secondary characters, but I really like the way I described them!

My Mattress

Many years ago, my dad promised me that I could have his bedroom suite when I graduated college, dressers, bed, mattress, etc.  The furniture was stored in a garage, and alas, the mice got to the mattress.  But my dad and stepmother didn't want me to be without, so they gave me an air mattress to use until I could buy a real one.

Well, let me tell you -- I have never slept so well as I do when I am sleeping on my air mattress!  I can inflate it to the max, and it is firm, but it still gives enough that every pressure point has ceased to exist.  It cushions so well!  I can sleep for four hours before I wake up to turn over, and it is good rest, complete rest, rejuvenating rest.    I don't always get that with a "real" mattress.  This morning I fairly bounded out of bed, well rested and ready to go.

I have a friend who sleeps in a hammock.  She swears by it.  If she feels about her hammock the way I feel about my air mattress, I completely understand!

(If this post seems like a non-sequiter, it is because I was elsewhere for three weeks.  Now I am back home, and I didn't realize how much I missed my air mattress until I had it back!)

the end

The End has come.  I knew it would.  I wanted to postpone it as long as humanly possible, but I felt compelled to hurry it along with my bad habits.  A paradox, I know.

No, I am not dying.

I am talking about The End of the list of Ian Rutledge novels by author Charles Todd.  I found the first of the series -- shared by a friend who had yet to read it -- only four weeks ago.  These mystery novels are so well written and exciting and thought provoking and engaging that I can't stop reading them.  Each is over 300 pages long, and I am not a fast reader, but, just to give you an idea, I got two of them out of the library on Friday and returned them both this morning, Monday.  Now I am on the Last One.

I sniffle a bit.  I want to make it last, but alas, I can't put it down, except long enough to write about it!  It is even better than Brother Cadfael, which I found and devoured last summer.  What makes this series so good? 

Ian Rutledge is a real character, meaning he has flaws as well as good points.  He has a consistent enemy, a nemesis that follows him in each book, not a new one each time, reminscent of Superheroes and their Archenemies.  The difference is Hamish MacLeod is only in his head.  Which makes things quite interesting.  What else?  The descriptions allow me to see the English scenes in my mind without clogging up the page, which means words are used to a premium, not wasted.  Something I need to remember, as my descriptions have bordered on Dickensian, and people have not meant it as a compliment!  In addition to flaws and descriptions, these mystery novels give me enough clues that I think I could figure it out, although I am always surprised at the end.  Even in this Second to the Last One that I read, just yesterday, the story began with Todd telling the reader who did it -- I knew by page 5 who it was!  But Ian Rutledge didn't know, and I found myself wondering right along with him until the end.

So why am I going on and on about this?  Because, again, I want to try my hand at a mystery novel.  I think I have a character and a set-up.  Molly is a newspaper writer whose fiance was murdered in their small town.  The police are doing what they can, but let's face it, these small town cops don't have the experience, so she takes the case herself.  Which of course gets her in trouble with the local chief (her nemesis) and possibly threatens her life.  Her fiance is a character in the book, in flashbacks, etc.  This, too, will follow her through a series. 

Hey, if I am going to get it in my head to write one mystery, why can't I tell myself it will be a series.  Every good writer has to have an active imagination, after all...