Or maybe I whine a lot. Not that I'm feeling whiny, but it's hard to lament (not to be confused with complaining) the fact that I can't write the way I want to, without feeling like you sound at least a little whiny, since the reason I can write the way I want to is because I have a job, which is paying the bills since writing is not.
But I digress.
With all of the backlash and discussion about Stacey Jay it really makes me look at my own situation. I found the entire thing shocking, that an established author with a fan base would meet with such indignant rage. Admitting that maybe *how* Stacey carried out the kickstarter, she still didn't do anything wrong. In fact, I just googled 'author kickstarter backlash' and found pages of authors and independent directors, and other people all promising to create stuff if you pay for them to be able to create it. So why naysayers fixated on Stacey, I'll never understand. Anyway, the thing that scared me the most about all of that, is that I would have already done something like a kickstarter if I thought it would bring in enough money to allow me to write full-time. And I'm not a published author. But the idea would be that I could write something, and self publish it and those who funded the project would get their book, and I'd get to write full-time.
Now I know that this fantasy of mine is just that, a fantasy. It's not logistically or rationally sound all the way through. But it seems like it could be the best idea ever. And if I ever managed to get an agent, then a publisher and actually sell a book, you're damn straight I'd do a kickstarter to fund other books if that was what it took to stay published, because I already made it, I'm not about to fold and go home now. And to be fair I'd probably do a kickstarter in regard to, say, the memoir I'm working on that involves a local historic estate, with photographs and stuff, prints of which could be included as pledge rewards, etc. It would be more feasible and marketable than an unknown fiction. Plus, since I live right where the book is set, I've got the ability to put it out in the public that would be most interested in it.
But I digress again.
The point of all of this, I suppose, is just to ponder how much us authors are willing to do, and risk, in order to be able to write. I spent thirteen years working on a farm that gave me much more time to write and create, and I spent every moment that didn't involve farm work, or horse work, on writing work and trying to better myself as an author.
Now I'm in a job that has cut my writing time by more than half. I'm literally (on average) down to writing (and by the word 'writing' I mean first drafts, second drafts, editing, working on critique partners' stuff, queries, etc) from 8-bedtime in the evenings. And I get up at 6am. Which, if I'm lucky, and I don't happen to have insomnia (thank you, blood thinners, and it's not a writeable type of insomnia, just an brain dead no sleep type) means I get two hours. TWO HOURS. I know for some writers, that's a huge block of time. But for me, who was accustomed to basically 8-9 hours a day of 'available' writing time (even when I was at work on the farm, I could often write) it's been extremely difficult to use that those two hours productively. As a panster, I'm used to just sitting down and going with it. But now I've got to triage WIPs into what is more viable, or marketable (in a broad sense, vampire vs something totally not done, or whatever) and at the same time balance anything else that needs tending, like editing finished drafts, or anything else in the stages of writing. As a result, I've shelved the only competitive manuscript (still with an agent and publisher, but I'm a realist and not holding my breath by now) and I'm not even thinking about agents at the moment. If I had any sort of guiding necessity (deadlines, agent guidance, whatever) it would be much easier. Instead, I'm in this very vexing position of 'the sky is the limit, just keep writing and create but only do it in two hours - in the evening, even though you're often a morning writer - and that's it'.
I find myself evaluating how little I could live on, but in todays economy, I'm pretty much already there. *If* nothing comes up unexpectedly, I *might* be able to put aside a little money every month. That's if I do not travel anywhere, do not buy anything extra, do not use money for anything besides established bills (phone, groceries, health insurance and one, small, credit card, standard animal maintenance) The moment crap hits the fan, any money saved is gone. At the moment, on top of regular bills, I've got one cat on $260 a month medicine (for at least 6 months) another who's hit old man stage and needs dental work, $700 on top of the $300 that just went out the door to get him prepared for the dental stuff (vet trip to have a senior work-up and blood tests to make sure there's no other health concerns) and along with that, all my own bills that are accruing with this blood clot. Because, we wouldn't want the health insurance to actually pay for anything health related, would we? Still bracing for the ultrasound bill from when I was diagnosed, plus all the blood work, which will continue weekly, since I'm not on Coumadin, which I could afford, unlike the synthetic blood thinners they originally put me on, but I couldn't afford. Not that I'd rather be dead from a thrown clot. I've got tons of family support, I'm going to be fine. The point is, this is a struggle with a full-time job. I don't see how it's possible for someone like me (single, childless) to ever just 'quit and write' like I read about authors doing.
Are there any other single writers out there who don't have significant other income to rely on? Any helpful tips for a panster who's trying to squash herself into a small cubicle of strict structure?
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Friday, January 2, 2015
Charging Into The New Year Like a Grocery Cart Jockey In A Downhill Obstacle Course Race, With A Blindfold On.
If you're gonna go, go all out, like the old commercial says. So I went. All out, and every direction, all at once. Am I rambling? I suspect so. Pain meds do that. No, shockingly, not pain meds for shingles. Got you! Thought I had them again, didn't you? That'd have been a safe bet, but no. I went even further out this time.
The last post I wrote was morose, at the very best, verging on depressive in reality. I was in a bad spot when I wrote it. Oddly enough, I wrote that on the 23rd, right before Christmas. which was three days before I got the real devastating news. I sent Christmas cards this year, something I failed to do last year. The day after Christmas, I got a phone call from a woman named Jennifer. She's the daughter in-law to Sonny, the handyman from Castalia whom I worked with for fourteen years. Jennifer explained that Sonny had died very unexpectedly in September. The entire family had tried desperately to find a way to contact me. They had pictures of Sonny and me, of him and my sister, of all three of us together They knew my first name, because Sonny had talked about me all the time. But he'd never told them my last name. They had no phone numbers. No way to find me, or the other girls from the farm. They were tormented by this inability to reach us. By the fact that they had to bury their husband, their father, and loved one, without people that he loved even knowing that he'd died. During the obviously shocking and upsetting phone call, Sonny's daughter in-law asked if I would be willing to speak to his widow. I said yes, of course. She cried, I cried, both of us sundered by the loss of a man we loved, even though the two of us have never met each other. She told me how much Sonny loved me, and I told her how much I loved him, then the two of us announced that we both loved each other. Back on the line with Jennifer, she kept apologizing for having to tell me the news at Christmas, and I kept thanking her for telling me at all. We're going to get together sometime in the near future. They would like to meet my sister and I, whom Sonny talked about so often. And they have a few things he wanted me to have, apparently. I want to meet them too. We might have managed to get together this week, but fate decided to play meddlesome games with me.
It started with what felt like a leg cramp. I woke up Sunday the 28th with what I thought was a leg cramp in my right calf. Being on vacation as I am, and being lazy, I couldn't think of any specific incident in which I might have strained the muscle. But there's always the chance of middle-of-the-night charley horses, which could leave morning-after pain. So Sunday, I did gentle stretches, to no avail. Monday morning it was a little worse. I figured I'd live dangerously and took one of two leftover Flexeril from my last rhomboid trouble. It *seemed* to help, though the discomfort didn't entirely leave. I continued stretches and messaging it. I didn't sleep great Monday night, as I kept trying to alleviate the cramping sensation by stretching my leg out, which only caused more discomfort. Tuesday saw things much the same as Monday. I took the remaining Flexeril, and polled Facebook for suggestions. (might have polled Facebook on Monday, can't remember, too lazy to check) Since my new insurance (which might actually pay something) didn't start until the new year, my sister and I decided I wouldn't seek any medical advice until it had kicked in. That was before I spent Tuesday night wallowing and got up Weds morning with pain in the calf that had inched its way into near-constant. Walking was painful. I was still stressed from the Sonny news, about to go on my period, and miserable for the second week of vacation (the first having been spent with shingles, round three for the year) so I regressed into a blubbery mess of frustrated tears. After discussion with my Mom, we went to First Med. Who sent me to Martha Jefferson for an ultrasound 'just to cover bases' and instead of 'covering bases' the ultrasound tech found a blood clot in my calf. At 35, no traveling, no smoking, no 'at risk' me had a deep vein thrombosis.
Now, the good parts (so far, anyway) are 1. I went to the docs and we found it early. 2. It's a 'small clot' in a 'small vein'. 3. Numbers 1 & 2 *theoretically* reduce my chances of suffering complications from my DVT. 4. I totally got to see the insides of my legs on the ultrasound. It sucks that I needed to have it, but hey, it was something new I'd never experienced before and it was awesome.
So the girl who has a tendency to break anvils, and fall off roofs, and down stairs, and self-damage in all sorts of random, unexpected manners, is now on the blood thinner Eliquis along with pain meds (just until the blood thinners start to do their magic, thus reducing the pain) and will have to undergo further blood work and testing so that we can hopefully pinpoint why I developed a clot, with the goal being, of course, to avoid developing any other clots in the future. I'm hoping that it can be linked to the Minastrin birth control. While that would be sad because it works great for me with no side effects (besides the clot, obviously) it would be a tidy, not scary explanation that can be easily remedied by not taking it again. But we'll see how the testing goes.
The craziest thing about this week, is that I feel like I've turned a corner somehow. I don't mean in a 'omg, I almost died, I feel alive!' way because while the DVT is serious, and could get more serious suddenly and without warning, I'm not that dramatic about it. I mean I've turned the corner in a more abstract manner. It's hard to describe. But I've written pages on the Farm Memoir project. I'm getting words out, and it's not like pulling teeth to do it. I feel like I'm back in life, and not just watching it go by. Which is a pretty damn good feeling.
I'll sign off now, see if I can get a little writing done before crashing for the night. But I'll leave you with a picture of Sonny and me. It was taken one of the the last times we were together.
The last post I wrote was morose, at the very best, verging on depressive in reality. I was in a bad spot when I wrote it. Oddly enough, I wrote that on the 23rd, right before Christmas. which was three days before I got the real devastating news. I sent Christmas cards this year, something I failed to do last year. The day after Christmas, I got a phone call from a woman named Jennifer. She's the daughter in-law to Sonny, the handyman from Castalia whom I worked with for fourteen years. Jennifer explained that Sonny had died very unexpectedly in September. The entire family had tried desperately to find a way to contact me. They had pictures of Sonny and me, of him and my sister, of all three of us together They knew my first name, because Sonny had talked about me all the time. But he'd never told them my last name. They had no phone numbers. No way to find me, or the other girls from the farm. They were tormented by this inability to reach us. By the fact that they had to bury their husband, their father, and loved one, without people that he loved even knowing that he'd died. During the obviously shocking and upsetting phone call, Sonny's daughter in-law asked if I would be willing to speak to his widow. I said yes, of course. She cried, I cried, both of us sundered by the loss of a man we loved, even though the two of us have never met each other. She told me how much Sonny loved me, and I told her how much I loved him, then the two of us announced that we both loved each other. Back on the line with Jennifer, she kept apologizing for having to tell me the news at Christmas, and I kept thanking her for telling me at all. We're going to get together sometime in the near future. They would like to meet my sister and I, whom Sonny talked about so often. And they have a few things he wanted me to have, apparently. I want to meet them too. We might have managed to get together this week, but fate decided to play meddlesome games with me.
It started with what felt like a leg cramp. I woke up Sunday the 28th with what I thought was a leg cramp in my right calf. Being on vacation as I am, and being lazy, I couldn't think of any specific incident in which I might have strained the muscle. But there's always the chance of middle-of-the-night charley horses, which could leave morning-after pain. So Sunday, I did gentle stretches, to no avail. Monday morning it was a little worse. I figured I'd live dangerously and took one of two leftover Flexeril from my last rhomboid trouble. It *seemed* to help, though the discomfort didn't entirely leave. I continued stretches and messaging it. I didn't sleep great Monday night, as I kept trying to alleviate the cramping sensation by stretching my leg out, which only caused more discomfort. Tuesday saw things much the same as Monday. I took the remaining Flexeril, and polled Facebook for suggestions. (might have polled Facebook on Monday, can't remember, too lazy to check) Since my new insurance (which might actually pay something) didn't start until the new year, my sister and I decided I wouldn't seek any medical advice until it had kicked in. That was before I spent Tuesday night wallowing and got up Weds morning with pain in the calf that had inched its way into near-constant. Walking was painful. I was still stressed from the Sonny news, about to go on my period, and miserable for the second week of vacation (the first having been spent with shingles, round three for the year) so I regressed into a blubbery mess of frustrated tears. After discussion with my Mom, we went to First Med. Who sent me to Martha Jefferson for an ultrasound 'just to cover bases' and instead of 'covering bases' the ultrasound tech found a blood clot in my calf. At 35, no traveling, no smoking, no 'at risk' me had a deep vein thrombosis.
Now, the good parts (so far, anyway) are 1. I went to the docs and we found it early. 2. It's a 'small clot' in a 'small vein'. 3. Numbers 1 & 2 *theoretically* reduce my chances of suffering complications from my DVT. 4. I totally got to see the insides of my legs on the ultrasound. It sucks that I needed to have it, but hey, it was something new I'd never experienced before and it was awesome.
So the girl who has a tendency to break anvils, and fall off roofs, and down stairs, and self-damage in all sorts of random, unexpected manners, is now on the blood thinner Eliquis along with pain meds (just until the blood thinners start to do their magic, thus reducing the pain) and will have to undergo further blood work and testing so that we can hopefully pinpoint why I developed a clot, with the goal being, of course, to avoid developing any other clots in the future. I'm hoping that it can be linked to the Minastrin birth control. While that would be sad because it works great for me with no side effects (besides the clot, obviously) it would be a tidy, not scary explanation that can be easily remedied by not taking it again. But we'll see how the testing goes.
The craziest thing about this week, is that I feel like I've turned a corner somehow. I don't mean in a 'omg, I almost died, I feel alive!' way because while the DVT is serious, and could get more serious suddenly and without warning, I'm not that dramatic about it. I mean I've turned the corner in a more abstract manner. It's hard to describe. But I've written pages on the Farm Memoir project. I'm getting words out, and it's not like pulling teeth to do it. I feel like I'm back in life, and not just watching it go by. Which is a pretty damn good feeling.
I'll sign off now, see if I can get a little writing done before crashing for the night. But I'll leave you with a picture of Sonny and me. It was taken one of the the last times we were together.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
On Things That Are Uncomfortable
So, it's been a struggle recently. A struggle pretty much in every way, even though I'm very aware of how 'not really that bad' things are. Funny how knowing that things could be so much worse than they actually are, doesn't do anything to make you feel better about the things that also aren't great at the moment.
Writing has been hard. It's not a matter of not having any ideas, but rather, not being able to settle on any of them. I'm like a deranged trout trying to swim upstream in every directing except right through the rapids where I need to go in order to get anywhere. Catskin is officially 'dead' for the time being. Yes, it's with an agent, and a small publishing house. But they obviously aren't *incredibly excited* over it, or they're so busy that even if they love it, they don't have the time to address new clients at the moment. That's fine, and also totally understandable. Maybe something will come of it, maybe it won't. At this point, though, I can't afford to keep dicking around with it (and I'd be wrong to) and since I'm not making anymore changes without professional guidance, I'm shelving it.
My current projects run the gamut of fantasy, to contemporary, to contemporary/paranormal/ghost to something dangerously futuristic/post apocalyptic. The problem is that in an industry that's currently undergoing a glut of self-publishing and independent publishing (good things, and cheers to those who can utilize them) I have no sense of direction, so I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to actually finish anything new. I'm perpetually second guessing myself and which project is more worth the time and might stand more of a chance at being successful. The recent largely publicized celebrity book deals haven't helped, just because on a purely emotional level, they're rather depressing to hear about. Especially the ones that don't bring anything new to the ring, or that involve 'authors' who never intended to actually write books, and were just writing 'for the fun of it'. I hold no grudges against them, but it's agonizing to have shaped my entire life around the goal of becoming a published author, and then see opportunities handed to people who DON'T WANT to be professional writers, but whom the publishing houses see as an 'easy moneymaker' for at least one or two books. Those not-really-writers will have the time of their lives, and if nothing else comes of it, fine. But meanwhile there are thousands of people like me struggling daily to attain that dream who have, essentially, maybe lost out on a chance to make it because a huge amount of money was tossed at someone else. Never mind the established very hard working authors who are literally just scraping by, and then are being brushed aside by these flash-in-the-pan deals.
Which brings me to my current emotional state. It's not an entirely happy one. While Mom is doing super well (YAY, omg, so grateful to the powers that be, still praying, but I'm so grateful) there have been a lot of other stressors. Mostly, the fact that I'm still not over the farm. I know, I drone on about it so. But it's the truth. It's a fight, trying to find the sort of happiness I had at the farm, when I'm no longer at the farm, no longer anywhere near it. I've got the scraps of two separate memoirs in regard to it, but they've been harder to write than I could ever have imagined. One of them focuses entirely on Di. I thought that I had at least acclimated to the fact that she's gone, but the more I work to write her story, the more I realize I'm not adjusted at all. Dwelling on her can send me into the closest thing I've ever felt to depression, or what I imagine depression is like. It takes a toll on me. So, of course, I only work for the briefest times on it, then stop. Which, really, only makes things worse, in some ways, because then I'm back to feeling as though I haven't gotten anything meaningful done on any manuscript. It's a vicious circle, but I'm still motoring around it determinedly.
Here's the thing about me, and things that are uncomfortable: I'm really good at dealing with them, if I know there's going to be an end to it. But when I can't see an end, I feel like I'm lying to myself, weaving untruths about how things are going to turn out just so I'll make it through. I've always been one who would rather face the harshest truth, than the kindest lie, so this floating around making up shit about how someday I'm going to be a real, published, writes all the time writer just sucks the life out of me. I don't want a handout, I just want a freaking chance. And now, I'm not even sure how to go about pursuing that chance, since at least the two memoirs are entirely different balls of wax than the YA that I usually write. Which, I don't even know if I should be spending time on those manuscripts. They are books that I want to write, and at least the one about the farm will have the local interest angle, along with my twin sister's photographs. Commercially, that one is the strongest simply because their aren't many memoirs written by one identical twin, photographed by the second twin, and revolving around a local historical estate. But what do I know? Sometimes, I feel like I'm just grasping at ideas, turning it into a spaghetti toss to see what sticks to the wall. I don't even know anymore.
Now that I've sufficiently blathered out my woes for the time being, I'll leave it open for opinions (I think you can leave comments, though I'd tried to turn them off at one point) and tell me what you think. And know that I AM grateful for all the good things in my life, the fact that *so far* everyone is healthy (well, besides me, hello, shingles for the THIRD time in one year, but I'll live) and all my Christmas shopping is done. Tomorrow is Christmas with my sister, niece and brother in-law. Then Mom, Dad and I will have our Christmas on Christmas day, and go up to my aunt's for the family hoopla. It'll be a fun time for sure.
Writing has been hard. It's not a matter of not having any ideas, but rather, not being able to settle on any of them. I'm like a deranged trout trying to swim upstream in every directing except right through the rapids where I need to go in order to get anywhere. Catskin is officially 'dead' for the time being. Yes, it's with an agent, and a small publishing house. But they obviously aren't *incredibly excited* over it, or they're so busy that even if they love it, they don't have the time to address new clients at the moment. That's fine, and also totally understandable. Maybe something will come of it, maybe it won't. At this point, though, I can't afford to keep dicking around with it (and I'd be wrong to) and since I'm not making anymore changes without professional guidance, I'm shelving it.
My current projects run the gamut of fantasy, to contemporary, to contemporary/paranormal/ghost to something dangerously futuristic/post apocalyptic. The problem is that in an industry that's currently undergoing a glut of self-publishing and independent publishing (good things, and cheers to those who can utilize them) I have no sense of direction, so I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to actually finish anything new. I'm perpetually second guessing myself and which project is more worth the time and might stand more of a chance at being successful. The recent largely publicized celebrity book deals haven't helped, just because on a purely emotional level, they're rather depressing to hear about. Especially the ones that don't bring anything new to the ring, or that involve 'authors' who never intended to actually write books, and were just writing 'for the fun of it'. I hold no grudges against them, but it's agonizing to have shaped my entire life around the goal of becoming a published author, and then see opportunities handed to people who DON'T WANT to be professional writers, but whom the publishing houses see as an 'easy moneymaker' for at least one or two books. Those not-really-writers will have the time of their lives, and if nothing else comes of it, fine. But meanwhile there are thousands of people like me struggling daily to attain that dream who have, essentially, maybe lost out on a chance to make it because a huge amount of money was tossed at someone else. Never mind the established very hard working authors who are literally just scraping by, and then are being brushed aside by these flash-in-the-pan deals.
Which brings me to my current emotional state. It's not an entirely happy one. While Mom is doing super well (YAY, omg, so grateful to the powers that be, still praying, but I'm so grateful) there have been a lot of other stressors. Mostly, the fact that I'm still not over the farm. I know, I drone on about it so. But it's the truth. It's a fight, trying to find the sort of happiness I had at the farm, when I'm no longer at the farm, no longer anywhere near it. I've got the scraps of two separate memoirs in regard to it, but they've been harder to write than I could ever have imagined. One of them focuses entirely on Di. I thought that I had at least acclimated to the fact that she's gone, but the more I work to write her story, the more I realize I'm not adjusted at all. Dwelling on her can send me into the closest thing I've ever felt to depression, or what I imagine depression is like. It takes a toll on me. So, of course, I only work for the briefest times on it, then stop. Which, really, only makes things worse, in some ways, because then I'm back to feeling as though I haven't gotten anything meaningful done on any manuscript. It's a vicious circle, but I'm still motoring around it determinedly.
Here's the thing about me, and things that are uncomfortable: I'm really good at dealing with them, if I know there's going to be an end to it. But when I can't see an end, I feel like I'm lying to myself, weaving untruths about how things are going to turn out just so I'll make it through. I've always been one who would rather face the harshest truth, than the kindest lie, so this floating around making up shit about how someday I'm going to be a real, published, writes all the time writer just sucks the life out of me. I don't want a handout, I just want a freaking chance. And now, I'm not even sure how to go about pursuing that chance, since at least the two memoirs are entirely different balls of wax than the YA that I usually write. Which, I don't even know if I should be spending time on those manuscripts. They are books that I want to write, and at least the one about the farm will have the local interest angle, along with my twin sister's photographs. Commercially, that one is the strongest simply because their aren't many memoirs written by one identical twin, photographed by the second twin, and revolving around a local historical estate. But what do I know? Sometimes, I feel like I'm just grasping at ideas, turning it into a spaghetti toss to see what sticks to the wall. I don't even know anymore.
Now that I've sufficiently blathered out my woes for the time being, I'll leave it open for opinions (I think you can leave comments, though I'd tried to turn them off at one point) and tell me what you think. And know that I AM grateful for all the good things in my life, the fact that *so far* everyone is healthy (well, besides me, hello, shingles for the THIRD time in one year, but I'll live) and all my Christmas shopping is done. Tomorrow is Christmas with my sister, niece and brother in-law. Then Mom, Dad and I will have our Christmas on Christmas day, and go up to my aunt's for the family hoopla. It'll be a fun time for sure.
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