MELISSA IS BACK ON THE BLOG.

All two of my remaining readers are probably choking to death.

I’ve mostly come back to say hello. And assure all two remaining readers I am not, in fact, dead. My heart is pumping along just dandy, thank you very much.

For the third year in a row, I’m participating in the illustrious NaNoWriMo “competition”. 2009 was a win, 2010 was a loss, 2011 is going to be a royal word butt kicking.

Here is a brief recap for anyone who doesn’t follow my twitter feed (yes, also resurrected from the dead for NaNo):

TOTALS:
Day One: 6,387
Day Two: 9,152
Day Three: 15,564
Day Seven: 20,002 (I took a break to finish schoolwork so I didn’t, you know, fail out of my first week of these new classes…)

SO. It’s going swimmingly, and thanks to my lovely crit partner, Mrs. Liza Kane, and our ridiculous brainstorming session on Day Three, I now have a pretty decent plot, some excellent ideas, and more words in one single draft than I’ve had all year.

Time to get back in the trenches..

His hand hovered over her ankle, heat traveling to her knee and through her elbows, then returned to its station on the gear shift. The ever vigilant soldier. Twelve mile markers passed before he cleared his throat. She met his shaded gaze in the rearview mirror, watching his eyebrows jiggle in glee.

“You know,” he grinned wickedly. “If you lumber around with a swollen belly, we wouldn’t have nearly as good a time.”

Her face twitched into a fleeting smile and let her heavy lids drop, free hand secured lightly over her middle. “Sorry to break it to you, but it’s already swollen from all the drive thru burger stops.”

His hand covered hers just long enough to allow his heat to transfer – then back to the gear shift. She drifted to sleep, allowing the roaring winds to drown out her dreams.

Again.

Shelving another project.

Again.

I believe I’ve been project hoping until something feels… right. At first, it felt like a cop-out: I wasn’t dedicated, structured, or disciplined enough to complete the existing manuscript. Those are large words to swallow… because they all boil down to “I think I’m not good enough.”

2011 has been a year of discovery for me, and the veneer is slowly chipping away. I’m proud to say I am good enough. I have stories. Ideas. Scribbles. Scraps of phrases. Mental pictures. Things well enough to make my toes occasionally curl in joy because I wrote that – not someone else.

I even found the cover art of my future book. Who cares if it’s two or ten years away?

The block revolved around finding the right story; the one that makes my fingers itch and my legs twitch and my brain get fuzzy and hazy. Not to jinx anything, but I think I’ve found it.

It’s been invigorating. More than any other project. Maybe because it’s so personal. Maybe it’s because I finally feel well enough in my writer brain to accept this draft needs words on a page so I can rearrange them the way I picture them.

A healthy mental space. I dare say it is more important than the best atmosphere, writing utensils, or schedule.

A stringy basket, some bruised apples and a cheap bottle of gas station wine. They clinked plastic glasses in the setting sun and piled atop one another as the sky lit on fire. He played with her hair. She memorized the path of freckles on his wrist. They made plans dipped in sugary promises, cupped in their private retreat.

Each melted on her tongue, as real as the next: watermelon, cranapple, grape. A picket fence, a hunting dog, heaps of presents piled beneath a bedecked tree.

Their fingers raked through the dirt and leaves, listing destinations and milestones. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. Her heart wanted to burst from love and happiness, feeling both heavy and weightless; terror and freedom. They would carve a path from the shadows, dance among the stars, stomp the coarse mouths of those who stopped them.

Image via Wikipedia

I have been a bad, bad blogger. And a bad, bad writer.

But sometimes life is crazy and busy and beautiful and funny and unexpected. And sometimes things get put on the back burner to enjoy them.

And sometimes insecurities and fears flare up, stifling and stunting growth and progress.

It’s hard to remember that I only started writing again about a year and a half ago after many, many years of repression and neglect. I’m sure I can be more diligent, more determined, more practiced, more dedicated. But I have a family. A busy job. A hectic life.

Progress is still progress as long as something is being done, being made. On facebook, a friend was talking about her new effort to start running. Her status said

“No matter how slow, you are still lapping everyone on the couch.”

This mantra has been adopted as my own for writing. I may be inching along right now – but it’s still moving.

… is hard, frustrating, infuriating, liberating, self searching, mind numbing, nerve twisting, planner berating, and – did I mention hard?

Pull your pants up, self. Scoop the worn denim off your ankles and strap on your boots. Places to go, people to see, things to create. We’ve got a book to write.

Image by music2work2 via Flickr

Do you ever forget small factoids about yourself during key moments? Like how you only learn lessons the hard way, or let things sink in only if you witness them first hand? And then you sit in a coffee shop, drinking overpriced coffee, threatening to hurl your manuscript into the nearest trashcan because your own perfectionism is preventing the words from coming to just write the dang story, already. And wonder why everyone else seems to be able to wrangle in their inner editor but you are stuck ramming pens into your retinas.

I can’t possibly be the only one.

Well. I forget. Constantly. I wholeheartedly agree not remembering these difficult quirks about myself borders on “absolutely ridiculous”. And yet – I don’t learn this lesson until I suffer through it.

I met Lauren Oliver, my biggest author-brain crush ever, this past Friday at a Barnes & Noble an hour away from my house. My best friend and I squealed like little girls and couldn’t wipe the stupid grins off of our faces after we got to talk to her. We bored our husbands to tears afterward with our detailed play by play of the entire evening. Our table was loaded with books and wine and tapas and the menfolk resigned to playing Angry Birds while we gushed about how amazing the book world was.

And then I came home and actually processed what she said – one tiny piece of information lodged in my brain that didn’t decode itself until that very moment: she freely admitted her first drafts suck, and she loves the editing process where they can tweak and play with every single word.

I don’t think my brain could compute this at first because Lauren Oliver has one of the most beautiful writing styles I have ever read. Ever. Her words are gorgeous and powerful. Her stories are deep and meaningful and realistic and beautiful and fabulous and fun. How could the woman who penned one of my favorite books of all time write garbage? Impossible.

So then I sat down and wrote. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. I knocked out 5,000 words since Saturday – half by hand. I haven’t written that much in months, and nothing near that word count by hand probably since I was in high school.

And the most amazing thing happened. 35,000 feet in the air, nose deep in a notebook, I wrestled with a scene. I fight to move forward but my fingers relentlessly tongue-tie the plot. Mid mutter about how I am the worst writer on the face of the planet and no one else could possibly write such awful prose, a tiny beacon goes off in my brain. What was that thing everyone always says? First drafts are allowed to suck.

But, no! I’m a perfectionist! This must be perfect! I must research and poll people and tinker with every word before the story can be written, or imminent failure is sure to follow! Lauren Oliver allows it. …… Maybe so can I.

So I tried it. I sketched bare bones ideas of what I wanted to happen and moved on. A paragraph later, I stopped and had to reread what just happened. Did – did I just allow myself to skim over a difficult passage to move the story forward?

I may as well have flown on my own, soaring through the clouds atop the enormous weight lifted from my shoulders, not buckled down into a bulky, blue leather chair. It was so incredibly freeing.

Panic followed. There was no way I’d be able to do this again.

But y’all, I have. I HAVE. I have skimmed over the parts that hinder, leaving them for my inner editor to tweak later – and the story is moving. This is probably the best feeling I have had in a year in regards to my writing. When I reread, I’ve been able to recognize it isn’t garbage. It’s a skeletal structure to be filled in later.

I, Melissa Veres, have given myself permission to suck. And now I’m flourishing.

Isn’t life funny?

Lauren Oliver talked at length about her writing process and the need to write everyday. This is the number one piece of advice given by any author – but, after comparing writing to car mechanics, she went on to say, “[sometimes] writing is really hard and you don’t want to do it. If you don’t have that discipline to fall back on, you will never move forward.” After hearing this, it’s like something clicked. She went on to discuss writing goals and how daily writing may often feel like rubbish, but it can breed amazing ideas for the future. Fabulous advice.

There was also a wonderful Q&A session – her favorite Before I Fall day? Day 5. A moment she could live in forever? Taking a nap on a blanket with an ex (BIF is dedicated to him). Her favorite character? Po, a ghost who has been on the other side for so long, it no longer knows if it is a he or a she.

Wait, Po?

Lauren Oliver has a Middle Grade book coming out this fall- Liesel and Po. From the GoodReads blurb: We meet Liesl the night after the day her young father has died. That same day she is visited by a ghost, Po, an eight year old boy who lives on the other side, the territory between life and death that runs parallel to the living world. Po has come to tell her that her father is stuck on the other side, and that she is the only one who can help him cross over. A couple of wooden boxes. Some ashes. Some magic dust. A ghost, its pet, and a boy who forgot to wear a hat in the cold. From these seemingly odd, random characters Oliver weaves the enchanting story of how, with the aid of Liesl, these elements come together over the course of one week to restore love and luster to a world gone grey and heartless.

The book is due to release in October, but she is giving away copies every month until the release on her blog. Fifteen chances to win! Go check it out – and the rest of her blog. She’s witty, funny, and holds various writing contests sprinkled throughout the year. AND Liesel and Po comes in a super adorable treasure box-esque package. You know you want one.

Image by kevindooley via Flickr

The return to my beloved WIP has been less prodigal and more romanesque. It appears my muse is a little bitter about being left in the cold. After all, we did attempt NaNoWriMo together, went to a writer’s conference together, even started this new, beautiful WIP together.

Additional lesson learned: Do not leave the Muse unattended for two months! Payback is a witch. I was crippled with an awful case of IcantdoitbecauseIsuckitis.

While rereading the WIP last night on my Dropbox app – easily the greatest invention ever – I found myself sucked into this story I have not read in no less than seven weeks. The internal editor was already hacking paragraphs to bloody bits, but what was left held beautiful promise. This is easily my best work to date and the pride is overwhelming. I don’t suck – check.

And then my heart was ripped to shreds by the story created around my beautiful characters. By the time this baby would be ready to query, it should be powerful and emotional and hopeful and amazing. Right now, it’s still packed with enough punch to have me worried…

Am I strong enough to write this?

I was an emotional wreck at my wedding. The make up artist should have gotten a bigger tip for ensuring my face didn’t melt between the hot tears and stifling humidity.¹ My nerves were still so raw after, I curled into a ball upon arrival to our Minimoon destination. It’s been tears all over the place.

I must push forward. I must pick up the pen, poise over the keyboard, and pull these swirling vortexes out of my body. Perhaps the pull will be therapeutic – just the thing needed to calm my raging hormones. So write I must.

But y’all. It’s a bit terrifying.

CUE MY FABULOUS CRIT PARTNERS. I lamented my concerns, outlined my panic, summarized the emotional stunt I felt and feared. They came back with such warm encouragement and cheer. They offered sound advice about diving into those emotional scenes slowly, pacing myself, and to just push forward, however little at a time.

I was able to vent out those poisonous toxins hovering about my angsty muse and actually sit down – though, one chapter in the future from the scene threatening to detonate within my heart – and start writing again.

Most important, I was reminded the power of emotion and how effectively it was being portrayed. Dip in a toe at a time, but don’t fight it. These are the things great works are made of – pushing you to the very limits, leaving you to question whether or not you can make it.

Never let go of the slack. Trust your muse (& your crit partners). Greatness will follow.

¹ Whose brilliant idea was it to get married in late April, outdoors, in Houston?! Oh, yeah. Us.

Family.

Seven and a half months disappeared without the slightest inclination of forewarning. On a humid September day, struggling under the emotional and physical weight of a new, sparkly ring, seven and a half months seemed monumental. Surfaced safely on the other side, it was a mere hiccup on the Timeline of Melissa. I can’t believe my marriage is already six days old and what little remains of our red velvet wedding cake of deliciousness is turning stale.

This amazing, crazy, stressful, beautiful day was more than one of the most wonderful occurrences in my young life. Seven and a half months of invaluable lessons were etched into my brain. My manuscript may have taken a break, but my muse was busy taking notes.

How Planning A Wedding Improved My Writing

1. A wedding day, while amazing, is not the end of the world. Rather, it will fly by as though just as equally insignificant as the days before and after.

Each piece, project, WIP, manuscript has always been put on a pedestal in my muse’s eye. My most recently abandon project was filed away as The One in my brain from the moment of conception. Yes, Melissa. This is it! This is the one that will be on the shelves! This is the one you will pride yourself on. It’s not. Maybe one day my darling main character will show her face in the book world, maybe not. Each project is just one more manifestation of my desire to create words and worlds. Love it, embrace it, enjoy the emotions it may generate – but don’t rest every hope and desire on it. As they say – “this too shall pass”. There will be more projects. More words. More worlds. Each as special as the last.

2. No one will notice the font used on the invitations or the structural soundness of the chocolate fondue marshmallow pile. Agonizing over small details provides more damage than delight. These lessons will not be learned until it’s too late.

It was frightening to see how many details, byproducts of agonizing hours of deliberation and contemplation, were insignificant. Nobody noticed. I could have saved several brain cells and wrinkles had I known this before – or had I been able to see the finished product. Here, writing has the advantage. Stressing over minute details while trying to get the story out hinders me and my project. I lose sight of the bigger picture – marrying my soulmate, telling a story dying to be told – while stressing over favors or the family tree of a supporting character. Details are important – but can always be added and changed later. Finish the story. Remember the purpose. Drowning in details will drown the plot.

3. Nobody likes a bridezilla. Unless they fall flat on their face.

Same holds true in the world wide web of writers. Even if the stress from a project is welling up – keep the chin up, smile, and remember you are doing this because you love it. Destroy your reputation before a book has hit the shelf? Plan on fighting heavy upstream. In any stage of the game – be it the day you got engaged (agented) or your wedding day (book release).

4. Take time to savor a private moment. The rest of the night will whirl on without you.

Time travel devices have not been created, ergo time cannot stand still. This moment, this project, cannot and will not last forever, no matter how hard it is wished. We had a private dinner immediately following the ceremony. We ate, we drank, we savored in our new commitment to one another. And then we went on to party. Always take private moments for yourself. Your mind and soul needs the rest. Besides, you can party hardy longer if you aren’t fatigued or famished.

5. Thank your guests. They did more than eat and drink for free – they used their free time to celebrate your marriage.

Frequenting the wedding blogosphere has provided interesting stances on all things wedding, and few were as fascinating as the great guest debate. “But I’m paying for their food and driiinnkkksss!” bemoan the bridezillas. Ah, yes. But your guests have taken precious time from their day to celebrate with you, love you, and make a commitment to encourage you. That’s serious business. On the same token, minor characters celebrate, love, and commit to their writer – even the most vile of characters have loyalty. If not, they aren’t being appreciated. You created them? Lovely. Any writer who has ever written about more than what a field of wheat grass looks like – especially in the beginning stages of their writing career – has witnessed total character mutiny. You tell them to go right, they go left. You tell them to love Mary, they love Jane. Remember how important they are and they will swear allegiance right back.

One day soon, I’ll write a post about it. Maybe just a private one. I want to lock in the feelings and emotions before they fade to fond memories. It should have been done the next day, but my emotions were raw and chaotic. The forlorn feeling still swims around my heart, wishing I could have talked to more people, taken pictures with more friends, paid greater attention to the toasts made to etch each line of love into my memory. But it was a beautiful day, far more amazing than I could have hoped, and now I can finally return to my other passions and loves. My mind still struggles to accept every waking moment needs not be dedicated to all things wedding.

But my manuscript? Jumping for joy. We have missed each other. Onward, my friends! Let’s make a beautiful story together.