Milestone Marker

It comes a year later than I wanted, but as of 1:30 a.m. December 1, the first draft of my second book was completed.  Just saying that makes me want to immediately qualify that there is still so much work to do... but for the moment, I am remembering to breath and enjoy the moment.  It is, of course, bittersweet for me and it took a 5-day writing frenzy of sorts, with over 70 pages getting done between Friday morning and this morning.  At one point, I considered pulling an all-nighter just to drive it to done.  Never has being emotionally exhausted been so rewarding.

Of course, I believe I owe much to my new writing table and the Kid Rock disc I played over and over while I wrote.  Well, those two things, my ambition to finish before I turn 29 again next week and multiple pots of coffee.  And tonight, I recognized just how fortunate I am that I could take Friday off from work to devote an entire day of uninterrupted time to it.  Hell, I didn't even go out Friday night, I was THAT focused!

And what will I work on next?  Aside from re-writes and edits? Well, I've decided my outline of a short story I came up with earlier this year might get some attention.  I miss my shorts, which are completely unlike book writing.  They take a lot less time and is a different type of writing. Until all that, I'm taking the rest of this week to recoup (and regroup), celebrate this weekend and then dive back into it.

Mahalo.

A Retro Posting

I've spent the majority of this weekend doing exactly as I had planned, working on completing my second book.  I've made a huge progress, but I couldn't help but thinking back to that weekend nearly five years ago when I finished the first... It was May 28, 2006--a Memorial Day weekend Sunday... as many who know me also know, that is my Hemingway Weekend. And if you aren't familiar with that, well, go here.

It also reminded me, and sent me in search of a blog post I wrote that weekend... funny how something never quite change.  Thanks to the wise suggestion of my dear friend, Dave, I have the old blog, Blonde Energy, backed up.  So, instead of re-writing what holds as true these years later, I felt like re-posting part of that day.

*Note, the "Grandfather Stories" turned out to be a short, but brilliant piece ;) And with the completion of "The View Askew" I'll be reworking The View from 29 as I work on new stuff... stay tuned.

From Saturday, May 27, 2006:  Waxing about Writing:

Nothing, and I mean nothing, spells summer like the first long weekend of the year--Memorial Day weekend is finally here and thankfully, it is warm enough to be sitting out on my patio this morning, working on what will be the end of The View from 29... I will be posting the final pieces up by Monday, though some may come between now and then.

It seems like the right time. I'm really wanting to focus my time and energies in writing on a more personal piece--not that the View did not and has not been a very personal journey for me in many, many ways, but I feel a greater "calling" as lame ass cliches go. I feel a very strong need to work on what has been affectionately nicknamed "the grandfather stories" by my friends. Much like its moniker, that is precisely what the project is--the fictionalized accounts that I have been able to pull from people and what I remember hearing as I was growing up. I began in October of last year and am now, finally, ready to dive headlong into it.

I sent out an email to my family and friends this last week, letting them know about the sooner than planned View end--and the responses I've gotten are very sweet, very nice and very much appreciated. I don't feel bad about leaving behind my chick lit lifestyle for the time being; you learn much more from writing when you make it public than just the process and experience. Your writing becomes a reflection on you that even though people close to you know it isn't necessarily true, the expectation comes that you will live up to an ideal. In some ways, that can be fun--like flirting with fantasy. Then there are the days that you hear the guy behind the counter at the establishment you are in whisper to his co-worker that, "Oh my god, that is Nikki Barr, she writes a website, I partied with her once." Yeah, I've partied with a lot of people--once; sometimes once is one time too many.

The other day, I was talking about writing with a friend who also writes and we had a great conversation that writing isn't really a process as it is how you live your life. Great writers know that in order to live, you have to write, but, in order to write, you have to live. A favorite quote of mine on writing comes from Henry David Thoreau:

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.

I remember the first time I read Thoreau (Walden); I believe it was in the ninth grade, I found it torturous and could not understand why someone would do what he did, but as time passed, I fell in love with the notion and gained a deeper understanding. There is a fine line for a writer between writing it and living it. I was reminded by a co-worker about Hemingway--who would write until he had to drink the rest of the day. It was a humorous analogy in the context of the conversation at the time, but it fits here, too. Writing is not just something we do, it is part of how we breathe. Yes, I'm vain enough to put myself into the same category as Thoreau and Hemingway because, like them, I could not function without writing.

People who are writers have to write, there is no other way to function. Ironically, it is this need, and this ultimate basic drive that has caused the downfall of so many... writers are like pirates: we are trapped by what ultimately frees us. Woolf, Hemingway, Hunter Thompson, Plath... Wikipedia actually has a good start on a list of writers who have committed suicide, this however, does not include those like Capote, Kerouac, Poe and Dylan Thomas who died of alcoholism. A quick Google of writers and alcoholism will find over a million entries on the "unproven" correlation. Some cite a possible creativity link, some look at IQ levels... all of it done really without a clue because they have never lived inside of it. That is really all I can say about it--I certainly understand it, it doesn't mean that I can explain it to anyone.

Writers know some truths cannot be exposed via words.

Chasing Dylan

There is little I can write about Bob Dylan that hasn't already been written to the point of inanity, but every time I see him perform, the urge is just too great. Recently, a little meme has been making its rounds about Facebook again on the 15 most influential writers.  I, of course, engaged in the exercise--how could I not?  Without fail, I had to include Dylan among the top 15.  He comes to mind almost immediately when I'm with my fellow writer/artist friends when the same discussion comes up.  I grew up on Bob Dylan.  I remember hearing songs from Blood on the Tracks and the LP cover of Saved before even my infatuation with Olivia Newton-John took over and certainly well before Madonna or Prince crept into my young, impressionable airwaves.

It is without doubt that because of Bob Dylan, I pursued writing at a very young age.  There was magic in the words... I know of no other way to describe it.  It was like hearing a painting. Quite frankly, it still is.

No matter how many times I hear "Tangled up in blue" I'm transported to another place.  There are plenty of others that do the same to me, but this one is always going to be special for many, many reasons... the layers of memories, people, performances, places, images... they never feel complete to me and yet, it's whole.

So, that's about all I wanted to say on that.  And if you are at all curious as to the other 15 I happened to list on that one random day, I've included them below, but there are many, many more--15 is simply as random as the list:

Oscar Wilde, Hunter S Thompson, William Shakespeare, Bob Dylan, Nikki Giovanni, Michael Chabon, Lewis Carroll, Robert Pirsig, Joyce Carol Oates, Geoffrey Chaucer, Plato, Niccolo Machiavelli, Ernst Hemingway, James Joyce, Maya Angelou

Better days

Everyone understands the negatives of an eating disorder--all the bad things that it does to a person, the people close to them, etc. (I say everyone loosely as we all know some people are forever and hopelessly clueless idiots) but all too often something that isn't understood, or understood well, are the positive things that someone gets from their eating disorder that make it so difficult.  You know it is wrong, but like anything that makes you feel good, you don't want it to end.

Yes, that's right, I said it: there are aspects of the eating disorder that can make the person with it feel good.  It's my own experience, and one I had to come face-to-face with this week--again. About Tuesday, I started to feel the rush of the accomplishment at having had only a bowl of granola, not eating even though I was managing a company lunch event... everyone asked if I'd eaten and I found myself just saying yes without thinking.  And then I started thinking, pleased that I really hadn't.  If I'd been paying attention I would have recognized the pattern two weeks prior when I started skipping dinner, just drinking coffee, and all the food I cooked in the fridge ending up going bad.  But denial is a strong ally.

By the end of Tuesday, I was feeling accomplished, in control... I knew going to the gym and doing my 40 minute cardio and 30 minute strength training on what I'd (not) eaten wasn't the best idea, but the satisfaction of seeing the calories burned creep up past the number I had consumed actually felt energizing--for the moment.  Like any addiction, you are caught up in the moment and not thinking about what you had to do to get to that feeling.  A company required health assessment and a complete lack of energy, propelled me to try to break out of the pattern. 

It's an easy thing to hide and one of the things that you do when engaged in the disorder is withdraw--from most everything.  You skip going out with others so you don't have to eat in front of them or be judged for not eating. You really just don't feel good about yourself (despite those short-lived highs)--for whatever reason.  But, because I'd been so good hiding at my desk, not going out with friends, not sleeping or doing the things I truly love (like writing, etc), I forced myself to just go out Thursday evening for a little while after work.  It was a drive home decision but it was enough for me to start to break out of the pattern.  Friday may not have been an improvement in that I hardly ate, but I started to talk to those near me--trusted friends--and started to deal with the anxiety that is one of my main triggers.  There was no pressure, and it wasn't easy, but I woke this morning grateful especially for one conversation I had before leaving the office.

Today's a better day; I wish there was a prize for every time I've spewed that statement.  Like I recently told a friend struggling with her own eating disorder for the first time, it isn't something that ever goes away, or is ever really cured.  The best we can do is take it a moment at a time, recognize our triggers, try to be self aware and call a friend.  It's easier said than done, but maybe one day, I'll just get it down.

Sunday to Monday

This weekend brought in some family from Michigan; my mom, cousin, brother and brother-in-law.  It was fabulous to see them since it's been since July.  We crammed in all the usual Philly visitor favorite things into a few very short days.  After everyone departed yesterday afternoon, I had plans to take care of a few things at the office and then commence the weekend laundry and groceries... 6 hours later, I left the office ready to collapse. No laundry or groceries today--as a result, I had a bagel and some Reese Pieces for dinner (which for anyone thinking that sounds good, it is, but the tummy ache that follows renders it not worth it. At. All.).

Last night was my weekly dose of Boardwalk Empire--a show I find increasingly irritating and predictable, but like a train wreck you simply cannot turn away from, I watch.  That was followed up with watching the LA Galaxy put a stomping on Seattle--I'd prefer to see the Union in the MLS playoffs, but next year!!

It seems that tonight is now another night where sleep will be hard to come by... not impossible, but just later, and with several commercial interruptions (not to mention feline demands to adhere to a schedule they are used to--where cats do not recognize time changes).  Still, I'm exhausted. I've already pretty much accepted the idea that the laundry may win this week... it has more than taken over a good part of my room and may very much continue to expand.  It is what it is this week.  I'm too tired to be too concerned and have a closet big enough to support my laziness this week.

Not Writing About the Rally

Enough people are writing about the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear today that aside from a comment or two I made on Facebook or Twitter, I'm not going to contribute to the noise (but I'm not above putting the name in my post to pull a little search engine traffic).  Instead, I've been sitting here listening to some old favorites--Indigo Girls, Jimmy Buffett and Jon Bon Jovi... and in listening to a song by the latter, Bed of Roses, I was thinking about some of the lyrics and my recent procrastination:

Tonight I won't be alone, but you know that don't mean I not lonely.

When I heard that line, that I've heard hundreds of times before, I thought of it in another context.  Admittedly fixated on how to break out of my funk, I often have to process the real reason for being there... and when it comes to the book I'm currently writing, it occurred to me this afternoon, I will (once again) miss writing this character.  Those who have had the honor and indeed privilege of previewing this book, or are familiar with my earlier self-published tome, know that I write in first person, and that character, while not me, is at times reminiscent of things I may say.  I might even use her to voice things I would never say in real life.  Like the last time I finished up this character's story, I missed her.  Writing characters you have to know them better than you know anything else and they all become a part of you to some extent. So, while I fully intend to pick up the pen to ink a new one, I will miss her until she's resurrected to her next set of adventures later on.

And now that I recognize this, perhaps tomorrow I can resume bringing this toward its inevitable end.  Of course, Bon Jovi's love ballad, I recognize, is a somewhat ironic tune to bring me to finishing up a book that is anything but the anti-love story.  Then again, perhaps writing about someone with a horticulture fetish might be interesting, if not terrifying (though appropriate).

Perfecting Procrastination

The last week or so, I've been remiss in working on my book.  It's bad, I'm close to the first draft being done--I'll have some major work to go back and write some missing sections, but the backbone is nearly complete.  I finally figured out how to end it and I'm even excited to write it, but I stall.  It occurred to me tonight as I did everything I could think of except work on it, that without a shiny new plan of what to write next, I don't want to be in revision hell while not working on something new.  I will figure it out soon.  In the meantime, one of my favorite ways to procrastinate has started--the opening of basketball season.  Just as the Union season comes to a close, the Lakers season begins.  The timing is perfect.  And in the spirit of procrastination, I have much more I could say, but I'm going to go off and be annoyed with Charles Barkley...