A.M. Riley's Blog, page 3
November 6, 2012
Writing backwards
Yesterday I 'fixed' a chapter. Which means I wrote 1000 words more or less, but deleted about 1800. I'm down 685. I don't know if it's better or worse, but at least I'm working on it.
November 4, 2012
word count
Yesterday was a miserable writing day. Wrote only 500 and deleted 900. So I'm down 400. Today I am approaching the problem area. If I can just work this part out I might start making some progress.
November 2, 2012
Day Two
Yesterday I wrote 1200 words and deleted 900, so I'm at 300. So sad, but that's how it goes.
I may have mentioned 'If Not for You' some time ago, when I first started it. I sometimes start books and finish them years later. This one is about a wheeling dealing stockbroker, Eric Tack, living in San Francisco, who is trying to recover from the crash of 2008. He hears that the man he loved and lost has been murdered and that he, Eric, has been named in the man's will.
The entire book takes place in Humboldt County, up in the Redwood National Forest, where so many grow houses, legal and illegal, exist. I got stuck on one of the main character's personalities. I couldn't seem to nail him down which, you can imagine, created a major problem. I've written the beginning and the end. I'm kind of flopping around in the middle trying to get a grip.
I may have mentioned 'If Not for You' some time ago, when I first started it. I sometimes start books and finish them years later. This one is about a wheeling dealing stockbroker, Eric Tack, living in San Francisco, who is trying to recover from the crash of 2008. He hears that the man he loved and lost has been murdered and that he, Eric, has been named in the man's will.
The entire book takes place in Humboldt County, up in the Redwood National Forest, where so many grow houses, legal and illegal, exist. I got stuck on one of the main character's personalities. I couldn't seem to nail him down which, you can imagine, created a major problem. I've written the beginning and the end. I'm kind of flopping around in the middle trying to get a grip.
November 1, 2012
NaNoWriMo
I've never done it but it seems like it might be the kick in the butt I need, so I'm going to do the NaNoWriMo on 'If Not for You' this month.
Today is my first day. The book is 62,638 words currently, and I don't expect to publish more than 90,000 but if you knew my process you would weep for me. This is the point in my novels where I start savagely brutalizing my story. Cutting out characters, scenes, chapters. For every word I write, I delete at least another word somewhere else. So. If I can write 50,000 and delete 20,000 I should be doing well.
I'll blog about the journey. It will probably be boring. Day after day of: wrote 1200, deleted 1200, but I am going to finish this book and I'm going to be happy with it when it's done!
Today is my first day. The book is 62,638 words currently, and I don't expect to publish more than 90,000 but if you knew my process you would weep for me. This is the point in my novels where I start savagely brutalizing my story. Cutting out characters, scenes, chapters. For every word I write, I delete at least another word somewhere else. So. If I can write 50,000 and delete 20,000 I should be doing well.
I'll blog about the journey. It will probably be boring. Day after day of: wrote 1200, deleted 1200, but I am going to finish this book and I'm going to be happy with it when it's done!
October 29, 2012
101 ways to procrastinate
Last weekend, I finished painting and unpacking my office. The desk faces a window which, now, shows me a patio with sculptures and azaleas. No more excuses, I was going to finally sit down and finish 'If Not for You' this weekend.
But I let myself get distracted again. I tried to 'save money' by re-purposing the old sprinkler system valves to go from the main water line to the old sprinkler system. None of these were properly rigged to begin with and my messing around with them was the last straw. 'POP' went a few joints and water sprayed everywhere until I turned off the main valve. Now I have no water and had to use the studio gym to shower this morning.
In retrospect, I know I did this on purpose on some deep subconscious level. I can FEEL that I didn't want to sit at that desk, open the laptop, and deal with those odious story issues at the place I left off in the book. Now I have a serious problem that will cost money to fix and be yet another really good excuse to delay finishing the book. This has got to stop.
And the epiphany I had this weekend was this: If I wait until everything in the house is exactly as I want it to read, play with my friends and, yes, write, I will NEVER do any of the above.
So I vow to you all and to myself: For the next three weeks I am going to open the book to the iffy chapters and fix the problems. I am going to soldier through this damned thing one way or another so that it's finished before the end of the year. The popcorn on the ceilings, the brown patches in the lawn, the weird plumbing issues and even the rust in the old sinks is going to have to wait.
But I let myself get distracted again. I tried to 'save money' by re-purposing the old sprinkler system valves to go from the main water line to the old sprinkler system. None of these were properly rigged to begin with and my messing around with them was the last straw. 'POP' went a few joints and water sprayed everywhere until I turned off the main valve. Now I have no water and had to use the studio gym to shower this morning.
In retrospect, I know I did this on purpose on some deep subconscious level. I can FEEL that I didn't want to sit at that desk, open the laptop, and deal with those odious story issues at the place I left off in the book. Now I have a serious problem that will cost money to fix and be yet another really good excuse to delay finishing the book. This has got to stop.
And the epiphany I had this weekend was this: If I wait until everything in the house is exactly as I want it to read, play with my friends and, yes, write, I will NEVER do any of the above.
So I vow to you all and to myself: For the next three weeks I am going to open the book to the iffy chapters and fix the problems. I am going to soldier through this damned thing one way or another so that it's finished before the end of the year. The popcorn on the ceilings, the brown patches in the lawn, the weird plumbing issues and even the rust in the old sinks is going to have to wait.
September 28, 2012
Lost again
Good news first: I now can mow my lawn!!! With the help of two well-meaning neighbors, I finally sorted out what I was doing wrong and my lawnmower started last weekend on only the second try. One of those neighbors even asked me if he could trim the edges with his new trimmer.
Um. Sure?
Then he GAVE me an old manual trimmer which I love love love to pieces. I wish I had more edges to trim.
I know this will all get old soon enough but it's still new and wonderful. And my garage smells like fresh mowed grass which is a nice smell anyway and now makes me feel successful and victorious and like a growed up woman.
And, even better, I now feel a little more at home because I have nice neighbors. Which helps because last week when the pit bulls attacked us nobody came to help and I was starting to wonder if there was anyone out there anymore who actually gave a hoot about people.
On another note, I've read several blogs recently about writers who create fictitious online persona so that they can go onto sites like Amazon and Goodreads and dis the competition. Now let me explain why I am shocked and horrified by this news. You see, I've always kind of thought of writers as MORAL. Because there is so little money or fame for most of us, I figured we did it out of a kind of hopeless, if loving, compulsion to create. How much more of the already paltry money or fame could one really obtain from giving one star reviews to every other writer of similar genres on goodreads? Or how much of the creative time it takes to write a fictitious scathing review is really recompensed adequately? Wouldn't it be more useful just to work on the book at hand and let the process out there take care of itself? I don't get it. I thought, in this cold cruel world, that other writers would be my FRIENDS.
Of course, I DO have friends of the writerly persuasion. Thank goodness. They talk me off the cliff. They kindly point out the places where my book goes awry. I couldn't survive without them. I hope they aren't the exception to the rule, like the neighbors who came over unasked and helped me out of a jam this weekend.
Um. Sure?
Then he GAVE me an old manual trimmer which I love love love to pieces. I wish I had more edges to trim.
I know this will all get old soon enough but it's still new and wonderful. And my garage smells like fresh mowed grass which is a nice smell anyway and now makes me feel successful and victorious and like a growed up woman.
And, even better, I now feel a little more at home because I have nice neighbors. Which helps because last week when the pit bulls attacked us nobody came to help and I was starting to wonder if there was anyone out there anymore who actually gave a hoot about people.
On another note, I've read several blogs recently about writers who create fictitious online persona so that they can go onto sites like Amazon and Goodreads and dis the competition. Now let me explain why I am shocked and horrified by this news. You see, I've always kind of thought of writers as MORAL. Because there is so little money or fame for most of us, I figured we did it out of a kind of hopeless, if loving, compulsion to create. How much more of the already paltry money or fame could one really obtain from giving one star reviews to every other writer of similar genres on goodreads? Or how much of the creative time it takes to write a fictitious scathing review is really recompensed adequately? Wouldn't it be more useful just to work on the book at hand and let the process out there take care of itself? I don't get it. I thought, in this cold cruel world, that other writers would be my FRIENDS.
Of course, I DO have friends of the writerly persuasion. Thank goodness. They talk me off the cliff. They kindly point out the places where my book goes awry. I couldn't survive without them. I hope they aren't the exception to the rule, like the neighbors who came over unasked and helped me out of a jam this weekend.
September 10, 2012
lawn mowing and liberation
I want to mow my own lawn.
I've been dreaming of a garden for over a decade and now that I finally have property, I want to maintain ALL of it. Every rock and weed. So, the men who were mowing the lawn, who continued mowing the lawn after I bought it, like some old hereditary serfs, had to go.
Well, to excuse my heartless letting-go of hard working men in this economy, the lawn hadn't had more than a mow and a trim in YEARS. It was 75 percent serge, dandelion, and some other noxious weed I couldn't identify, and just a little bit of grass. The grass was hanging on for dear life. So I organically fertilized and then began weeding and reseeding by hand. A foot at a time.
The lawn men kept mowing everything. The new seed, the old weeds. I couldn't identify and pull the weeds, and my newly seeded grass was doomed. So that was part of the reason.
I'll bet they laugh at me now. The lawn is now great huge spots of brown recently seeded fertized ground, remaining serge, and foot long grass. I'll bet they drive by and make disgusted noises and think 'serves that mean b**** right' when they see it. It looks like the pelt of some great green molting animal.
I've got a lawn mower. I bought it new. I read the manual cover to cover. And I can't start it. I thought it was because of something I didn't put together correctly. Or some basic misunderstanding about the mechanics of the thing, but I finally stooped to ask a young man for help. And he started it right away.
I mowed for a bit and then aggravated the machine in some way and it gave a great 'POP' and died. I was too embarrassed to ask the young man again, so here I am with a half mowed lawn, weeds, lumps of fertilized as yet ungrown patches. And a brand new shiny orange lawn mower.
This is my mother's fault. Or my father's. I give them both equal responsibility for never teaching me this simple task. I learned to cook, and iron and clean. I can, resentfully but adequately, feed a room full of hungry men if necessary.
But I can't mow the damned lawn. That was my brother's job. That and taking out the trash. I HAVE mastered that manly task, at least.
Alright it's nobody's fault but my own. I like the idea of machines. The plans and instructions. I love computers. Clean, transistors and mother boards and neat little cables and stuff. But oily greasy hot things with metal parts and rows and rows of DANGER in the instructions just never turned my crank.
I don't like to maintain my automobile either.
I hang my head in shame. I am a lousy feminist.
With an ugly lawn.
I've been dreaming of a garden for over a decade and now that I finally have property, I want to maintain ALL of it. Every rock and weed. So, the men who were mowing the lawn, who continued mowing the lawn after I bought it, like some old hereditary serfs, had to go.
Well, to excuse my heartless letting-go of hard working men in this economy, the lawn hadn't had more than a mow and a trim in YEARS. It was 75 percent serge, dandelion, and some other noxious weed I couldn't identify, and just a little bit of grass. The grass was hanging on for dear life. So I organically fertilized and then began weeding and reseeding by hand. A foot at a time.
The lawn men kept mowing everything. The new seed, the old weeds. I couldn't identify and pull the weeds, and my newly seeded grass was doomed. So that was part of the reason.
I'll bet they laugh at me now. The lawn is now great huge spots of brown recently seeded fertized ground, remaining serge, and foot long grass. I'll bet they drive by and make disgusted noises and think 'serves that mean b**** right' when they see it. It looks like the pelt of some great green molting animal.
I've got a lawn mower. I bought it new. I read the manual cover to cover. And I can't start it. I thought it was because of something I didn't put together correctly. Or some basic misunderstanding about the mechanics of the thing, but I finally stooped to ask a young man for help. And he started it right away.
I mowed for a bit and then aggravated the machine in some way and it gave a great 'POP' and died. I was too embarrassed to ask the young man again, so here I am with a half mowed lawn, weeds, lumps of fertilized as yet ungrown patches. And a brand new shiny orange lawn mower.
This is my mother's fault. Or my father's. I give them both equal responsibility for never teaching me this simple task. I learned to cook, and iron and clean. I can, resentfully but adequately, feed a room full of hungry men if necessary.
But I can't mow the damned lawn. That was my brother's job. That and taking out the trash. I HAVE mastered that manly task, at least.
Alright it's nobody's fault but my own. I like the idea of machines. The plans and instructions. I love computers. Clean, transistors and mother boards and neat little cables and stuff. But oily greasy hot things with metal parts and rows and rows of DANGER in the instructions just never turned my crank.
I don't like to maintain my automobile either.
I hang my head in shame. I am a lousy feminist.
With an ugly lawn.
September 8, 2012
new things
Firstly, I've finally 'moved in' to my new home.
I like it. There's a lot more room, and a walled in garden for the dogs. I've putzed around out there, moving stones and reinforcing walls. I had some nice men come and take out trees. I bought patio chairs and I sit at them in the evening, drinking mineral water and almost in tears with gratitude as I watch the sunset from the safety and quiet of my own little yard. Several years ago times were really tough and I can't forget how close it all was to catastrophe. This is a blessing and you'd think I'd be throwing parties, painting, decorating, throwing out old crap and generally celebrating owning my first home.
But mostly I've shoved the carefully packed boxes into closets, hunkered down in a chair in the corner of my nearly empty living room and entered a state of shock.
I realize that I don't do well with change. This is a surprising realization because I imagined myself to still be the wild 19 year old rebel who moved 11 times in one year, dragging 5 boxes of books, an old samsonite suitcase and a skinny yellow cat with me all over Los Angeles. But age and the various horrible events that life throws at one have made me nervous and careful and hermit-like. If I didn't have a job I'd probably wander the house in an old stained robe, hair tangled and held haphazardly up with some pins; spotty glasses crooked on my nose and no make up... A female version of Howard Hughes in his dotage.
And then (worse!) I stumbled across the works of Alan Hollinghurst and that was my excuse for not attending to anything. I'm on the fourth book now.
I've got my desk in a room which will be a library/office. Such a luxury! I have an office that doesn't have to do duty as a guest room, or even as a storage room for all of my daughter's memorabilia. But I can't work in there. I go in, sit down. Set my laptop up and look out the window and its just not right. it's not the window I look out of when I'm working. The palm tree with the family of rats is gone and there is this weird, foreign stucco wall. Ugly little succulent ground cover. A worrying stain of water near the front mat, coming from the house???
I get up from the desk and come back to my chair in the corner of the living room. So far this is the only place I feel comfortable. I've got a bunch of books on the boil, but I can't work on them. I hate this. It feels awful.
And then there are so many wonderful books to read, and a walled garden to sit in while reading them...
I like it. There's a lot more room, and a walled in garden for the dogs. I've putzed around out there, moving stones and reinforcing walls. I had some nice men come and take out trees. I bought patio chairs and I sit at them in the evening, drinking mineral water and almost in tears with gratitude as I watch the sunset from the safety and quiet of my own little yard. Several years ago times were really tough and I can't forget how close it all was to catastrophe. This is a blessing and you'd think I'd be throwing parties, painting, decorating, throwing out old crap and generally celebrating owning my first home.
But mostly I've shoved the carefully packed boxes into closets, hunkered down in a chair in the corner of my nearly empty living room and entered a state of shock.
I realize that I don't do well with change. This is a surprising realization because I imagined myself to still be the wild 19 year old rebel who moved 11 times in one year, dragging 5 boxes of books, an old samsonite suitcase and a skinny yellow cat with me all over Los Angeles. But age and the various horrible events that life throws at one have made me nervous and careful and hermit-like. If I didn't have a job I'd probably wander the house in an old stained robe, hair tangled and held haphazardly up with some pins; spotty glasses crooked on my nose and no make up... A female version of Howard Hughes in his dotage.
And then (worse!) I stumbled across the works of Alan Hollinghurst and that was my excuse for not attending to anything. I'm on the fourth book now.
I've got my desk in a room which will be a library/office. Such a luxury! I have an office that doesn't have to do duty as a guest room, or even as a storage room for all of my daughter's memorabilia. But I can't work in there. I go in, sit down. Set my laptop up and look out the window and its just not right. it's not the window I look out of when I'm working. The palm tree with the family of rats is gone and there is this weird, foreign stucco wall. Ugly little succulent ground cover. A worrying stain of water near the front mat, coming from the house???
I get up from the desk and come back to my chair in the corner of the living room. So far this is the only place I feel comfortable. I've got a bunch of books on the boil, but I can't work on them. I hate this. It feels awful.
And then there are so many wonderful books to read, and a walled garden to sit in while reading them...
September 6, 2012
Review: The Line of Beauty
The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
You perhaps shouldn't read this if you haven't yet read the book. it is a little bit spoilerish.
It is apt that the protagonist is a student of Henry James. His prose has a clear precise simplicity that James seemed to avoid, but in many ways they are like. The beautiful rich descriptions of impressions and the emotional effect of objects and people. And, of course, a study of the upper class which seemed, to me, almost predictable.
When I think of the eighties, especially the 'party' days, I think of coke and sex. So many of my friends became addicts, burning through their inheritance, their scholarships, their lives. Happily many of them are now alive and well and clean.
Not so for many of my friends who contracted HIV before there was any medical knowledge of the disease.
It seems horrible in retrospect. But Hollinghurst reminds us of the wonder, and joy and innocence as the decade opened.
There are so many wonderful sentences in the book. So many surprising little humorous moments that sneak up on you. He gets under the skin of things and stays there, moving flawlessly in the protags head, heart.
I just learned that there was a miniseries adapted from this book and that in it the protag 'cons' his way into an upper class family. This isn't at all what motivates the hero of the book. He's really just looking for love...
Beautiful. I've read it twice and set it aside to read again. What a pleasure.
View all my reviews
July 13, 2012
packing
Yay, escrow closed! The move is on Tuesday. I can't wait to see my dogs scampering around their own yard.
But first I have to pack.
Why do I hate it so much? I'm compulsively organized, so you'd think I would relish putting my world in square neatly labeled boxes. But I HATE it. HATE HATE HATE. It is endless and boring and why oh why did I collect all of this stupid hockey memorabilia? Or these stupid stupid books? Why do I have SO MANY shoes? And electrical cables and plugs and gimcracks I don't even know what they are for? Christmas decorations, Halloween decorations, EASTER DECORATIONS????? What was I thinking? A massive collection of china, why do I collect china? Every surface covered with boxes, stickers and endless endless bubble wrap and tape. ARGH!!! And at the back of the last china cabinet...
... Yay, I found the alcohol.
I can pack tomorrow.
Any hints on how to make it bearable would be appreciated.
But first I have to pack.
Why do I hate it so much? I'm compulsively organized, so you'd think I would relish putting my world in square neatly labeled boxes. But I HATE it. HATE HATE HATE. It is endless and boring and why oh why did I collect all of this stupid hockey memorabilia? Or these stupid stupid books? Why do I have SO MANY shoes? And electrical cables and plugs and gimcracks I don't even know what they are for? Christmas decorations, Halloween decorations, EASTER DECORATIONS????? What was I thinking? A massive collection of china, why do I collect china? Every surface covered with boxes, stickers and endless endless bubble wrap and tape. ARGH!!! And at the back of the last china cabinet...
... Yay, I found the alcohol.
I can pack tomorrow.
Any hints on how to make it bearable would be appreciated.
