Alisa M. Libby's Blog, page 5

hello to you, baby cow.

Here is our new friend. We met her at the Cumberland County Fair.

On the post there was a sign that read "Hi. My name is Roxanne. I was born on September 1, 2011."

She is a dairy cow (thankfully). We considered adopting her and letting her sleep at the foot of the bed. Sigh.

In other news, I'm working at my very recently purchased new laptop, because my little netbook finally (and quite suddenly, I might add) tanked. Ah well, it's nice to work on a real grown up sized computer for a change. And speaking of working, I have been writing. Very slowly. Carefully? Maybe. Consistently? For the past few days (since buying the new laptop) I suppose. But slowly, yes, definitely that.

little writing

On Saturday I awoke at a reasonable hour and did a little writing. I am ashamed to admit what a struggle this was – no matter how excited I am about this project (and I am) it was very difficult to sit myself down in that chair and actually get to work. I'm at a tricky place with this book: I've done the seat-of-your-pants rollercoaster ride of the first draft. Now I have an outline, a structure to follow. There are bits from the first draft I will keep, but a lot I plan to cut out. It's not just a revision, it's a page-one rewrite – which is par for the course at this stage of the game (if I were just revising, that would mean I'm holding back from really shaking things up). I've got a lot of notes spread out on my desk and I can feel the pressure of all these balls I need to keep in the air. And that said, there were so many things ready and willing to distract me (another cup of tea? a book? some radio?) if I would only let them.

But I didn't let them, and that is the feeling I must chase. While some scenes feel difficult to write, there are also some parts I can't wait to get to, some fresh new ideas I want this character to explore. And I've made a small start. There is much to do, but it can only be done one step at a time.

outline weekend with superstitions and kitty sightings

I had a weekend with my outline. It was an overall positive experience. on Saturday I added some detail and came up with some new ideas around one particular nugget of difficulty. By end of day Sunday I had thrown out all of my Saturday ideas, as they had made that nugget too complicated. Still, it was good to sit in silence and focus on an entire snapshot of the book. I know I'll certainly end up revising this next draft again (and again…) as that's just how I operate. But I don't want to think about that, now. A better way to think of it is that I don't need to make this draft perfect – as long as it's an improvement then I'll have something to work with in the next go-round.

Picture Source: fazen and Animal Photos!

I also experienced the benefit of taking a walk to clear the head. On Sunday, after rejecting those notes I had so diligently and excitedly written the day before, I needed a break. But not just a break to stand in the kitchen and eat peanut butter out of the jar – though tempting, I've found that this isn't the best use of time. So I tied on my sneakers and dashed out the door before it got too dark outside. Sadly, with no puppy in tow, but I'm getting used to walking our old routes by myself. That said, I did come upon a black, green-eyed cat who stared at me as if she read my mind: "I don't want a black cat to cross my path at night in a cemetery. I'll take this other route." This didn't go unnoticed by Miss Kitty, whose head swiveled around in impressive fashion. Last night, I found a black cat in my driveway when I arrived home from my walk. I don't know what to say about this except that my town has a feral cat problem, and that I miss having a pet.

i confess

Okay, I didn't do any free-writing this weekend as I had planned. On the good: I didn't let myself get too distracted and pulled into another new project, so aces there. But I didn't sit down with my work in progress, either. I did some gardening, some recipe-reading, engaged in autumnal cooking fantasies (so many apples!) and lots of reading. I learned how to download an audio book directly onto my ipod (so awesome!) and I took nice long walks listening to said audio books.

But YES, I need to tap into a more focused, inspired frame of mind if I want to get started on this revision this month.

Sigh. How about a little musical break? You may have already heard this song, but it's so wonderful and lovely. Meet the amazing Julia Easterlin.

is writing like chocolate or like work?

I'm sensing a pattern here. I get an idea and I want to write simply for the fun of exploring this world and these characters and their emotions without any pressure for said writing to become a novel. Then I write enough about these characters that I think, wait, these people are intriguing and there is a lot going on here – maybe this can be a book. And then I try to figure out the plot, and all the random things I threw into the writing for fun suddenly need to make sense. And this has the effect of wringing much of the fun out of the writing experience.

Perhaps this pattern pre-existed my writer's block in some form, but I think it sprang from a place where I was feeling very disenchanted with writing, so writing indulgent, free-form stuff was a way to get back to my love for it. But then actually structuring that free-form love sapped my excitement. Which seems childish and not very writerly. Needless to say, I'm fretting about plot at the moment: I've got a nearly twenty-page outline ready for my next revision, and I'm struggling to muster the strength to face all the work ahead. Other ideas whisper: "write about us. have some fun. don't think about plot. it's yucky and bad."

I'm probably making plot a bigger deal than it needs to be, asking too much of my ideas too early in the game. I'm not sure. Right now I'm torn about whether I should indulge in scribbling about other ideas, or if that means I'll be cheating on my book. I don't want to get too distracted.

goodnight, irene

Having a pile of movies doesn't help you endure a hurricane weekend if you lose power. But a pile of books certainly does! This weekend I read WITHER by Lauren DeStefano. I enjoyed it – there was something very reminiscent of THE HUNGER GAMES in the writing style, particularly the descriptions of the main character being prettied-up for her new husband. Interesting, dark, very gripping. And I recently read THE HOLLOW KINGDOM by Clare Dunkle – it was about a goblin king with two different color eyes. I visited her website and was gratified to find, on her FAQ page, that I wasn't the only one to think of David Bowie in the movie Labyrinth. She assured readers that there was no connection between her goblin king and the Thin White Duke. Alas, I REALLY enjoyed this book. The goblin wedding scene alone is worth the price of admission!

Oh yes, and I still have that outline in progress. I plan to get back to that this week. This is how I generally operate: there are times when I feel I can't read at all and can only focus on my own project, and other times when I'm hungry for other books. Recently I've been book-starved. But I'm hoping to get back to the outline this week and revise my opening very soon. Lots of work to do, and hopefully no more hurricanes to keep me from the netbook.

fighting with plot

I've been working on an outline of my current work in progress. I have a draft but it is very rough and I've already identified a bunch of things that need to be cut. Every day I update the outline, print, scribble all over my pages with notes, update, repeat. I noticed a couple days ago that, though I've got a (theoretical) first and second act set up, the third act remained an entire blank. The outline ended abruptly: Chapter 25 Final Confrontation. Yes, I know that a confrontation needs to take place, but how, and with whom, and to what effect? I couldn't figure it out.

Here's WHY I couldn't figure it out: because there was something not quite right about the preceding acts. The lead up to the final act is forced in some way; something is in there that shouldn't be, and I haven't developed the part of the plot that could contain a stronger, more compelling conflict.

This makes me think back to previous projects I've attempted over the past few years. Many a time I have created an outline – but, no, only PART of an outline. I frequently stop short at Act Three. In my eagerness to sit down and write, I told myself "I can't figure it all out in an outline. I'll write what I've got and I'll probably figure out how it ends when I get to that point."

Or not. Many of those projects still live in my files: a promising premise, but something isn't quite right with the structure and I don't know where it's heading and then – nothing. Act Three, if it exists at all, topples in on itself, exposing it's flaws and all the flaws of the preceding acts.

So now it's back to the drawing board, white board, bulletin board, pages of notes. There has to be something here that I'm not mining properly, some stone left unturned, some subplot undeveloped. I want to figure it out – as much as I can – before I start again on page one. I feel eager to write this book, which is a great feeling. But I don't want to write only to hit Act Three and drop off the edge of my manuscript, not knowing what comes next.

books help

Yes, books help. They do.

I go to the library and scoop up a pile of books. An embarrassment of riches, a treasure trove. Will I get a chance to read all of them? Unlikely. I've got towers of books at home, patiently awaiting my long overdue attention. But these are the books of the moment, the books sitting on the library shelf and just asking to be taken home on a whim. I've found some great books on a whim: The Moth Diaries, The Women in the Walls (something about crazy medieval nuns). I think I should visit a library every day, just to wander around the books that might indulge my latest fancy. And to chat with the librarians, of course.

post-dog

So what in the world does one post after the "my dog has died" post? I've been plum out of ideas. So this is just a little note to say hello to you all, I'm still here, having a rough couple of weeks but hanging in there. However, I'm pleased to say that I'm eager to get back to my draft – mess that it is – and start replotting/revising. More on that soon.

Roxanne.

Roxanne died in her sleep on Wednesday. She was thirteen years old, and we have had her for 12 years. My heart aches, and my brain is confused. We can be discussing her death in the kitchen, then I'll turn around thinking: Where is the dog? Sleeping on her dog bed? Napping on a laundry pile? Chewing on toilet paper? My Roxanne-programming is so embedded in my subconscious, it will take a while for it to turn off. As unnerving as this is (yesterday Tom and I both turned, certain we heard the click of her nails on the floor) I will be sad when it is gone.

She had a long life, and I think she was happy. She was certainly loved, and loved us in return. I think that is what hurts the most: a dog is made of love. Her long ears were made of love, and the soft spot behind her ears. Her short stumpy legs and fat paws. Her pink belly she loved to have rubbed. Her droopy face was made of love – both the left eye, which stared at us dolefully as we ate our dinner, and the right eye with its sewn, indented lid – and most of all, the drooping cheek that offered the perfect spot for a kiss.

Now I'm in the house, alone. It's too quiet. I walk into a room, and she's not walking in front of me, looking back and asking "where are we going?", or barking for a walk, or demanding carrots, or exposing her belly, or farting in her sleep. But we are glad that she saw fit to grace us with her presence for a while – and such a long while, at that. She had nothing but love to give. And that was more than enough.