Amanda Frederickson's Blog: Musings - Posts Tagged "not-writing"

Last weekend my family was surprised by the arrival of two kitten litters! We knew one of the cats was pregnant, but it turned out her daughter was pregnant too. Magic had two little babies that survived and Callie had three.

Talk about a long weekend! After Magic's first little one didn't make it we were all anxious about the rest of the litter. The second and third ones didn't come until morning the next day, but they're both healthy and fluffy. One squeaks a lot, the other is quiet, so my youngest sister named them Phineas and Ferb.

Even though Callie had a litter before, half the family crowded down to the basement to make sure she was all right when she went into labor. Callie decided it was too much crowd, so she picked up her first baby and hid under the basement stairs in a box.

Now both mammas have decided to crowd themselves and all the kittens into the same box. They're an absolutely adorable little furry pile. My mother was talking about moving them to something more spacious, but mother cats are a bit like mother dragons: you let them have what they want! They've staked out their box, and they'll probably stay until the kittens are old enough to roam.

Sadly, my apartment doesn't allow pets that are less than a year old. But that doesn't mean I can't keep my eye on one. *Plotting....*

Life, the universe, and everything. Nothing happens in orderly fashion. It all has to hit at once, right?

My middle brother got engaged! We had a picnic for her birthday at the park where they had their first date. When she was opening presents, she saved his for last, but when she opened it there was nothing but plastic bags in the box. She turned around, and he knelt there with the ring. ^_^ Sweet stuff. She couldn't even say "yes" for almost five minutes, she was too busy being giddy.

So cute!

Well, 2013 kinda sucked. Especially toward the end with my landlord raising the rent while refusing to do maintenance, AND roping us into another month because we didn't turn in our notice during Thanksgiving (when they were closed).

It could have been worse. There was no kitchen fire and no incompetent "recovery" company that stole our stuff (2010), and I did get a lot of writing done, but no goals were actually met. It feels like most everyone around me had an overall lousy year too.

It wasn't entirely a loss though. I started this blog, I published some short stories, started a Facebook author page, and even though all three of the manuscripts I wanted to finish... aren't, all of them made significant progress and I have half drafts of Rose and Blood Queen under my belt. Rose gets to wait her turn until the other Gatewalkers are finished, but Blood Queen is still making slow progress. (Though well meaning, I think my ambitious plan to write three manuscripts at once instead of one at a time was ultimately more than I could chew. Lesson learned. One project at a time. Maybe two? Heh.) Oh, and remember that contest I mentioned waaaaaay back at the end of July? Its deadline was December 31st. I got it written, finished, revised, and submitted with time to spare. By time to spare I mean about three hours, but I wanted to give it one last go-over (and still felt crazy nervous hitting the "submit" button). HA! Take that 2013. One mission accomplished.

I did also manage, between the lovely crazy stress that ended up piled on these last two months, to learn some down and dirty tricks for writing around life, which I fully intend to apply in 2014, especially in packing/moving through January.

Oh, and I got a cat. He's an adorable monster. I seriously missed having a cat. ^_^

For 2014, one goal: read more.

I am now officially a resident of the Keystone state. How funny is that? And I think my cat has a vendetta against my Lord of the Rings posters.

Pippin (my cat) has discovered that the sounds of rattling posters will wake me up in the middle of the night. He has now completely destroyed my map of middle earth and has moved on to my Two Towers poster. He hasn't touched I, Robot, Tangled, my dragon poster, my unicorn poster, Star Wars, or any of the others (yes, I have a lot of posters, and finally have the wall space to put them up). I had to finally kick him out of my room or the bottom edge of my Two Towers poster would have been shredded. This seems to be the equivalent of his brother's obsession with knocking over unattended glasses. Which means that no amount of discouraging him will actually work. Sigh.

Maybe I'll just have to resort to framing them.

Well, the eight hour drive to my sister's wedding was interesting, but it was nice to hang out with family and friends that I haven't been seeing much of. I think I'm starting to get used to siblings marrying off (four down, two to go).

Heather was an absolutely beautiful bride, and the wedding at the park was just perfect. Some of the trees around the lake were blossoming with tiny white flowers, which meant there were tiny white petals all over the grass. The wind meant it was a little chilly, but the weatherman was wrong about rain - fortunately! We even made it home in one piece.

I was so frazzled at the end of April Camp Nanowrimo that I managed to leave the wedding present at home. Finally today I'm feeling like I've got two whole brain cells to rub together, which means I can take a look at what I actually managed to scribble out and make sure it's coherent before updating Blood Queen. The word "goal" also doesn't seem as daunting anymore, but I'm not quite ready to air those thoughts just yet.

One day at a time for the moment.

As the Saga of the Weekend of Doom has decided to continue, I decided to go ahead and post about it. I consider the weekend of August 8-10, 2014 to be one of the most terrifying of my life. And devastating. And exhausting. And awesome.

Every summer, anime fans converge on the Baltimore Convention Center for Otakon. I’m a longtime veteran of the convention, but this year Everything Went Wrong. And right.

I’ve never before experienced such an absolute perfect storm of personal disaster. I experienced abject terror that left me shaking. I waged war with my longest and strongest personal demon in an unexpected arena.

I won.

This year I read my writing out loud to a room of perfect strangers, and this year I cosplayed.

Allow me to elaborate.

When I was a kid I was absolutely fearless. I adored amusement parks – the faster the ride, the better. I made friends wherever I went, be it park, neighborhood, or the line at the grocery store. When I was four years old I trooped all the way from my house on the hill along the highway to the Roy Rodgers down the street – where I promptly learned the disadvantage of having no money.

Over the course of elementary school, all of that changed. I did poorly in school. I realized my teachers didn’t like me (dumping out my desk in front of all my classmates was a large clue) and I simply didn’t understand why. Uncertainty made me more guarded. I didn’t connect as well with others – kids or adults – anymore. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.

I was put in remedial math because I didn’t finish my worksheets as quickly as my classmates. I was lost in class because it was more interesting to read my chapter mysteries under the cover of my desk than the picture books we were supposed to have. I was absent minded – simply not caring about anything that wasn’t inside the cover of a book.

I was nearsighted.

No one figured it out until I was in third grade, which meant huge, pink-rimmed glasses at the same time that my mouth started determinedly shedding teeth. I also managed to hit about 5’ 3” before middle school. To put that in perspective, consider this: I developed a habit of watching my feet so I wouldn’t trip over my classmates.

A hammer and chisel were put to my confidence. Fear snacked its roots into the cracks with every hammer blow that said I wasn’t smart. Wasn’t liked. Wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t right.

I feared what others saw in me. It seemed that all I could ever do was wrong. I feared provoking wrath. Provoking ridicule.

Through middle school and high school I became a selective mute (which I only learned there was actually a term for about two years ago) because I was so afraid of saying something wrong. I only spoke to my family, a very select few friends, and my teachers. Even having several truly awesome teachers couldn’t undo the damage already done.

I hated leaving the house. The mere thought of talking to a stranger was paralyzing. Phones were my mortal enemies. What if I dialed the Wrong Number? What if the Wrong Person picked up? What if I said the Wrong Thing?

The mere thought of having to order for myself at a fast food restaurant was enough to trigger a panic attack.

Even after I started fighting it my senior year of high school, it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I was able to get my voice back (thanks to my absolutely amazing college crew, but that’s a story in itself).

Learning that battles can be won does not mean that the war is over. My fears still cling to my shadow. They sneak into unexpected chinks in my armor, whispering fresh insecurities. Speaking is still difficult for me, especially in areas outside my comfort zone.

This year’s Otakon went well beyond my comfort zones.

I missed last year’s Otakon because of factors outside my control, so this year I was determined not only to make it, but make it a good one.

Life had other plans.

Nee-chan and I found out at the reception desk of the hotel we wanted that not only did the booking website register us for the wrong dates, but the hotel was full. So was every other hotel in the area.

Not only were we effectively homeless, but so was the clunker that got us to Baltimore. Otakon and an Orioles game conspired together to fill all of the parking garages. It took most of the day to find parking off the beaten path and take the city train back to the convention center.

Then it was a mess trying to meet up with my youngest brother and his friend and trying to get our passes (though I have to say here that it turned out we didn’t have nearly as much hassle as many others this year).

Without a hotel, it looked like our already foreshortened day would be the only one we could stay for. The thought of having to turn tail and go home when Otakon had barely started was so dispiriting that both Nee-chan and I broke down in tears.

Worse, I hadn’t worn my costume.

I’ve wanted to cosplay since my first convention. I’m an old hand at Renaissance Fair garb, but to dress as an actual identifiable character always felt out of reach. I didn’t have the resources or skills to make a costume. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the money to buy one pre-made. Always an excuse.

Here’s the truth.

I’m the wrong shape.

Probably everyone has seen the amazing costumes that fans have put together for conventions. People have created incredibly detailed and time intensive re-creations of their favorite characters that are simply stunning. It’s amazing. It’s also deathly intimidating.

I really don’t have the skills to make a stunningly detailed re-creation, and even if I did, I could never actually look like the figure on the screen. For years I’ve let that stop me. Even when I lost 50 pounds it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t Right.

Because of missing last year’s convention, I had decided not to let another year slip by. With the help of a sharpie marker and some half-decent sewing, I managed to put a costume together on a shoestring budget. To my shock I even managed to find a mini skirt that fit me (my first ever) and leggings to go with it. I finally had a real cosplay costume.

Which I had planned to wear on Saturday.

I hadn’t worn the costume. The thought weighed on me more heavily than the question of where we would sleep – if we didn’t end up having to go home. Had I yet again given in to the fear of being “wrong” instead of doing what I dreamed?

Thanks to the very kind loan of a tablet and some internet searching, we managed to find another hotel. It was nearly 45 minutes out of town, but simply having a place to sleep was a relief. Finally we could just enjoy the convention.

While waiting in one of the universal lines, I scoured the pamphlet of scheduled events. These words jumped out of the lineup: Getting Real About Fantasy Writing. A writing workshop. Not a fanfic workshop, which Otakon has hosted before. A fantasy writing workshop. I go to just about every writing event I can get my hands on, so of course it was a given that I’d jump at the chance to attend this one, right?

The last sentence of the description invited attendees to bring a sample of their work to read aloud.

Read Aloud.

Instantly I choked. I’m perfectly happy to share my work on paper, but this was Reading Out Loud. In front of a room full of strangers. Not only fellow convention-goers, but the panelists as well. Professional Editors.

I didn’t have any of my Big Projects with me either. I only had a little fairy tale retelling that I’d been scribbling.

What if it was Wrong?

I wanted to go. I really wanted to go. Really really wanted to go. But if I went, I didn’t want to wimp out.

I wanted to present my work.

I needed to confront my demons.

It felt like everything that day had gone Wrong, and the idea of going in and volunteering for a potential train wreck seemed absolutely insane. The writing workshop was one of the last scheduled events of the evening. There would be nothing but waiting in between, and every opportunity to wimp out and run to the hotel to hide. I wouldn’t have to face the prospect of my little scribble being Not Good Enough.

I went to the workshop.

Fear wouldn’t take away yet another thing that I loved: my writing.

I submitted my name to the stack of volunteers.

That tiny hour was incredibly and unexpectedly useful. It was more useful, in fact, than any other writing workshop I’ve been to besides my very first (which had its own unique impacts because it was my first, and I was twelve years old).

Then the critiques started.

My name was called second. Second out of everyone.

I heard it and froze. My face went numb. They called it again and I felt my hand slipping up, like it belonged to someone else. I stood up and moved into the aisle, notebook in hand, and accepted the microphone.

What if my throat closed up? Would I be able to say a word?

My hand shook so badly that the pages of the notebook rattled.

The first sentence came out. Could they hear me? Was I holding the microphone right? Second sentence.

Then disaster. I stumbled over the third sentence.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The faery king’s daughter smirked in the face of her enemy. There was nothing left but the words on the page. Everything else became a blur until I turned the page and one of the panelists interrupted me to say I’d read enough. It felt like stumbling and falling flat on my face. I was supposed to only read a paragraph or two. I’d read half a page.

I held my breath. All I could feel was the soul deep shaking. Too scared to feel scared. Here it came.

Make it better.

The panelists commented on the pacing and some of the word choices. I knew I had to write down what they said or I would forget it the moment I got back to my seat. I barely managed to grip the pen, scratching out nearly incomprehensible notes.

They even had positive remarks, which I think still hasn’t sunk in.

Somehow I gave back the microphone and made it back to my seat without fainting on the spot. One of my fellow attendees held out a hand for a fist bump and I managed to scrape together enough brain power to meet it.

I’m sure the entire room could tell how drop-dead scared I was.

But I’d done it. I’d really done it. I survived.

I survived, and it would make my piece better.

Much better, actually.

Happily ever after? Not quite.

That weekend was made for battles.

I wore the costume on Saturday. I dyed my hair red (which I do often) and carved out bangs across my forehead with Nee-chan’s help (which I haven’t done since fourth grade). When I saw myself in the mirror I screamed because I had no idea who that person was. (Maybe one of my aunts?)

What had I done? I cut my hair! I was planning to wear a mini skirt in public. I wasn’t Asian. I had pink fingertips from the marker on my sleeves and pink ears from the hair dye. Wouldn’t people think I looked ridiculous? Would anyone be able to see the character behind pale, pudgy me?

Would it really matter to anyone but me?

I did it. I went out in the full getup, complete with mini skirt, leggings, and boots. I swung between being thrilled and wanting to scream because obviously I was absolutely nuts to even try it. I have absolutely no idea if anyone actually realized what character I was dressed as. But I did it. I thought that was the triumphal finish to the war.

Saturday evening I was ambushed from my blind side with no quarter given.

After a very satisfying convention day, Nee-chan and I went to the Build Your Own Raygun workshop (which was every bit as cool as it sounds). After some basic instructions we were all set loose to create, using components provided by the panelists. The piece I chose for my raygun barrel fought all of my (and my table-mates’) efforts to affix it to my grip. I ended up needing advice from one of the wandering assistants and some heavy-duty wirework to get it to stay put.

I happen to love doing wirework, but it takes time to do well. The next thing I knew there was only 30 minutes left of the two hour workshop, and I only had half a gun. Panic hit me like a jolt of lightning. I’d already been dropping things left and right and I was pretty sure that I’d slapped my poor neighbor with the end of a wire more than once, while so many others around me had not only finished their creations, but made them look awesome.

I freaked out.

“I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.”

I caught myself muttering it out loud. I sat there calling myself stupid over a project that was supposed to be fun. I’d woven wire around the uncooperative barrel, reinforced it with a copper tube, and essentially created a screw out of wire to ensure that not only was it stable, it was pretty. I’d carved out part of the plastic handle to fit the pieces together more securely. That sucker was going nowhere.

Yet instead of being proud of what I accomplished, I insulted my own intelligence because I couldn’t fit it into the workshop’s time limit.

I brought my raygun home to finish at my own pace, with my own tools.

I read my work out loud. I wore the cosplay costume. I managed to make a friend while waiting in line. And I am absolutely never allowed to call myself stupid ever again.

Maybe roller coasters are next.

The continuing part of the Saga? That’s unfolding this weekend. I’ll let you know if I manage to survive.

You know how cats are supposed to have nine lives? My youngest sister's cat has to have something like 3,000.

James "Jamie" Cameron MacPherson is my cat's older half brother from another litter. One morning, about four years ago, Mom heard this loud, squeaky mew coming from the basement. It turned out to be Callie's first kitten, a tiny ball of orange fluff. We all fell in love, but my youngest sister (Mizu - yes, this is her real nickname; yes, she's probably going to kill me for posting this; no, not all of my sisters have Japanese nicknames) is the one who named him James Cameron. Jamie stuck.

We added the "MacPherson" when his troublemaking streak came out, for Warehouse 13's season one villain. We learned quickly not to leave cups unattended, resigned ourselves to picking him out of the sink before washing the dishes, and learned even quicker that he was a climber. A serious climber.

Jamie balanced his way along mantles, bookshelves, shutters, you name it, he climbed it. For the first time ever, we had a cat who would take down a Christmas tree in a single bound. Jamie's favorite perch? Draping himself across someone's shoulders. (This was Mizu too.)

When Jamie discovered Outside, that was it. Outside had trees. He became an indoor/outdoor cat, whether we liked it or not. Back then I was living at my parent's house, and there were many mornings when I woke up to plaintive mews from the narrow sill of my second story window. He would climb one of the trees and jump the distance from the branches to my window sill, and then be stuck there until I let him in.

Who knows how many lives he used up in all his escapades, but he always came home (mostly) unscathed. Until the beginning of 2013, when his lucky streak broke.

Nee-chan and I were at the house, which was lucky because no one else was home at the time, when we heard cat yowls. It wasn't like any of the normal cat sounds and it scared us both to death. We ran outside and around the house. I found Jamie under the back porch, where we piled wood for the stove. He dragged himself toward me, squeaking. There was another cat there, which we chased off.

I scooped Jamie up and brought him inside. He had one little scrape, otherwise there wasn't a mark on him, but when I tried to set him on his feet he simply flopped to his side and lay there panting, looking dazed. My first thought was that he was in shock, so while Nee-chan called Mizu and my father, I bundled him up in a blanket and lay him close to the heater.

Mizu and my father took him to the vet. Jamie's pelvis was broken, possibly his tail as well. They might have to cut off his tail. He might not make it.

A few months later, after being confined to a cage to limit his mobility while his bones healed, Jamie was out of the cage, getting in trouble, and making regular escape attempts. He didn't care a bit that the end of his tail had no mobility, he was determined that he could still do everything that he used to, including climbing trees.

Not quite a year after breaking his pelvis, Mom woke up to a cat screeching. She found Jamie downstairs, dragging his back end. His back legs were cold.

My parents rushed him to the vet, who told them he had a blood clot that was blocking his circulation. My parents couldn't afford to put Jamie in a pet hospital, so they brought him home to watch him themselves, and bring him to the vet once a day for blood thinner.

A well meaning friend who had gone through having a blood clot herself told me to brace for the worst. This cat would die.

This last Sunday, Jamie scared me half to death by jumping onto my shoulders, then onto the kitchen table. He's determined that even though he has less feeling in his back feet, he can do everything he used to.

He's working up to trees.