Managing Weirdness
Today, every other word is an obscenity. I have the worst case of pottymouth in a while, and really, that's saying something. It took a physical effort to keep it relatively PG until the kids left for school. There's no particular reason, mind you. It's just one of those hair-on-fire, coffee-not-working, mouth-brain filter disengaged type of days.
I have those a lot. It's probably a mercy I work from home.
The trainer (I adored her on sight, and even more after meeting her own dogs and seeing how she greeted Miss B) came yesterday, watched me interact with Miss B., and told me I was being too passive. Which was thought-provoking. I never used to have any problem telling a dog what to do. But Miss B is very smart and driven, and I'm a little more laid-back than I should be. I finally said, "You're telling me I need to be more of the alpha bitch."
The trainer blinked and nodded. "For her safety, yes."
No problem. I can so do that. And it will be good training for the rest of my life. I am a doormat for those I care deeply about, but that's not good for me sometimes.
Yesterday also marks a first in my life: for the very first time, I let a trusted editor see work in the raw stage. That is, I let someone see an partial draft.
Normally nobody else will see a work until I've finished at least the zero draft, barring little tidbits and darlings I send to whet an editor's appetite and prove I'm hard at work. I just can't handle someone else's eyes on it until it's at least at the zero-draft stage. The wrong feedback can make things very difficult, if not kill the work outright–and by "kill" I mean send me into a tailspin of performance anxiety so severe it becomes obscenely agonizing work to literally sit and force myself to finish. I don't mind hard work, but it's ridiculous to make it even harder on oneself. Ergo, nobody but nobody sees the draft until I say it's zero time. (There's the added fillip of having any reasonable expectation of privacy shot all to hell during my childhood, not to mention during a couple of relationships, which turns me into even more of a paranoiac about this issue. That's a whole 'nother blog post.)
I felt a little silly going over ground rules with the editor before I handed the unfinished baby over, but at least I was clear about what kind of feedback I needed. "The only thing you are allowed to tell me is what you LIKE about this. Unless it is a huge flaming pile of dogshit that makes you want to take the advance back and never speak to me again. I need to know either of those two things, but nothing else." God bless her, she agreed.
There's a balance to be struck between keeping the tender shoots of the manuscript from a killing frost, and being so precious about it nobody will EVER see one of your works because you can't handle the strain. Maybe one day I'll reach a point where I won't care if someone sees the work in-progress. Until then, I just have to plan and work around my own weirdness. Which is, really, an everyday task, in life as well as writing. It is not necessary to trick yourself into being where you want to be–but it sure as hell helps sometimes. Writer, know thyself.
Over and out.
Related posts:Weasel Boy, We Hardly Knew Thee
Time To Wheeze Out The Old Brain
Revisions…And An Icon Contest!
