Taking Stock

Last spring, I took an online novel writing class. It wasn't my first. My third actually. I liked the classes, despite a few downsides. I liked having a goal and a deadline, and I really liked getting feedback from my teacher and peers. Even reading other people's excerpts was fun, and occasionally inspiring.

I've missed the motivation of the class during the summer. I do have a few things that the class provided. A goal, a deadline, and an awesome friend that reads my stuff and gives me feedback every two weeks. I have met with two other ladies from the class to do the same thing, but they have so much stuff going on in their lives that they haven't been able to write much.

As for the goal and deadline, my goal is actually to finish my rough draft by the end of the summer. As I discussed with my husband, the deadline can be interpreted a few different ways, but I originally intended it to be before fall semester starts on August 14. I have no way to track where I'm at regarding my goal, since I have no idea how long this book is going to be. I thought it would have three parts, but I'm just about done with Part Three and I'm not at the planned end yet. I always write at least a sentence per day, but some (very few!) days I write 10 pages. In total, I'm at almost 450 pages and 130,000 words. Since class ended, I've written over 160 pages.

I am incredulous. Truly stunned. There are so many days that I only write a sentence or two. Sometimes the sentence is three words. Sometimes I delete the sentence the very next day. I spent most of June in a slump, working through the middle of part 2. Even now, it's full of scenes I hate, that I know will be rewritten.

I'm not trying to brag. I guess I'm just a little proud of myself (very odd for me). I'll be 40 next month. I have spent my entire life starting projects and (almost) never finishing them. I look back over my life and I see an ocean of failed starts. I have a craft room stuffed full of supplies and abandoned, half-finished "great ideas."

Granted, I don't have what many so many people have in their lives. I don't have kids or trips or needy pets, but I do have my own obstacles. I have a full-time job, and classes during the semester and a husband who is very good at talking me into relaxing and playing video games (Which I also never finish!) instead of anything productive.

I considered posting this later, waiting until I had hit a more concrete goal, like actually finishing Part Three. But why wait? It's the journey part I've always liked. Today is just another step on the journey. Best to celebrate it while it's here. :)

So...Yeah. It's Been Awhile

My last post was 2011. It's 2017. A few things have changed since then. All I had posted previously was a few scrapbook pages, which don't even exist anymore in that form. They are a glaring reminder that my family scrapbook, while more complete than is shown here, hasn't been touched in years. And then there is this line I wrote in 2011: "What I want is to get the stories down, so if I ever have kids, they will be able to see a glimpse of what their maternal grandparents were like." That's a punch in the gut from my younger self. Thanks 2011 Dawn.

But we can't change the past, can we? Nor should we try to forget it. It defines who we are.

But that doesn't mean we should live there, either. Perhaps that's one of the subconscious blocks keeping me from going back and working on the scrapbook. I have often considered starting pages now, from today, then working backward until I hit where I stopped. At least then, I wouldn't be falling behind. But enough about the past.

I have a new definition for myself, for 2017 Dawn. I am a writer.

It sounds pretentious, doesn't it? I've never had anything published, not even in my local college's annual writing contest. But yet, it is what I do. There is no prerequisite for calling oneself a scrapbooker or a golfer, other than spending time scrapbooking or golfing (respectively.) I spend at least a few minutes every day writing on one of my stories. Sometimes, I spend hours. I've written at least one sentence per day for the last four months. I have over 400 pages written in my novel. I think I can safely call myself a writer.

What I'm not yet, but am striving to be, is an author.

I have noticed that when you say that to people, you get a spectrum of responses. A few people say "That's great!" along with some variant of "It can be rough getting there" or "(Insert name of famous author) got rejected (# of times), but they stuck with it, so keep working at it and you'll eventually succeed." On the other end of the spectrum, you have the naysayers, the ones who tell you what a slim chance you have of succeeding in such a competitive field. Now, I ask you, what do those people hope to accomplish? It's nothing good.

Please, naysayers. Like there's anything you can say to me that I haven't repeated to myself a thousand times in my head. My internal negative radio feed is always on. I try to tune it out, just as I try to tune out the naysayers.

But that's enough airtime for the bad stuff.

I will say again that I am a writer. It's something that's a part of me, the part that makes up stories or adds embellishments to stories that others tell. For years, I ignored it and it came out in my dreams, entire narratives that I enjoyed immensely, but forgot most of upon waking. I don't ignore it anymore. Now I cherish it.

That isn't to say it's easy. In fact, right now, I'm floundering through a tough part of the novel. I don't love where the story is and I tell myself all the time that none of what I'm writing now will survive the first rewrite.

It doesn't matter though. All that matters is that I keep writing and moving forward. Things have changed a lot since 2011. The key is not to spend your days obsessed with how bad the sentence you wrote yesterday is. All that matters is writing the next sentence.

And that's what this blog post is about. Writing the next sentence.