I should write down the funny things I say. I always say I'm going to do it. Last night, I said about 20 funny things, and thought 200 more.I can't remember them. They had to do with writing. Always, with me, the writing. Well, the writing, the kids, the writing...
I am 35K words into my next novel, while still trying to find a home for the second novel. My second novel is fun! Different! Seeking an agent! The first novel was given to the writing gods as sacrifice.
This is my third novel. Thirty-five thousand words. But it's so complicated, I had to stop and create timelines for my main characters, because they exist at different points in time. It's a science fiction novel. Thank Arthur C. Clarke for this novel-in-progress. Next is ordering the scenes.I've written 35K worth of scenes, but the order is wrong. I will probably end up losing 10K words. That's what happens generally in writing, but by doing the scenes now (never mind it probably would have been wiser to do earlier) I'll not write myself into a tangent or a hole. There is only one ending. I have to get them all there.
None of that was funny. Because now that I'm thinking I should write down all the funny stuff I say, I can't think of anything funny.
It would be funny if you could watch me mentally block out the timelines and scenes... my children are so used to my brainstorming and plotting process that I'm afraid they think it's normal.
"Doesn't everyone's mother walk around the house frantically, muttering under her breath and pulling her hair?"
Because that's my process. I literally pace out plots, scenes, characters and conversations. In my house, I pace back and forth while imaginary people in my head in period/time costumes and intricate settings hold entire conversations, discussions and arguments.
I say things out loud like, "No, no, wait, she can't start off there, the fish girl has to. Mmm. I think her mom's crazy. Should I kill her? Yah yah she has to die, or it won't work." Then I grasp my hair. Because it's so complicated! "Okay, wait, I got it. She definitely dies."
The boys just walk around me to get to their breakfast/snack/lunch of Cup o Noodle soup.
In the meantime, an angel and a young woman are having a conversation in a dark room with a clock. The microwave in my kitchen goes off, and I'm back, out of my head, thinking, 'Cup O Noodle again?' but then the girl says something in my head and the angel responds. Hair pull. Whaaat just happened there?
Another Cup-o-Noodle in the microwave for boy 2.
Our grocery situation is dire. I hope someone does something about it soon...
That's my writing process. I pace, plot, write dialogue and scenes. The children eat Cup-o-Noodle.
I know, I know, I haven't been on the blog for a while, but it's the nature of my brain. (see above)
Sometimes, I have so many thoughts and ideas and want-to-dos that my mind is like a giant super-hurricane - all a force of ideas and thoughts that swirl and storm and run wild and unchecked. All I can do is hunker down and wait for it to pass. When it does, I wander around the wreckage of my own head picking up the jewels that got unearthed or were tossed to shore.
So that's where I've been - in the messy super-hurricane-jumble of my mind. On the outside, that looks a lot like me sitting on my couch eating chocolate-coconut cookies, reading epic fantasy, streaming bad video, staring off out the window daydreaming and/or pacing the house.
It is useful, in a way, I guess. It usually clears up the problems in my writing or helps bring clarity to whatever situation set off the super-hurricane. Luckily, it never lasts long. Well, except when I was 13. I think it lasted an entire year. I don't really remember 13. I was probably daydreaming.