Under Pressure

Yesterday I found out I am the lucky winner in Davin's contest promoting his book The Wild Grass and the prize is both awesome and terrifying.  The prize is a critique of a manuscript and a 10 page critique by Davin's cohorts, Michelle and Scott (assuming they are available and willing).  This trio is the driving force behind The Literary Lab and though I know they are all awesome, inspirational writers, I'm a little intimidated too. 

The good thing is that I'm feeling a bit of pressure to have my manuscript up to their standards.  I have been in editing mode and I'm close to having one ready, but I can't deny that there is a little voice worrying about what comments I might get.  I say the pressure is good though because it has me motivated to get it done.  This is a grand opportunity to get feedback from writers I highly respect.  Oh, and if any of them are reading this, don't feel like you have to pull any punches;  I prefer brutal honesty over niceties any day.

On another front, I've got pressure to finish the Hacking and Countermeasures class I'm in.  I've just got one more Powerpoint to create and that one is in the bag.  It's been an interesting class, even if it has involved lots of paper writing and Powerpoint presentations.  I've got til the end of the month for that one though, so I'm happy to be ahead a little bit.

Lastly, I've got some pressure to beat my best and oldest friend at Words With Friends, an app he introduced me to on my phone.  It's a Scrabble kind of game, and since I'm the bookworm/writer between the two of us, there's no way I'm going to let him win.  It's been neck and neck though, and I'm pleasantly surprised at how much competition he's been thus far.  I'll never live it down if he beats me.
Anyone else feeling pressure lately?  Here's a little Queen to help you through.

Honesty Is The Best Policy...Especially To Ourselves

If it hasn't been obvious to everyone, I've been struggling with my writing lately.  Okay, the honest truth is I haven't been writing at all.  I've allowed too many excuses and the imagined lack of time to keep me from doing what I know I really want to do - be a writer.

It's sad sometimes how easily we deceive ourselves.  How easily we can create an imagined reality to cover up the truths that should be so evident.  Why haven't I been writing?  This has been a question that has been bugging me for some time, though I really didn't admit the truth to myself until today.

We bought a treadmill the other day and I was really excited to get back into shape.  I know so many of you would be screaming bloody murder at me if you saw the relatively decent shape I'm in, but I got tired of my waistline expanding and my wife wanting me to buy jeans in the next size up.  Yes, I only weigh 180, but I don't really want to start buying jeans that are larger than size 36.  Hell, I want to get back to my size 34 or even 32.

So once I had the treadmill set up, I jumped on it yesterday and exercised my butt off for a while.  I'm looking forward to the next opportunity (Wed or Thurs) when I can get on it again.  What does all this have to do with writing?  Well, in my case, both activities are very similar.

You see, I used every excuse under the sun to keep from exercising.  The gym was too far away.  I didn't want to drive for 10 minutes to get there.  Too much homework.  Yada yada yada.  All excuses, no real concrete reasons why I couldn't have just started walking around the block or doing pushups.

As for my writing, I have been using similar excuses (not enough time, no good ideas, etc) as a way to not write.  Today I realized how intentionally blind I've been about my own problem.  The real truth is that I've had the wind knocked out of my sails and I just didn't want to face the problems head on.  My dwindling time spent writing began right after I submitted my short story for critique in the writing class.  At that time, I used the excuse of setting it aside as a way to not deal with the revisions.  I told myself that this is how you do things.  You let it sit for a while, then you get back to it.  When the time came to launch back in though, I balked.  First I justified things by saying it wasn't long enough yet.  Then I just tried ignoring that the story was there, waiting to be finished.  Finally, I used all the excuses in the world to keep myself from dealing with "fixing" my story.

Enough is enough though.  Just like my excitement for getting back on the treadmill, I will pull out my short story and get to work.  While I am still sure it's a pile of crap, I know that's just self doubt talking.  The writing can be improved, the doubt can be conquered.  But lying to myself about why I'm not writing isn't going to cut it.

How many of you out there are allowing yourself to not write because of doubt?  If you've overcome it, what did do to get over the hump?

Contest Entry - Why I Write

This post is my entry in the contest B.J. Anderson is holding. What can I say, I want me some Twinkies (and the gift card wouldn't be half bad either).

The question she asks for this is "Why do we write?"

Unlike so many other of my fellow writers, I am not one who feels the call. I don't have so many little voices in my head having convoluted conversations, begging me to tell their tale. I don't sit up late at night with my fingers upon the keyboard, the words flowing out like so much golden honey on warm biscuits (okay, sometimes I'm lucky enough to have those moments, but it's rare). Oh, and yes I am incredibly envious of all you writers who DO experience these things.

I write for three reasons:

1. I've discovered I have the knack for it (even if it's only the rare occasion when I can look at a passage I've written and declare it brilliant).
2. Writing provides a platform for my creativity, a facet of my being that has been ignored (or forgotten) for far too long.
3. Writing makes me feel good, not only about myself but also about what I can give to those around me.

The first reason may sound arrogant, but I'm proud of myself when I write something worthy. If you can't recognize when you're writing well and give yourself a pat on the back once in a while, you may not want to consider continuing the pursuit. The other times when you feel less than worthy are just too depressing. This first reason is also me being practical. When you find something you do (especially if you can do it well), you need to embrace that. There are so many things we know that we can't do, that we need to acknowledge the things we can.

The second reason is more significant than the first. You see, my day job is that of a computer geek (a.k.a. server admin). Other than being an accountant or a taxman (no offense IRS), I cannot imagine anything less creative. After living too many years ignoring my creativity (or not having a decent way to express it), writing has given me an outlet for all that creative energy. I've heard you can explode if you bottle that stuff up for too long. Whew. Thank you, Muse.

The third reason is the most important of all however. I am a firm believer that we need something of our own that makes us happy. We need to have something that makes us smile, something we can throw ourselves into. Now don't get me wrong. I'm a parent, and nothing makes me smile more than my wife and kids. But they are not solely mine. I share my wife with my kids and visa versa. My writing however, is mine alone. And selfish as it is, my writing gives me great joy (even the difficult parts). I willingly struggle with silencing my internal editor (a herculean task to be sure), and I am so elated when I manage to write a paragraph without second-guessing my choice of words. I bask in the glow when I manage to write really well and someone else out there feels the same intense vibe after they read it. All of these things together sum up the fact that writing makes me feel good, like nothing else I've ever done.

Other than marrying the right woman and being blessed with two wonderful children, that is.

Though I have had doubtful moments when I thought I would never try writing again, I honestly cannot imagine really quitting. It's way too much fun.

Today is the last day you have to enter B.J.'s contest, so what are you waiting for? Drop a comment on her page or create a post of your own. It's Twinkies and a gift card at stake here, people!

Ten Word Tuesday - Habits

Forming writing habits is hard.

Managing to write daily? Awesome!

Yes, It's Hard...Really

Last night I was able to prove to my wife that yes, writing is hard. What made it more hilarious (to me anyway) was how the topic came up. You see, my wife is working on her Bachelors degree in Accounting. Like most other undergraduate programs, she has to go through an English/writing class. Her school (WGU, which happens to be where I graduated from as well) has her take a pre-test first to assess current knowledge. If she did well enough on it, it would be the equivalent of passing a final exam and she could skip taking the class. So as she was working her way through the questions, she asked me for help with one.

Now before you all stab me with spears, no I did not help her cheat on the test. Even though there is nobody monitoring her taking an online test, I refuse to help her cheat. And yes, I love her more than life itself, but too bad.

The question was similar to the following (not exactly, but you'll get the idea):

"Annie wanted to go to the movies, but she had chores to do. Annie's mother explained that once she was completely finished, she could go. So Annie worked harder, and soon enough she was heading out the door, whistling a happy tune"

In the paragraph above, identify the word that is an example of a redundancy.

I'm going to leave the answer to the question for commentors. First one to answer it correctly gets super cool bonus points, along with a virtual awesome writer trophy. Plus you can brag to all your writer friends. Really.

I did not tell her the answer, nor did I even tell her how to find it. But I did help nudge her in the right direction so that she could understand what they were asking for.

This then opened up the conversation on why writing is hard, even for us writers. I explained that this is the type of thing I have to go through on a daily basis, every time I sit down to write. I have to choose the right words. I have to make sure I'm not wasting words or using three words when two will suffice. The lightbulb over her head turned on as she realized just what I was talking about. She shook her head and (not for the first time) agreed that writing was not her favorite thing to do, especially considering the difficulty even us writers have to go through.

Chalk up one more person who understands our plight. Writing is exceedingly difficult. Besides the mechanics of the language, we also have to create a story someone will enjoy. Then we have to clean it all up so that we're not wasting words. Then we have to find and cut out sections that really don't work (a difficult task at best, since we have to get past our own viewpoint). And after all this work, we still have just a story, not a published book. I haven't even broached the subject with my wife yet on how difficult it will be to actually get it published once I have a finished, gleaming, awe-inspiring final draft.

Do people around you truly understand how hard it is? How do you go about explaining the effort involved?

A Small Excerpt

Since I had a burst of inspiration this morning, I'm going to post a small excerpt of a story I've been working on for some time. If you look back through some of my earlier posts (or you've been reading all along), you may recognize the character Kris. This is first draft stuff, so please keep that in mind. I like the way the story is going however, so I thought I'd share.

Mara sat across from him once more, her legs hidden beneath the pale robe. Her emerald eyes were hidden behind closed lids while her ruby lips tightened.

“Will you at least try to concentrate?” He jolted out of his examination of her with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry.” She pretended not to notice the flush that filled his face.

“Kris, you cannot perform your duties if you don’t know where these rifts are going to appear. You have to concentrate.” Her eyes were now open, boring into him with their usual fire.

“I don’t even know what it is I’m really doing. How about a better explanation than that last metaphysical crap you tried to throw my way?” The last few weeks had been filled with endless sessions of them sitting across from one another. He was supposed to be learning to control himself, put up walls around his mind to keep her out. He didn’t know why he needed to keep everything out, but she insisted on it, so he kept trying. Mara was too powerful however, and she would cut through his flimsy barriers like paper.

“We’ve been over this. You must begin with a thread, weave it around your thoughts until it becomes a blanket of steel.”

“I’m not a seamstress, Mara.” It came out harsher than he intended. “I’m sorry, but you’re too powerful. And what does all this have to do with black furry nightmares and holes in the universe anyway?” Kris jumped up and stalked outside, his frustration with himself boiling over. The whole thing made no sense, and Mara was holding back something important. He didn’t know what it was, but there were too many gaps in her explanations.

Her light touch on the back of his arm made him jump. “Do you think knowing everything all at once will teach you control?” Her voice was quiet, soothing his anger as if by magic.

“No Mara. I know what you’re trying to teach me is important. I get that. But if we’re running out of time, don’t you think you ought to tell me what’s coming down the pipe? And why do you go stare at those poles every morning? Why do I feel lines of power crisscrossing all over this place?” He turned to look down at her, his blue eyes demanding an answer.

Mara looked him over, searching for something in his face. “You are not ready, but I can see I have no choice.” She grasped his arm and led him to a nearby pole, unintelligible markings running down its length. “You do not know this language.” Not waiting for confirmation, she began to trace the characters with an index finger. “These markings are written in the tongue of the Kazak’Tun. The beast that attacked us was one of their minions. These poles are here for our protection, and these words prohibit any intrusions.”

She turned to face him, arms outstretched in front of her. “The ley lines you feel beneath your feet form a net I learned to craft very long ago, and they tie the poles together. It is a prison, Kris, designed to keep us safely inside.” Her eyes hardened to steel as she told him, “You cannot pass these borders Kris – not until I decide you are ready.”

The implications quickly sunk in, and Kris could feel his anger igniting. “Lady, I agreed to come with you because you were supposed to be teaching me something, not making me a prisoner. You ain’t turning me into some hermit so I can end up like you, hiding from the world behind invisible bars.”

“I’m protecting the world from you, boy. I’m protecting you from yourself. You have power beyond imagining, but you can’t control any of it. If that means I have to chain you inside a tiny box, you better believe I will do so.” The fire in her voice was echoed in her eyes. “And the Kazak’Tun will not stop their attempts to break through the rifts, so cease your childish tantrums. We do not have time for this.”

Kris watched her walk away, her stride quick and full of fury. Damn her. He had trusted her, and look where it got him. He didn’t care if she did know things. Nobody was gonna cage him up. He turned on his heel and strode purposefully towards the strangely marked pole. He was going to walk right out of here, and there was nothing that little lady could do about it.

Steeling himself, he built a wall of invisible force around himself. The hum of its power vibrated along his bones with aching familiarity. With effort, he took a step towards the border.

“Kris, don’t move!” Mara came running back out of the hut, terror in her voice.

“Adios, Master Yoda”, he grinned at her. “Don’t wait up.” As he took a step, time slowed to a crawl. Lightning raced through his body, every nerve firing in agonizing pain. His skull was ablaze, a migraine of catastrophic proportions. He barely noticed the familiar dance along his spine as the rift opened before him. Silver tipped claws shot out from behind the purple curtain and grasped his shoulders, pulling him violently forward into the gaping maw. Mara’s scream was the last thing Kris heard before the rift closed tightly behind him.

WIP Wednesday

I have been lapse in my posts, so forgive me. I'm trying to finish up my studies for a rather intense network security certification test, and I've luckily been asked to be an editor for a second area of Bright Hub (a website I write and edit articles for). So to say I've been swamped is an understatement. I have managed to get some writing done however, so that's a good thing.

I have been pushing forward on my story Illusions of A Deity, which will most likely end up as a short story (at least for now). I'm trying to use this opportunity to hone my craft more, not think so much about how I'm writing and just get it all down. Thankfully, I can say I am making progress and slowly learning to leave editing for the 2nd draft.

I'm also making my way through the book Devil's Gold by Julie Korzenko. I won this a while back in a contest, and after chatting with the author briefly, I have managed to wrangle an interview. I will be putting up both the interview and review of this book sometime later this month. From what I've read so far however, this is an engaging story that is definitely keeping my attention.

Lastly, I received a notice from Barnes and Noble bookstore that Dan Brown's latest entry in the saga of the Da Vinci Code storyline is coming out soon, and I'll be able to save a little bit pre-ordering it. The book is titled The Lost Symbol, and evidently the events in it happen just after the Da Vinci Code. I'm a fan of his literature, so you know I'll be picking it up. Now I'm off to peruse everyone else's blogs, since I am woefully behind on dropping by. My apologies, friends.

Where Do I Go From Here?

So who the heck am I? Thats not an easy question to answer, but I'll try to give the best answer possible. I'm a computer geek who has decided computers really aren't all that interesting anymore. Or maybe its that the sameness of everyday dealing with them has made them pale in comparison to so many other things I could be occupying my time with. My name is Eric, and I'm an aspiring writer who hopes someday to be able to consistently "work my muse", as it were. But what does that mean? To answer that question means going back to the beginning and starting a story. Go ahead and get your coffee and snack, snuggle down into the chair, and get prepared for something truly interesting.

A beginning is always hard to start, particularly for someone who is trying to find his muse. Writing has not been something that comes easily to me, except for those few moments when I get in "the zone". Judging from the number of writers that profess this same issue, I'm not completely alone in this. Thats a relief. But back to my story. Quite some time ago, when I was a young pup in high school and quite unsure of myself, I had to write a story for English class. The cool thing was that I got to choose what to write. Sure, I had written other things in previous years, poems and such. But this one moment is the singular instance that stands out in my memory, so we'll start there.

I chose to let loose on my imagination, and quicker than I could believe it, I had a full-fledged manuscript of pure fiction. I don't know for sure if my fellow students found it interesting or not, but my teacher seemed to think it was good work. If I were the man I am today (or at least a more self confident teen), I probably would have recognized the potential and launched into a historical writing career. Unfortunately, that dastardly little imp known as Doubt crept along my backbone and destroyed any positive effort I might make for years.

Recently I decided to take up pen and paper once more (keyboard and mouse actually) and see what I could create. I'm now 70+ pages into a rough draft of a book, a writer and editor for brighthub.com, and ready to kick that imp to the side.

So the question remains - which happens to be the title of this particular post - Where do I go from here? I've heard writers say that blogging every so often helps them get over the "dry spots", those nasty hot deserts of wordlessness that seem to plague us all. This is one reward I hope to get out of this particular blog. And although this writing is an exercise for myself, I am hoping that somewhere out there I'll get somebody to actually read and enjoy these posts - or despise them with a passion, whichever the case may be. I might even be able to get some inciteful comments and improve my writing a bit, so that when my book is in its final draft, it will really be ready to send out into the world. Finally, somewhere along the way I hope to rope in my muse and tie him to my hip with duct tape, never to abandon me again. It sounds good anyway.