Life Preserver Please

I'm on the third big revision of my book and I'm at that point where I feel like I'm slogging against the current. And by current, I mean me. I am the fricking current. I know what I want the book to be, it's alive in my head, and (except for some details here and there) I know what the finished product will be. It's probably 90% there.

I'm just having a hard time digging in consistently. There are parts I'm still very excited about, and there are parts I'm just really tired of staring at. 

Here's the thing... there are a million major and minor revisions happening while you're just trying to get a first draft of your story complete.  Then it's finished and oh, the dancing and exultation! THEN you go through the entire thing and do a revision of all the crap that bugs you. You get feedback. Then you do another revision fixing the things that don't make sense to everyone else. And fixing all the glaring rookie novelist mistakes. More feedback. And then you take out all your word crutches and repetitions. Etc. 

Then you do another revision putting in all the really truly important stuff in your head that you pushed aside while you were just trying to get the plot/grammar/timelines down.

Then you really hope you didn't forget anything. And then you paddle frantically against the tidepool swirling around your head.

Dun dun DAH! Will our intrepid swimmer make it?!

Sigh. I sure hope so.


Winged Cotillion

My house is full of moths. I think there's a moth portal in here somewhere. (That's like a fairy portal, but for moths. But I don't know what those look like so I can't find it. It probably looks like something innocuous like a shimmer in the air or a cheerios box.) There are all sorts of moths, big ones and little ones, feathered and delicate and dusty. They pop up out of nowhere in every room in the house. Sometimes they smack me in the face, because they are nearsighted and need new glasses (obviously). And sometimes they eat my clothes. (Not cool.) And the cats don't eat them. Which is strange because I've seen the cats eat pretty much anything. I figure the cats feel bad for them because the moths are probably really chill and good conversationalists and they're always getting compared to butterflies and they probably don't get asked to dance as often at parties and THAT'S gotta get old so maybe the cats are cutting them a break or something. 

So I suppose I can cut them a break, too.

Go to the optometrist.


Five Minutes to Complain About Dialog Tags

So I finished my novel in January and I'm working on revisions. I keep running into articles and comments on the web that, frankly, are frustrating me. Mainly because I view many of these conversations as opinions on style preferences, and not as infallible "rules of writing".

For example, there is a school out there that believes dialog tags should only ever contain the words "said" or "ask". We'll call this School of Thought 1 (ST1). As in...

    "But it was always blue," she said.

    "No," he said, "It was wet."

    "What about dinner?" asked the dog.

This school believes that in general dialog tags should be fairly invisible or eliminated when possible. ST1 does not believe words like "insisted" or "commented" or "complained" (like I'm doing) should be used.

Then of course, there is another school of thought (ST2) that thinks these tags are fine. Language is rich! Use it to its best advantage! 

Still, a third school of thought thinks that dialog tags should never be used AT ALL! All indication of the speaker should be shown through action. For example...

    "But it was always blue." She yanked down the ostrich feather.

    "No." Mark lobbed toilet paper at the ceiling. "It was wet."

    "What about dinner?" The dog made a jump for the feather, knocking one of the toilet papers awry.

(Now my problem with ST3 is how do you know the dog just asked that? It could have been the woman. This is where "he said" could be really useful in letting us know the dog is a genetically enhanced pooch with the ability to communicate. Or you could use "he woofed" and then we know the dog is just thinking about his dinner and the stupid humans can't understand him. Again. Poor puppy.)

In my writing I use a combination of all of these methods, depending on what's happening and the pace I want to set.  It's just how I've always written.  It's even... dare I say it?... how I was taught!  (GASP! You mean, you were taught more than one method?!  Yes, yes I was.)  Because, truth be told, NONE of these methods are INCORRECT. 

I just want to put that out into the universe.

This would be an incorrect use of dialog tags.

    "But it was always blue," she shimmied.

    "No" He gnashed "It was wet."

    The dog, playing the flute, said, What about dinner?

Not to say I don't need to edit or eliminate my own dialog tags. That's what revision is for. We all know that reading is completely subjective. But for other writers out there who might be confused by conflicting advice, I just want to say... sometimes style preferences are subjective, too.  

Just like opinions. :)


Go

So I've been working on my novel. I know, right!? Finally! And this is where I start blogging again so I can blather about nonsensical shit for fifteen minutes or so while my brain reboots. I am about 30,000 words in, or about a third way through the plot. I'm not exactly sure because I'm halfway between a pantster and a plotter.  (Those are writing terms. Impressive huh? It's like I know what I'm doing!) Like I've got most of the story living in my head, where it's been living for about five years and I tend to write when a certain scene or dialog just grabs me.  That's the pantster part, aka by the seat of your pants.  But I'm too anal retentive in real life to not go over accurate details (thank you google) and perfect timelines (a plotter specialty) and stare at hastily drawn maps, write out notes, etc. etc.  So the bottom line is... I write slowly.  I'm trying to get faster.  I'm trying to write every day.  I'm trying to separate writing time and editing time. I'm doing all that shit. 

Oh, but did I mention how we had a water leak and now we're renovating much of the bottom floor of our house? No?  Yeah, there's that.  Oh, and a whole bunch of other stuff happened because it's been like two years since I've really maintained this blog. Anywho, moving on.

But... I think the biggest news that has happened in the last two years is that the fricking voices in my head are now MANAGED!  Meditation has made such a difference.  Any breaks or journeys or to be continues it took to get to this point in my life and this state of being have been totally worth it.

Fricking hippie.            

Love always,

               - wg  


There have been the most wonderful metaphors popping up in music lately. Just lovely turns of phrases. And it's not always obvious, you have to listen closely and they come up in unexpected places. But I love when a sad idea or theme is rendered beautiful through its medium. You can take the broken and remake it in those moments. It doesn't change the actions or tragedy behind it but it both elevates and grounds the sorrow so that it is breathable.


I never understand why people don't set zombies on fire. I mean, you got a whole mess of them trapped somewhere, fairly nonflammable, and people try to pick them off one by one. Roast them! They can only keep moving if they have connective tissue left. Of course, I also don't understand why zombies seem more well-preserved than the average corpse. There is a standard decomposition rate after all, and these things are exposed to the elements. A body can go from freshly dead to a skeleton in the space of a year if left out in the open. I figure the first few years of a zombie apocalypse should be hell but then there should be improvement. Like an arc on a graph, there's the initial upswing of mass zombie infection and then eventually a decline as all those zombies fall apart. Hello, science? But I also wonder why, when survivors are raiding old stores for food and supplies, why no one picks up some ammonia and bleach. You could make hydrochloric acid bombs! Lob them at corpses from afar. Or pick up some lye. Start dissolving those pesky zombies right out of existence. I mean, really people, use your head.

And now I've probably been tagged by the government because I looked up "how to dissolve people with acid".


And then bugs flew at my face

Lately insects of varied flying ability have been swooping into my face for unknown reasons.  They have done so with forceful persistence and periodic consistency.  This is not an affliction I've been burdened with in the past.  Like,  you know that brother of a friend of your cousin's who everyone says attracts mosquitoes like a zapper so you can never invite him camping.  I cannot for the life of me think why my face is suddenly so appealing to bugs.  I've gotten hit in the cheek, the forehead, my neck, several times!  I've narrowly avoided swatting them down my shirt.  Because who wants a moth in their bra?  (You know that's going to smear.)  No one else in my family seems to be experiencing the love dives of gnats besides me.  It's utterly baffling.  And kind of creepy.  I have been taking a meditation class for the last few months and the only thing I can think of is that my chakras are now so blazing bright that I am like a beacon in the dark for small winged creatures. 

So just in case you were wondering what the downside to enlightenment is... it's learn to keep your mouth closed or you might inhale a moth.                     - wg


"Ignore the bells and pings. You are not Pavlov nor his dogs."

I wrote this as a note to myself. I forget for what exactly, clearly I was irritated, probably something distracting me from the task at hand.  But now I feel this should be emblazoned on a t-shirt and/or needs to be the mantra of my life.  Sadly, my first thought was to put it on facebook or twitter, it is so utterly twitterable, and I wanted to remember it and share it and nod sagely at it, but that is just feeding the chimes.  Then it occurred to me that I could put it up specifically and with intention on where the bell tolls... except I really don't hold truck with the younger gen's notion of doing things, big and small, "ironically".

Call me old-fashioned but I think we should stumble ignorantly and spectacularly into our irony, the way it was meant to be. Flames shooting from our tresses, ashes on our shoulders.   

Now give me a treat.