Life is a Banquet

Selfish Sleep

I've been reading several books/blogs about motherhood & writing lately (trying like heck to get back into a good rhythm) and they all say the same thing: Give up sleep to write. Over, and over, I see mothers admitting (or even bragging) that they get 5 hours of sleep (TOTAL, and not just on bad nights). They spend 12 hours (or more) as a mother, then 5 hours (or more) cleaning & writing.

At the same time, this week several new studies show the negative health effects from lack of sleep. And while these studies bolster my pro-sleep stance, they don't relieve the feelings of jealousy and inadequacy.

I need sleep. I need downtime. I crave sleep. I enjoy sleep. I can't give up sleep.

Perhaps that dooms me as a writer/mother, but I do know that it makes me a better mother. My worst depressive episodes can all be traced to a lack of sleep. When I am constantly in motion, I dance ever closer to the edge of that dark pit, and I'll do whatever it takes to avoid falling in.  So I take naps with  her or read while she naps next to me. I go to bed within an hour or two at the most of when she does. I wake up when she does.

But, I've now gone a YEAR without a major depressive episode. A year. I can't remember a year without a slump. And yes, a big part of it IS medication. Via la pharmaceuticals. But, it's also lifestyle changes, and sticking to the plan I came up before Tavy came.

I'm happier than I've ever been, but I still feel like I'm just being lazy or selfish.  I tell myself, "If you really wanted to write more, you would find ways to cut back on sleep." But, I know I'm not going to do that. Being healthy right now is more important than a clean house, more important than a finished WIP, more important than staying up doing anything.

So I write in bed, on yellow legal pads. I daydream in scenes and plot twists. Titles come and go like fireflies blinking on and off. And I read like crazy when I'm nursing. I try to think like a writer, even though, apparently, I'm not sleeping like one.

Do you voluntarily give up sleep to do something else?

Done!

Done. 92,233 words. 474 pages. 8 months. Apparently it takes me about as long to write a book as it does to grow a baby. At least the baby doesn't require editing. But, I've never been so excited to begin editing. It's like Jennifer Crusie says--sometimes you have to finish the first draft to know what you really have and what the story's really about. And now I know. Or at least, I have a better chance of finding out.

Let the editing begin!

P.S. Real post soon. Promise.

90,000

Just hit 90,000 words. With the exception of Saturday and Sunday, I've been meeting and exceeding my 4-6 pages a day goal for the last week.  I'll try to have a real post soon, but other than my writing, my life is rather boring right now. There is only so much whining one can do about being 8 months pregnant in the heat when one is also very grateful to BE 8 months pregnant, so I've just been drenching myself in iced tea and airing myself in front of the window A/C. For which I am also very grateful for.  But, 90,000 words? That's worth ALL my iced tea and my window A/C and maybe even my fan.  Maybe.

Just One Word . . . .

This post on "wanting it" may have changed my life. Truly.  (You can see my extensive take on it at the MWVRWA blog).

I've been terrified of jinxing myself, but I seem to be writing again. It started with discovering two handwritten scenes that I hadn't yet entered into my WIP. And of course, adding them in led to more words and transition scenes. . .and somehow I've got nearly 87,000 words. I need to figure out how to change the end goal of my little counter, because it looks like we're heading for 90K.

After reading "Wanting It," I made a big red sign that asks, "Do I want it?" and while this hasn't completely cured my blog/google addiction, at least it encourages me to focus more mindfully on my choices and what I truly want.

Even so, opening that document is the biggest obstacle to progress. This morning, I read blogs, then did dishes, and still the muse was nowhere in sight. Cue mindless surfing. But, then I opened the document. I wrote one word. Then another. Then the cusp of a new scene emerged and . . .

I'm slowly finding my way back. Because I do want it. I do.

Chicken Writer

Right now, I should be about 2 hours away from here, at a writers' retreat with some of my favorite people on earth.  Why am I still here? Because I'm chicken. No doctor has ordered to me to house-arrest or bed rest, no complications have given me unbearable pain . . . just chicken.  And tired. So tired. Beta prefers that I take 2 short naps during the day, and then sleep fitfully at night with frequent wakings. I believe that this is called sleep training. Also, the hot flashes and braxton hicks/ligament pain things don't help matters.

Taking a clue from Demented, I'm also going to ask about my Iron level at the doctor's next week. Perhaps that is contributing to this fatigue. But, the real truth is that my biggest pregnancy complaint is anxiety. Anxiety that Beta only wants to move at night. Anxiety over wonky blood sugar readings all week (not bad enough to call doctor, but not good either), Anxiety over the doctor switch, Anxiety over all we need to do to get ready . . . . Gee, I wonder if that's part of what's making me so tired?

Regardless, on Tuesday, I decided to bail on this weekend. Fatigue, wonky blood sugar, and nervousness about traveling seemed like good reasons. But, now, I'm a little sad that I didn't push myself to go--not sad enough to get in the car, mind you, but still a little depressed that I'm such a pregnancy wimp. Other pregnant women fly to Europe, climb mountains . . .etc.  Perhaps this urge to stay close to home is part of nesting?

I should be using this time to write up a storm, regardless of my physical location. But, I'm a different kind of chicken too. A writing chicken. I got a ton of good ideas on Tuesday at our meeting. I've got nothing BUT time on my hands. And still my WIP remains unopened. Yesterday, I washed the kitchen cabinets. If you know me, I'll wait while you hoist yourself off the floor. Yes. All the fronts of the cabinets are now clean. And my work is at the same word count as it was last week. And the week before that.

Perhaps I can't do anything about the pregnancy chicken right now, but by golly, I want to catch that writer chicken and wring her silly neck until she starts pecking at the keys! Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!

Good News is News That Can't Be Told

What? No one wants to comment on Baby Hugo? Everyone too afraid to mention how ginormous I look? Okay, I can deal because today I've FINALLY got writing news to share. But, I can't.  I've been doing the weekly updates for the MWVRWA blog for a while now, and I've recently appealed to people to not blast the listserve with news that could be shared on the blog. Thus, saving email clutter and enhancing our weekly column.  But, Tuesday is THREE whole days from now. Practically four.  I'm not sure I can sit on this that long.  EDITED: I didn't wait that long. Maybe an hour? I have no patience. None. One of my writer friends said I should go ahead and email the group. Didn't have to ask me twice. I'm such a hypocrite!!!!

Only, I'm too happy to care!

I just received notice that my YA novel is a Finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Contest. This is my second year in a row as a finalist. Last year, my contemporary romance MS won second place in the Romance category.  Two years. Two different categories. I'm just so excited.

The contest had a record number of entries this year too!

Now, anyone want to discuss the feasibility of traveling to Seattle for the Conference at 33 weeks pregnant or so???? I missed it last year, and I really regret not following up my finalist win with some good networking.

Off to do my happy dance. Ginormous belly and all. This mama-to-be just might have some brain cells left after all. I've got new incentive to get back to writing now, so for all those of you who had given up hope of my ever mentioning writing again, you might want to lay in a fresh supply.  I've got HOPE in abundance right now!

Why I teach . . . Reason #318

I'm pretty sure that I can't quote student essays on here, which is a darn shame, because several finals have made me all misty (darn hormones). I ask students to write about the things they can do to continue to work on their writing.  While I sifted through 50 variations of "I need more time for writing" and "I need to make writing a priority" (essays that I could easily write myself right now), another interesting theme emerged: reading. Many students said that they planned to read more for pleasure to help improve their writing by studying other writers. A number mentioned that my enthusiastic recommendations of books from essays and my tireless cheerleading of the benefits of reading had convinced them to give reading a try.  One student said that he'd never read anything that wasn't assigned for a class, EVER, but that I'd convinced him to try. Another student gave me a handwritten thank-you note thanking me for the class.

That's why I do this. If I can help one student to find his or her inner writer or even just convince them to give reading a try, then all the grading is worth it. Because so many of them mentioned reading as a summer goal, I'm thinking of sending them an email with some super-fun book suggestions. What books are GUARANTEED to hook non-readers?  Does reading make YOU a better writer? (And speaking of writing, be sure to share your appliance horror stories below---I know there are more of you out there!)   

80,000 Words

Last night, I passed 80,000 words. This means nothing to anyone other than me, for whom it took a freaking week to write 2,000 words and feel like Wavy's Got Her Groove Back and not like a bad remake of Dumb and Dumber: Still Writing.  So, progress. Just gotta keep going. This. Will. End. Editing fun is in sight. Books #4--infinity are waiting in the wings, clogging up my purple book of ideas. 

80,000. Let's see what I can get by the RWA meeting on Tuesday. 

When the End Isn't The End

When I wrote this post, the end of my book was in sight. I needed reassurance to follow my original plan which called for the heroine to suffer a miscarriage close to the end of the book as means to her personal growth and completion of her character's journey.  The response I got was overwhelmingly positive--torture away, as long we get our happy ending! No problem there--I don't write books without happy endings. And I hate to read books with ambiguous endings.

Then, a mere few days later, something ELSE was positive. And suddenly, I just couldn't write that ending. Even touching the ending seemed to tempt fate. After all, when I conceived of the book, my own journey with PCOS and adoption were at the forefront, and I wanted to write a book where life didn't go according to plan, but the characters still got a really happy--unexpectedly--ending.  The fictional miscarriage felt true to where I was right then, and I felt too bitter to write a happy-mommy-daddy-bio baby ending.

But, then my world shifted and NOT writing the happy-mommy-daddy-bio baby ending seemed disloyal to my new reality, and then there was the whole tempting fate part of the original . . . And so I sat, mired in block with a few passes a new ending, for THREE freaking months. This after swearing that I would never repeat the loooooooooooooooong never-ending block of 2006. This after doing all the work in counseling (and at the pharmacy) to deal with depression and finally, after so many years, get to a stable point.  Pregnancy hormones undid all of that in a matter of weeks, but conflict over the ending didn't help any, either.

Now I'm 16 weeks, and while the pregnancy hormones are still knocking me up one side and down the other, my reality seems to have shifted again to let me re-read the original ending with less-freaked-out eyes. Last night, I dreamed that I was at our writer's retreat--the same retreat where I began the book in November--but instead, I was finishing the book. I was using the original ending, and the sun was shining. I felt the love and support of my fellow writer's as I typed the final words. I felt my excitement to begin editing, and it was the kind of dream that I hate to wake up from.  I'm also pretty sure that Beta was there too.

There are no guarantees either with this pregnancy or with this book.  Many bad things could still happen to both. Or both could be fine.  I chatted with my amazing CP today about the dream and the ending direction. Luckily, she's as woo-woo as I am these days, and she totally saw a message in the dream. In talking with her, I saw the significance and beauty in the original version--an emotional resonance that was lost when I tried to keep everything light and silly. The character had no room to grow. 

I'm going to finish this thing. True to my original vision. I'll save the alternative ending for feedback from them-that-might-publish, but I'm going to finish this thing.  I've updated my word meter with where the original now stands and I am so freaking close. It's down to scenes, mere scenes.  I've got several projects waiting in the wings, waiting for me to grow them as well.  It's time. 

Crazy is as Crazy Does

I am apparently loosing my mind.  Now, I've never HEARD of early-onset dementia as a possible p___ symptom, so perhaps I just am well and truly crazy.  How else can I explain?

• Strapping my cast on the wrong leg and not noticing until I was upstairs trying to put on my shoe.
• Telling the same person twice.
• Losing the ability to complete a sentence.
• Being strangely relieved at each and every symptom and incredibly dismayed when there are none.  Also, each and every symptom is evaluated as a potential harbinger of doom.  I don't give myself an out here.
• Fits of random giddy. 
• Tone of my book changing--seriously--my voice is stuck somewhere in Cincinnati trying to get  a flight home  while my poor brain eeeks out a word at a time
• Becoming a total iVillage junkie in less than a week.  Remember that whole plan I had to kick my internet addiction? And how well it worked for three months? Almost four? All bets are off now.  I seriously find posts with such dizzying, garish signatures more interesting than well . . .anything.  IQ drops 10 points after every visit.  We're talking multiple visits a day too.  I expect to be a vegetable sometime very soon.
• Developing a fondness for commercials. This after almost a decade of not watching network TV except in cases of national emergencies/elections/Olympics. 
• The sudden urge to own Midwest Real Estate. 
• Inability to finish a movie without falling asleep.  But having insomnia most nights. 
• Turning each bathroom visit into a religious experience. Tea leaves have been less examined than my T.P. Which, I know is way TMI, but still, I expected to be worshiping the porcelain god, just not quite like this. 

So, yeah, I'm still here. 5 weeks and some odd days. And freaking crazy.  I'd promise something about my job v soon, but I'm still working on the whole ability to think-about-something else thing.  Soon though.  I hope.  Otherwise, Beta (as in Beta testing) will be visiting me at the funny farm.  Or joining me in the poor house.  Any ideas for distractions?