Continuing My Writer's Education

I am all about making goals. I am slightly obsessed them. For some reason they motivate me really well ... maybe it's because I feel like I'm in competition with myself? I'm not sure, really, but I know they work for me.

So today I made a new goal, in effect immediately, that I hope to continue every year for possibly the rest of my life.

I was on Amazon, looking for a book on editing that I could read while I'm revising the current WIP (which is almost at 30k now, and *fingers crossed* I'm hoping to have it almost finished by next week, and ready for revisions before the end of June. I'm writing about 3k a day in it. Mind you, the only reason I've been able to maintain this blistering pace? I'm not working this summer.)

Anyway, so I was looking for a book on editing, and I was blown away by all the writing books.

Now, I've read several books on writing in the past ten years or so, sure, but looking at all those rows of tip-stuffed tomes, I could've slapped myself.

Why am I not delving into this vast spread of knowledge and expertise all the time? It's right there, just waiting for me!

To be honest, I think one of my weaknesses is my tendency to assume I've reached a plateau, and in a sense "arrived." I still have TONS of room for improvement. I will always have room for improvement, even when I've been writing for 40 years.

To be REALLY honest, sometimes I get a tad bit arrogant and decide I don't need to read books on writing anymore.

This mindset is SILLY. Not to mention WRONG.

So new goal! Read 5 writing/editing/some other writer-related skill-improvement books a year.  5 is a nice, solid number, not too many, but enough that I'll be semi-saturated with writing advice throughout the year, especially all those things I technically already know, but tend to forget (like over-using "to be" verbs).

I'm also contemplating writing up posts about the books I read, and how helpful they were for me.

I think it's totally doable. My husband is a bit wary (he says I'm already really busy). But I think I can do it. This year (since it's already June), I'll test out 3-4 and see if that's too much.

In slightly related news, I'm also contemplating doing a "1k a day" goal next year. That's 365,000 words total. Just the thought of that makes me salivate. I KNOW I can do 1k a day. It's so manageable. That's the beauty of the whole thing. 365k sounds monstrous, because it is, but 1k? No sweat.

SO. Back to writing books. Anybody have recommendations for me? What's the best writing (or editing) book you've ever read?

A Few Introductions

Folks, I've had this blog almost a year now, and I have never properly introduced my family! I'm remedying this problem immediately.

Note: Everyone is of course protected by clever aliases, because ALIASES ARE COOL.

I'll begin with the human...

Captain Nemo

Like a ninja, Captain Nemo is hard to photograph.

Favorite Human Food: Chicken
Theme Song: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
Characteristic Moment: Sleeptalking while insisting he's awake (the trick is to ask a question that requires an answer other than yes or no. If he replies "because I've lost all my teeth" or some other nonsense in an irritated, DUH tone of voice, you know he's sleeping).
Comments: Captain Nemo is very cheerful when awake, and a grumpy grizzly when asleep. Unfortunately, he spends much time sleeping during my most wakeful hours, 10 PM-2 AM.
Further Comments: In addition to looking handsome, bringing home the bacon, and pwning noobs online, Captain Nemo formats my ebooks and keeps me supplied with ice cream cake. He's a good man.

The Gray Lady

One of her favorite places.

Favorite Human Food: Bread
Theme Song: Eye of the Tiger

Sink kitty!

Characteristic Moment: Sitting in the sink, falling into the bathtub (she has a water obsession), catching nasty roaches and proudly bringing them to the bedroom.
Favorite Thing: Being brushed. 
Comments: I don't know if you can see how fat she is in this picture, but she's a TUBBY little girl.
Further Comments: The Gray Lady is Captain Nemo's favorite.
Even Further Comments: The Momma does not have favorites, because she is a good parent.

Foxcat

Stealing the limelight from his sister-cat.

Favorite Human Food: Milk, Chicken, Fish, Steak, Pasta, Yogurt, etc (All food, really. Anything he can get his greedy little paws on...)
Theme Song: Shake Your Tail Feather
Characteristic Moment: Incessant begging for food. Being put in the garage so everyone else can have some peace and quiet while they eat. Also, sleeping.
Least Favorite Thing: Being brushed.
Comments: Captain Nemo has a love/hate relationship with Foxcat,* who is mostly a Momma's boy. Personally, I don't know how anybody could hate such a beautiful little kitten. But I will admit I'm slightly biased.
Further Comments: Foxcat is only about 9 months old, and he already towers over his full-grown sister-cat. Such a big, fluffy boy :-)

*I suspect this is due to the fact that Foxcat tends to puke on his shirts.

Shake your tail feather

Well, that's my family! As you can see, I like taking pictures of the baby kitties. :-) :-)

Tagged!

Last week I was tagged by the very cool Emily White, so now it's my turn to play this game and tag some bloggers of my own. MY APOLOGIES if you've already been tagged. I know some of you are very popular. :-)

Oh, first I have to answer some weird questions.

Do you think you’re hot?

Well, this is awkward. Ummmm I'm not sure. I guess not really. But occasionally I'll be all dolled up in some little black dress and I'll be like, THERE IT IS. 

So--occasionally?

(I just looked through my pictures for some photo evidence I might present about my presumed hotness, but didn't find anything that didn't make me say "meh." So probably not.)

Moving on ...

Upload a picture or wallpaper you are using at the moment.

FULL DISCLOSURE--I just changed the background so I could upload it as this. The previous one came with my computer. It was some anime thing. I was getting tired of it anyway. I took this pic at my cousin-in-law's wedding. She got married on deck over a river.

When was the last time you ate chicken meat?

Sunday afternoon, at Chipotle's, on my amazing burrito. It was delish.

The song you listened to recently?

Carnival of Rust by Poets of the Fall. It's one of my favorites.

What were you thinking about as you were doing this?

I was thinking about a scene in one of my WIPs. Also in the interest of full disclosure, this blog post ;-)

Do you have nicknames?

I do. Kate is a nickname, and I've also been called Zoe (long story). My brother-in-law and his wife call me Exaggerakatie, because they say I tell lies. (Like Emily Dickinson, I tell the truth, but I tell it slant ...)

Tag Five Blogger Friends!

Here’s five people whose awesome blogs I follow:

Veronica Roth
Jaimie Teekell
Candace Ganger (Candyland)
Tricia Williams
Wordplay (KM Weiland)

Who’s listed as number 1?

Veronica Roth. If you aren't following her blog, you should be. She's amazing! Also, go buy her book, Divergent!

Leave a lovey dovey message for number 2

Jaimie is awesome. We met online at least a year ago, maybe a year and a half ... ? I forget how long it's been. She knew my brother in college, and he saw that she was writing a YA novel, and he was like, "My sister is also writing a YA novel," and he gave her my twitter handle, and the rest is history. We critique each others' work and we whine and commiserate together about writing stuff. It's great.

How did you get to know number 3?

I first encountered Candace Ganger's blog when she was having this awesomesauce contest (from which I won two prizes, I might add, one of which was a 3 chapter critique from the lovely Beth Revis. *name-dropping*). She is irreverent, hilarious, and really cool. 

How about number 4?

I just met Tricia, technically, because I bought her book Wasteland for my Kindle and then I had to follow her blog because 1) I'm really enjoying the book and 2) we seem to have a good bit in common. 

PS ~ Her book is really good.

Say something about number 5:

If you aren't following Wordplay, YOU SHOULD BE. I love this blog. KM Weiland is a genius, and she has so many good tips for writers. She's super sweet, too.

Your turn!

If I tagged you, feel free to play along.

Living (and Writing) the Questions

This post from Rachel Held Evans' blog absolutely inspired me today.

I especially love the quote she cited from Anne Lamott, who is also brilliant:

"The first draft is the child’s draft, where you let it all out and then let it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later…Just get it all down on paper, because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be something in the very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you just love, that is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you’re supposed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might go—but there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first five and a half pages. "

The journey is a part of the process.

Definitely go read Rachel's post. And if you get a moment, read her whole blog. It's awesome.

This is what some people think being a writer is like:

The stereotype:

"I totally flew here in my private jet, guys."

The reality:

"It's been at least three days since I've been outside."

Oh, the glamor of being a writer :-)

Definitions Part Deux: Storycrack

Storycrack

--noun

1. a particularly addicting idea or WIP.
2. an expression describing a situation in which the writer simply cannot stop thinking about, dreaming about, giggling about, or writing about a particular story.
3. the sort of thing that keeps writers coming back for more, despite all the abuse heaped on them from edits, betas, and the unflagging rejection of the writing world.

Origin:
a marriage between the word story and the word crack, two addictive substances that together form an unstoppable force.

--Synonyms.

story addiction

--Antonyms
bookhate

Chapter One of The Curse Girl

ONE

My father drove me through the woods in his truck, the wheels shuddering over the dirt road while the air hummed with all the unspoken words between us. The tears wriggled down his wrinkled cheeks only to get lost in his beard. The mark on his wrist burned at the edge of my peripheral vision as if it were glowing.

I sat silent and immobile, a statue, a paper doll, a frozen thing of stone.

When we reached the gate I drew one shuddering breath and let it out, and my father put his hand on my shoulder. His fingers dug into my skin.

“He promised he wouldn’t hurt you, Bee. He promised.”

I shifted. His hand fell limply on the seat between us. He didn’t try to touch me again.

Dad turned off the engine and we sat wrapped in the silence. I heard him swallow hard. I slid my fingers up and down the strap of my backpack. My mouth tasted like dust. The car smelled like old leather and fresh terror.

Nobody knew if the legends were lies, myth, or truth. But they all talked about the Beast that lived in the house. Some said he ate human children, some said he turned into a vicious creature in the night, some said he looked like a demon, with flames for eyes.

A trickle of sweat slipped down my spine.

“You don’t—” My father started to say, but he hesitated. Maybe he’d been hoping I would cut him off, but I didn’t. I just sat, holding my backpack, feeling the crush of responsibility slip over my shoulders and twine around my neck like a noose.

Through the gate I could see the house, watching us with dead eyes. Trees pressed close to the bone-white walls like huddled hags with flowing green hair, and everything was covered with a mist of grayish moss. I’d heard the stories my whole life—we all had—but I’d never been close enough to see the cracks in the windowsills, the dead vines clinging to the roof.

Magic hung in the air like the lingering traces of a memory. I could almost taste it. Voices whispered faintly in the wind, or was that just the trees? The knot in my stomach stirred in response.

My father tried again, and this time he got the whole sentence out. “You don’t have to do this.”

Of course I did. Of course I must. I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it because I had no choice. With the mark on his wrist, he was a dead man. Our whole family was doomed. He knew it and I knew it, and he was playing a game of lame pretend because he wanted to sooth his own guilt. Because he wanted to be able to look back at this moment every time it crossed his mind in the future and feel that he had offered me a way out. That he’d been willing to rescue me, but I’d refused.

Instead of responding, I opened the door and climbed out. The gravel crunched under my shoes as I stepped to the ground. I shouldered my backpack and took a deep breath.

The gate squeaked beneath my hand. I crossed the lawn and climbed the steps to the house, feeling the stone shudder beneath my shoes like the house lived and breathed. The door didn’t open on its own, which I had half-expected, but when I put my hand on the knob I could feel the energy humming inside it like a heartbeat.

My father waited at the car. I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing with one hand on the door, his shoulders pulled tight like a slingshot.

All I had to do was step inside. One step inside and the mark would disappear. And I could run home. I could outsmart this house. Couldn’t I? I sucked in a deep breath and rolled my shoulders.

Maybe I believed that. Maybe I didn’t. Why else had I brought a backpack full of clothes, toiletries?

“Bee,” my father called out, and his voice cracked. I paused, waiting for more. Maybe he really was sorry. 

Maybe he really didn’t want me to do this …

“Bee, I just wanted to tell you how thankful your stepmother and I—”

My throat tightened. He wasn't going to stop me, was he? I shook my head, and he rubbed a hand over his face and fell silent.

When he’d come home two weeks ago at 3 AM, the sleeve of his work uniform torn, his lip bleeding, and his eyes full of fear, my stepmother had cried. Really cried—wrenching sobs that made her double over and clutch at her sides. She almost looked as if she were laughing. I’d looked at him, and I could smell the magic on him. I’d known exactly where he’d been.

And there was a tiny part of me that knew then too that I’d be the one who would pay the price for his foolishness.

All I had to do now was step across the threshold. Then the mark on his wrist would vanish, and he would be free. Everything would be okay. That was all we’d promised, right?

I pushed open the door and stepped into the house. I held my breath.

Across the lawn, my father made a sound like a sob.

Was that it? Was the mark gone? 

“Daddy?” I choked out, not daring to move. “Is it—?”

“It’s gone, honey!”

I started to turn, but I wasn’t fast enough. The door snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry animal. I grabbed the handle and twisted, throwing my shoulder against the heavy wood. I shrieked, wrenching the handle harder.

It was locked.

I clawed at the wood with my fingernails until they bled. I pounded with my fists.

The door didn’t budge. It was strong as stone.

Through the slip of glass, I saw the headlights of my father’s car flick on, and the engine revved.

He was leaving me.

I slid to the floor. My sneakers squeaked against the shiny marble, my fingers slipped down the polished mahogany of the door. I didn’t want to look behind me into the mouth of the house, into the darkness that was going to be my home. Or my tomb. I didn’t want to think of how my father would go home and my absence would be like a ripple in the house, felt for a moment and then gone from their minds. I didn’t want to think about who would miss me at school. Violet. Livia. Drew.

Drew.

Grief stuck like cement behind my eyes. I wanted to cry, but I had no tears. I never had tears. My eyes burned and my throat squeezed shut, making it hard to breathe. I crouched on the floor and put my hand over my mouth and thought of Drew’s hair, his eyes, his smile.

I might never see any of those things ever again.

Terror—real terror—charged through me like a storm. It pulsed through my body, pushing at my skin, wanting to get out. Like my own soul was fighting to be free of me, like my own self couldn’t stand to be trapped here at this moment. It was a surge of blinding intensity, like lightning. Then I fell, panting, my hands braced on the cool floor.

“Stop it,” I said aloud. “Stop this.”

I didn’t have to stay here. The mark was gone and we were free and I could go home—if I could just find a way out. The idea, planted in my fear-frozen mind, cracked my terror like spring warmth. Escape.

After all, I wasn’t dead.

“Yet,” I muttered, and the echo of my voice, soft and velvet, whispered back to me in the stillness. I closed my eyes tight, counted to five, and opened them. And I looked at the place that was going to be my prison.

The foyer stretched up like a bell tower. A shattered chandelier lay three feet away, crystal droplets spread like frozen tears across the marble. Light slanted into the hall through arching windows, illuminating the rest of the room and striping the broken furniture and torn books with golden sunlight. In the middle of the room, papers and quills lay scattered around on the floor. It was as if a great monster had gone into a rage and shredded the room, and then fallen into a peaceful slumber after exhausting himself.

Behind me lurked a gloomy hallway, lined with doors.

I was stuck in this house. My friends couldn’t help me. Drew couldn’t help me. My father wouldn’t help me.

A sigh slipped through my lips as I stood to my feet.

I was alone.

Alone in the house of the Beast.

BUY FROM AMAZON

BUY FROM BARNES & NOBLE