The difference in a day or two does wonders for a person. Because? Well, sit tight, ’cause I’m going to tell you.
After yesterday’s post my mind was in, what I felt, the right place. It’s been lovely here in the nether-lands of Chicago, and the windows are open, the sun is shinning, the breeze is lovely, and I got to call the cops on some smart ass kids who think when they tell you, “Go ahead, call the cops,” you won’t act upon their request. Threat + Internet lookup + mobile phone = cops telling you to drag your crap out of the street, punk.
But that’s beside the point . . . I was writing again yesterday. Yes, it came slowly, in fifty to one hundred word bursts. Something I never realized until now, but finding the right words to describe emotions and sensation related to sex is hard work–it’s hard! It’s one of the things that helps bring my writing to a crawl, because I don’t want to go back over my stuff later and rewrite everything. I try to get it all right the first time. Arthur Hailey, the author of Hotel and Airport, used to write five hundred words in an eight hour day, but that was his first, second, final, and polished draft, because he’d go over and over what he wrote until he got it right. I don’t claim to be him, but I do enjoy getting it as right as possible before I start editing.
I kept at it, though, and by the time I’d reached my just over nine hundred word limit before heading to bed, I had a pretty good scene going. So good that I’ll finish it up today and make sure I get started on the penultimate section today. I stopped just short of the border of Novella, so I’ll get my passport ready and head on into the country today.
But something else happened. Something . . . well, not wonderful, but it made me feel good.
My current Work in Progress, Fantasies in Harmonie, was going to be a Camp NaNo story. The tale is actually taking place during Camp NaNo July, and I’d taken the idea of writing in virtual cabins into real life, and having a group of lady writers getting together for a week of pajama time fun as only writers can have fun. Obviously that didn’t happen, because here it is the end of the first week in June, and I’m close to closing this particular cabin. My intention, therefore, was to pass on the Camp this year. I’ve never done one, and I figured I’d save my time and energy for the Big One in November.
That was before I ran into someone I know and love–
I was hanging out on Facebook yesterday, and I spied a message from a friend–one who pretty much got me crazy on writing. She was the one who helped me edit Kuntilanak, she was the one who more or less talked me into doing my first NaNo, which produced Her Demonic Majesty . . . we’re talkin’ Trusty Editortm. And her message: “I’m doing Camp NaNo, wish me luck!”
Hold on there. You’re going to camp and you’re going without . . . me? I felt great for her, but at the same time my mind is flashing on sitting around in our shorts and take tops tapping away at our computers, and when the night comes we’re going over plot points while doing each other’s nails with mood polish. (That exists: I looked. RESEARCH!)
Since I figured she need to hang out with at least one loser, I went and did it–I signed up for Camp.
What am I going to write? I have no freakin’ idea. Maybe I’m polish Couples Dance and get it ready for publication, because camp is looser and you can do that sort of thing. Or maybe I’ll write something original. Or maybe I’ll break into the cabin next to ours and do something naughty.
I don’t know. I’ve never been to camp in my life.
I hear you’re suppose to have a good time . . .