Finally

Finally, I have finished it.

My rough draft anyways.

Now comes the hard part. The editing.

I don't quite how the others do it, but I'm going to explain my writing process. Usually, it starts like this:

1. Get an idea/character: It can happen at any time. Mostly, my stuff is influenced by what I read, listen, or watch. Anything can potentially inspire me.

Here I can take two paths.
A) Think it out: I don't mean plan it out, like with a timeline and stuff. I mean think it out. Think about the character, think about the plot, think about the world, the motivations, the villains. I think about it all untill I have a pretty good idea what I want to do. Or
B) Start writing: Sometimes I get an idea or character and I just have to write it down. That's when numerous of random notebooks come in handy. I have one by my bed, in my dresser, in my car. Everywhere, so that I have easy access to paper. Also, a writing tool is needed, so I have those stashed everywhere as well. Usually what's in my head is a scene or character description.

2.Then I write: Just. Write. I don't care over much about the grammar or the spelling. I just get the story in my head onto the page. I don't even break it into chapters, because for me that breaks the flow of my story. (Weird, you can say it) Sometimes I have to research and that's fine.

3.After months of writing and thinking and writing and changing my mind, I will have a finished story (sometimes though, I lost interest and that story is filed away for another time)
Now it is time to edit.

When editing, I make a note of what my final product is. Then I read through the entirety of my story and make sure my consistancy is there, and all the little character devolpments I may have missed. Also I may change my mind about a detail and change it here. This inital readthrough is also when I break my story into chapters.

Next, I hand it to a select few of people who will read it. These are called beta-readers. They are to tell me if it works or not. If not, I go back and read through and make more edits. If it does, then off it goes to find an agent.

And through it all, my critique partners are there. Every step. (except maybe the first one since that's in my head and they can't be in there)

Truthfully, I haven't made it to beta readers stage yet, but that is how I will do it when I get there. I'm just so excited that I have finished something other than short stories/flash fiction and that it could potentially be something.

Walking in their footsteps

That’s exactly what we did.  Two weeks ago my family got the opportunity to walk or Trek as we called it along the same trails that the Mormon pioneers took coming to Salt Lake City, Utah in the 1800’s. The planning for this huge undertaking began last January.  Six out of the eight members of my family joined a group of 500 that spent a week just outside of Rawlings, Wyoming.  We retraced the paths taken by the Martin and Willie Handcart Companies. 

The facts of their journeys were these: they left Iowa City too late in the season, had to take Handcarts that were made with green wood, encountered the worst winter storms in Wyoming’s history and suffered more than we will ever know to get their Zion, Salt Lake City.  The miracles, feelings, and experiences of those incredible people is quite a different story altogether. And I’m humbled to say so was my time out in the sage brush and vast nothingness of Wyoming.

My surroundings were not of blizzarding snow, freezing drifts or the ever present torment of starvation but instead scorching heat, dehydrated teenagers, latrines and the constant layers of sand covering every inch of me.  It would have been easy for me to hold tightly to this list of complaints, add more to it and conclude that my time there had been miserable but instead I followed the example of those early saints, saw beyond the physical irritations and embraced the spirit of that place.  I’m in no way saying that the conditions we dealt even began to scratch the surface of what those brave people endured only that we had a decision to make on how we viewed our experience. We chose to think on that time as incredibly spiritual and feel pride that we earned the right to feel it.  It was definitely one of the hardest things I’ve ever accomplished.  Pulling a real handcart down dusty roads in  above 90 degree heat while trying to keep eight teenagers (that were not mine but assigned to my husband and I as our ‘Trek kids’) hydrated and on task was a bit daunting at times to say the least. But I’m still marveling over the fact that after four days these kids are wrapped up in my heart.  Four days.   I know they are mine because we worked, pushed, pulled, sweat, gasped, laughed, cried, loved, ate, worried, talked, hugged, all of us together.

I woke up the morning after we got home early, which was crazy because I was tired enough I thought I’d sleep for a week.  Phrases and words pulled me from my coma-like sleep 6:30 am.  They whispered thoughts and feeling about our incredible experience.  The writer in me had been inspired with a ferocity that would not let my tired body rest.  I grabbed my journal and took it out to the cool morning air of my front steps.  Words and tears flowed freely for the next three hours.  I couldn’t get it all down fast enough.

 

 

I’d like to share a part of it with you.

 “The sun never neglected its duty on our trip.  Not once.  It shown down on our heads with the determination of creating human jerky. This fact coupled with our own resolve to drink water as though our life depended on it (it did) created the women’s bathroom line phenomenon.  The scourge of Trek.   The women in these lines had four layers of clothing between them and the foul smelling, although better than sage brush, latrine.  Add to the fact that we were sweating everywhere made the wait for each girl impossibly long.   I fell victim to it all.  Someone must always be last in line.   It is the nature of lines.  Someone will be first, lucky girl and someone will be last, me.  I was last out of the latrine in Martin’s Cove.  Trent (my husband) was told to go on and I’d catch up.   I came out and everyone was gone.  We had already been walking at our ‘let’s get there first’ pace and the thought of going even faster to catch up made me more than a little upset.

Combine mad thoughts with the opportunity to stomp quickly in the dirt and you’ve got one very dangerous Beckie (me) at the end of the trail.  Poor Trent took the brunt of it with both barrels.  I not only had to cover the distance between us quickly but I had to maneuver around other carts and their families.  And to top everything off I was half way back to my group when I realized I’d left my water bottle back in the bathroom.  Just great!  Once I’d caught up, everyone had enjoyed their rest, filled their water bottles and were quite ready to walk through the sacred Martin’s Cove.   I however was not.  Trent being the sweet husband that he is told one of the coordinators about my missing water bottle’s location and carefully came back over to me.  That man deserves a metal more often than not.

There was a path that wound through the rocky hills. (The picture above is from Martin's Cove) Sage brush popped up through the dirt and huge bouldering rocks created a secluded ravine. This was Martin’s Cove. Leaving our handcars at the bottom, we walked silently through the hills because our LDS Prophet had declared it sacred ground.  We were to respect it as though we were in one of our LDS temples. 

  I think with any normal winter storm those pioneers would have found a bit of shelter from hills but they did not endure a normal winter storm.  They suffered through the worst storm in Wyoming’s history.  Snow, hail, drifts and 70 mph winds tormented them.  All the while, they pushed hand carts with their loved ones.  Elderly, small children.  One thirteen old boy who survived went on to write in is journal, “No mouth nor pen could describe our sorrow”.  After my own time spent there, I know his eloquent but simple words had to be true.  The vast desolation and utter nothingness in the landscape would consume you.  Add to that the snow.   White blizzarding snow.   You wouldn’t at times even have the satisfaction of knowing you’d made progress down the trail, not being able to see anything in front or behind you.  The complete despair and discouragement at the hopeless of it all would have been overwhelming.  I can feel the spirit of that place now that I’m sitting here writing it down.  But I didn’t at the time.  No at that time I was mad, hot, and sick of walking so fast.  In hind sight, I missed out on something invaluable because I let my nasty temper get the best of me. 

After it all, I also wondered about the poor souls back then, who for one reason or another, got separated from the group as well.  The desperation and isolation they must have felt were beyond any little fit I had from being left behind. I struggle with perspective when I’m angry. Need to work on that I think.”

That was just one of many beautiful experiences I had on our Trek.  It is a time I will always treasure.

Yes, we walked were they walked and we’ll never be the same because of it.

 

Where did the Goal go?

So, I had a goal three months ago to have my WIP finished and into the editing stage. And here I am three months later, not finished.

It isn't that I haven't been working on it, because I have...

Every time I put my laptop on my lap and open up my novel, I just reread my last few paragraphs and sit there. Just. Sit there. And it is really frustrating that the words just aren't there. I see the scene in my head; I see it so clearly. But the words.

 Just. Aren't. There.

So I wonder why I cannot meet my goal and if there is something wrong with me for not have met it. Until today. I came unto the conclusion that it was perfectly fine not to meet your goal in the rough draft stage because that is what it is...a rough draft. You are still figuring stuff out, moving pieces around, and changing your mind. The words will be blocked from time to time, and it's no big deal.

Some authors take YEARS to write a book, and you can better believe that it is awesome. Because of all the time and love they poured into it.

That is something I want. An awesome book, and if it takes me a little longer than expected or planned the pfffttt at least I'm putting my heart into it.

Picking Favorites

What is that one character that you love above all others?

With every book, movie, tv show that you read/watch people inevitably pick a favorite character. Even if you love them all (which sometimes happens) there is just one person that edges out above the rest.

That's a sign of a good story, I like to think. That a character speaks to you. And someone's favorite character could be the next person's hated one. You're choice says something about you. I'm not sure what, because I haven't figured that part out yet, but it says something.

For example, my favorite characters are usually the tortured ones. Either internally or externally, doesn't matter. And it isn't because I enjoy seeing them in pain; no, its because it shows their strength. Tragic heroes, love 'em.

But then you have those characters, that out of all your favorites, they are on top. You will defend them against any bad word. You will expound upon their awesomeness. You will never understand why no one else sees their worth. And that is a truly great testament to the creator of the character.

I compiled a list of such characters, for me:

Eugenides, from The Thief- He is by far my favorite character out of all characters. He's witty, smart, and perfect. He is a master of deception, often making people underestimate him. Even when his hand was chopped off (I cried for him, I screamed when it happened), he recovered and stole a country. Because he is awesome. And my favorite of favorites. Hands down best character.

Dustfinger, from Inkheart- So if Gen wasn't in the picture, Dustfinger would be my absolute favorite, poor sad soul that he is. He is so homesick that it literally impacts all of his decisions. He watches people, and often thinks of himself as a coward. To a degree that's true, but deep down, he's brave. Plus, he is a fire eater. Fire talks to him. I have a thing for fire, guys, can't help it. It is because of Dustfinger that I threw Inkspell, literally threw the book and bawled. Therefore, he is my baby and nobody should ever hurt him again.

Nico di Angelo, from the Percy Jackson/Heroes of Olympus series- Don't ask me why, for I don't know, but I adore Nico.* He's my darling. And guess what, tortured (if you haven't noticed, all these guys are) by the loss of his sister and the fact that his dad is Hades. You can't be son of the lord of the underworld and not be affected. But I love him, and I haven't quite figured out why.

Murtagh, from the Inhertiance series- Granted, after the second book, this series dragged out too long (my opinion) and it isn't my favorite book series ever (doesn't even make the top ten) it does however have on of my most favorite of characters in it. Murtagh. My poor poor Murtagh. I was his greatest advocate when the whole world turned on him. I defended him against untrue words, (he isn't evil! He's being used. It's not his fault!) and guess what? I. Was. Right. Completely. He got the short of the stick in the series.

There you go. My favorite of favorites.