Month: September 2012 Page 1 of 2


I finished it. I finished the first draft of my book.

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

I sat down this morning with the beginning of Chapter 21 blank and waiting, and about 45 minutes ago, after 4,600 words, I wrote THE END. And it really is THE END for a lot of things, for me. It’s the end of wondering if I could ever write a book. It’s the end of seven months of near-constant work, either at the computer or in my brain, to get to this day. And it’s the end of the first part of my journey with these people who have set up residence in my head.

It’s also a lot of firsts and starts. The start of the next step – revision. The first time I’ll offer up a copy to anyone I know in exchange for some critiques. And maybe even the start of planning out the next installment in the series, which I already can’t wait to jump into.

When I wrote the last sentence, after making sure that I really did want to write it, I stared it for a long time. And I had a whole bunch of conflicting emotions. First and foremost, I’m proud of myself. The first time someone told me that I should be an author was, I think, around the time I was ten years old. So this has been a long road. Secondly, I’m really, really happy to be done and moving on. It’s been a huge undertaking and a lot of times I wondered if I would end up giving up. Third, I’m bittersweet. I’ve been doing this since February and now it’s just over? In that respect, I’m glad there are still two more books to go in the series, because that means I don’t really have to say goodbye for a long time. Still, I had a bit of a cry. And fourth, I’m tired as hell. I stayed up late and wrote like crazy because I thought I could get it done, and I was right.

So that’s that. Onward and upward, as they say. Today’s a pretty big deal.

Six Sentence Sunday

“Should we also talk about the cozy way the two of you rode off on his motorcycle?” Matthieu spat. “My grandfather said he had his arms around you at the house as well.” I blanched. “Is there anything about you that isn’t a lie?”

“That’s not… that’s not how it was, Matthieu,” I stuttered, “I’m not with him, I’m with you.”

“What I think is that you’re on your own,” he said, and walked out the door.


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Farewell, Summer

I sat outside in the yard for what will probably be the last time this year, the sun shining on my face, and wrote. We’re expecting our first snowfall early next week, and I work during the day tomorrow and Monday. I’ve loved writing this summer. Being outside has been so inspirational for me, and I’ll miss it until spring comes around again.

It’s probably fitting then that I’m coming to the end of my book just as summer’s also winding down. There’s a remote possibility that I may even finish tonight – I’m on the last chapter, I’ve already written 2,000 words and I still have the whole night ahead of me. Then I have to decide if I want to tackle re-writing the first two chapters right away, or sit on the whole thing for a bit. I’ve been thinking on those chapters for awhile and I’m fairly confident I know what I want to do with them. Then once they’re bright and shiny new I can rest up a bit and do my revisions as planned at the beginning of November. Sounds like a good plan to me…

A Question:

And I’m hoping as many people as possible will comment with their thoughts. Consider this a bit of research.

When you think back upon your childhood, how do you see it in your mind? Do you remember things as though you’re seeing them again through your own eyes, or more as an omniscient third person in the room watching yourself? I’m writing a sort-of-flashback, sort-of-mindreading scene, and I don’t know how to handle the way it unfolds. My own memories are a mix of both the above scenarios, leaning more toward the latter.

Help a girl out?

Oh Dear

Callie’s in a pretty tough spot right now. Things are looking dire. Will anyone come to her rescue?

This is what I was listening to this afternoon when I dumped the kids in Ikea Smaland and then wrote in the cafeteria for an hour:

I think if I buckle down and find some time every day I’m as little as one week away from finishing…

For Your Listening Pleasure…

I saw Bloc Party play tonight, and it reminded me that one of their songs is in my inspiration for writing playlist.

Usually the songs I post are for Callie, but this one’s all for Dane.

Fantastic show.

So Close I Can Smell It

I was going over my outline yesterday and realized that while I do have my point-form notes on all the remaining scenes, I hadn’t blocked them out into chapters. After a bunch of hemming and hawwing I think I have it all laid out, and I was very surprised to see that it looks like I only have about two and a half chapters left! I’m partway through 19 now, and I have it marked down that 21 is the last one. For so long the ending has felt like a forever time away, but I usually get through about a chapter a week, a chapter being 5-7,000 words, and that means I could be done in three weeks’ time. I can even have a bit of a break from the story before I start revising in early November!

I’m a little bit excited and a little bit sad about the prospect of being done. Making your old words better isn’t the same as making new words, and I think my heart is mainly in the ‘making new words’ camp. Who knows? Maybe the shift will be good for me. I’m also very relieved to see that it doesn’t look like I’m going to be over the 30,000 words I estimated from my 100,000-word goal. It looks more like fifteenish. I can find 15,000 words to cut, no problem.

Now, with all that said, it’s not going to be easy writing to the finish line. Things are about to get very, very difficult for Callie over the next 50 pages. Poor girl. I like her so much, it’s hard to break her down like this. She’ll thank me in the end though.

Six Sentence Sunday

“Fuck,” Dane cursed, grabbing me by the arm and pushing me behind him. “Of all the people…”

“Who is it?” I asked, trying to look around him.

“Remember when I told you that the Keres weren’t the only dangers you needed to worry about in Paris?” he asked, the howling of the wind whipping the words out of his mouth. I nodded and he indicated the man, who had also stopped his approach. “That’s who I was talking about.”


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Sometimes I have a confidence problem. I think that I’m not good enough, my writing isn’t good enough, that no one will ever want to read something I created. I look at all the time I’ve spent over the past seven months – hundreds of hours – and wonder if it’s all a waste of time, if I could have spent it better with family and friends, doing paid work, or hell, maybe cleaning up a bit around here.

And then something inside me, the part that made me start in the first place, that won’t let me keep this story inside my head, says who the hell cares?

Today I got this to remind me of that, in the dark moments when I wonder if I should give up.

Part of a quote from French writer Emile Zola: “If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.”

I will not be silenced by my own self-doubt. I will not live an ordinary life by failing to try to achieve what I’m capable of. I will be bold.

All Right, You.

Quit moping and make some words.

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