Category Archives: musings

Secrets! Or: I Got Fired From My Day Job and I Liked It

awesome hotdog, bro.I’m going to tell you a secret:

I think I’m actually a fucking AMAZING writer.

Did that make you feel uncomfortable? Did you just think, “wow, someone’s full of herself”? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. We’ve all been programmed to think that if a person is proud of their ability, then they don’t see where they have room to grow–they’re arrogant, pompous, prideful. I can tell you at least in my case, I don’t think that’s true. Most of the reason I want to work with traditional publishers is because I want the experience of working with professionals, so that I can improve my writing, learn more about the craft, and become a better storyteller. And I certainly do have my days where “OH GOD I’M THE WORST WRITER EVER,” but if I’m honest with myself on all the other days? I’m pretty pleased with my ability.

But it takes a lot to admit that I think I’m already pretty damn good. Society teaches us, especially girls/women, to be modest, self-deprecating even, when it comes to how we see ourselves. You’re not “supposed to” think you are attractive just as you are, or worthy of love just as you are, or successful enough where you are, or happy with exactly who you are. We live in a world that is constantly trying to sell us a better version of ourselves, and whether it means to or not, it makes us unhappy. In fact, I’d be willing to bet the rise in depression and anxiety in this country has more to do with the advertising industry than anything else.

Here’s another secret:

I got fired from my day job yesterday, and after a day of ups and downs, shame, fear, and sweet (sweet) relief, I realized that I was happy about it.

I had the hardest time allowing myself to happy, though, because this world would tell me I was irresponsible, that I need to be certain and secure before I can be happy, that I need to have a JOB and GET PAID, no matter what the cost.

No matter what the cost.

But I have paid a very, very high price for that life, my friends. In the past 3 years that I’ve been working a soulless office job that barely paid the bills and barely fell within the boundaries of ethical (in my opinion), I have developed severe depression and anxiety. I spent most of this past summer in a walking panic attack–derealization and depersonalization, if you want to get gritty and bring up bad memories. I spent every day of the week in a literal panic, pupils dilated, heart hammering, ears tight, as if they were clenching to keep the world closed out. My average blood pressure my whole life has been something like 90/60 (very low!) and the last physical I had put me at 130/115. And when I finally admitted to a therapist that “I guess I have anxiety,” I also realized the anxiety was covering for severe depression.

I paid for that job. My marriage paid. My writing paid, to the extent that I honestly gave it up for a while, thinking maybe some dreams are okay to let die. (Not the ones that make you horribly depressed to let die, though, jfyi)

So tell me, society: is having a steady job and income really my top priority? Because another few months of that might have landed me in the hospital, in more ways than one.

I am happy I lost my job, even if the reason I was fired was nonsense, and everything is unstable and unpredictable right now. I’m happy because I’m free. Maybe not in the way I would have liked to become free, but the Universe works in mysterious ways, and I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Right now, I’m in a place of so much potential. I will probably qualify for unemployment (which would net me about what I would have been making working part-time), but even if I don’t, it’s not the end of the world. I have the money I was going to use to supplement our income when I went part-time. I can and will get another job, even if I’m just working at a grocery store (our local grocery happens to have an excellent reputation as an employer). But I am never going to sell myself out as badly as I did for my last job. I’m being given a chance to be true to myself, and to uphold my values, for realsies.

This morning, I woke up smiling. I threw on my teal corduroys (fuck business casual) and a hair flower (don’t have to worry about a headset messing it up!) with my hair all huge and lion-fro from sleeping with damp hair (so unprofesh), and went to work–my real work: taking care of myself, and taking advantage of the opportunity I’ve been given. And that means writing.

Tell me: is there something about you that you secretly love? Don’t keep it a secret. Loving yourself for who and what you are is always right.


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Spring, Sprang, Sprung


Look how happy this guy is about SPRING!

It’s officially SPRING! No, don’t look at the snow outside. Or the thermometer. Or the clouds obscuring the precious, golden, lemony sunlight… it is officially spring!


Spring, like many things in our calendar and in our world, is rife with symbolism and meanings that have been liberally applied by human beings since the dawn of time (or at least our cognition of time). Spring is a time of rebirth, regeneration, healing, cleaning, growing. It’s a time of fertility and creativity. It’s a time of resurrection. So it’s the perfect time for me to begin my new life focused on my writing career, instead of merely focusing on survival (this is my last day working full time at my soul/time-sucking day job).

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had some major setbacks in the past year, and I’ll be the first to take responsibility for those setbacks, too. But I’m here, now. In this new place in time, I’ve made choices, taken chances, and given myself permission to move forward on a basis of courage, hope, and dreams alone. And I couldn’t be more excited, more proud, or more terrified.

Yes, there is a lot of fear surrounding this. Will I get writer’s block? Will I run out of ideas? Will I accidentally fall under an ancient Egyptian curse that makes my fingers disintegrate every time they touch a keyboard? Maybe. Maybe I’m not good enough, and not brave enough, and not really “meant to be” a writer.

But my fears change nothing. Maybe I will have another existential crisis. Maybe I will fail, and fail, and fail. Maybe I will even give up. But I already know, no matter what, that I will keep crawling back, bloody and bruised and broken, because my dreams refuse to die–no matter how much I smother, bludgeon, and burn them.

And so, maybe, just maybe, I will succeed.

But it’s really hard to publicly admit that I believe I will succeed. Isn’t that messed up? And yet, I wonder if that’s the real magic, and real courage: daring to believe that you might just be as great as you can imagine yourself to be; refusing to believe in the lie of perfectionism; refusing to buy into a world that doesn’t want you to celebrate the fact that you are fucking awesome, and you have got so much to give.

So I’m gonna own that. I’m doing this crazy, risky, wild thing by making less money and spending my life savings to allow me to stay home and write–but I’m doing it because I believe in myself. I believe in my ability to write, and my ability to break hearts, and my ability to make people cry, and my ability to tell a damn good story.

I believe I will succeed.

Call me crazy, but it’s true.

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I know, I know, it’s been a very long time since I posted. Blah blah blah, [reasons that kind of suck]. But things are a-changin’! Hence the blog post title!

I’m going to have to change the name of this blog, because I’m not going to be a writer by night any more in a few weeks: I’m cutting my day job hours in half and writing DURING THE DAY. Wonder of wonders!

How am I doing this? I’m investing my life savings in myself and my career. Call me crazy and irresponsible, but I’m doing it. Why am I doing it? Because I have been murdering myself the past few years, creatively, spiritually, emotionally, and in some ways physically. I’ve been conforming to societal standards and norms and values that I’ve never agreed with. What the fuck, Self? It’s time to stop doing that shizz. It’s time to start listening to and following my heart.

What can you expect from these changes?

Well, in all likelihood, at the very least you can expect more activity here on (the blog formerly known as) Writer By Night. I’m going to be writing more, which means I’ll be thinking about writing more, which means I’m going to want to tell you my thoughts about it, because I get really excited about writing and all it’s weird nuances and processes.

I’m also going to be publishing more, though I can’t give you time lines yet (I need to hear back from a lot of people before any firm plans are made). I do promise that, one way or another, there will be news about a certain young adult contemporary fantasy trilogy mentioned on my Books page. And there may be some free short stories going up eventually. We shall see.

My new, no-longer-writer-by-night life technically begins on March 25 with my first day on a part time schedule at the day job. Until then, I will be preparing mentally and spiritually, planning my schedule (complete with artist dates to refill the creative well as I draw from it more regularly), tackling some revisions on my current manuscript, and possibly outlining a proposal for a documentary. Possibly. I will also be baking and cooking a lot of delicious and healthy things, because I’ve recently discovered a love of crafting (and eating!) grain-free sugar/sweetener-free recipes. Maybe I will make a special category for food posts. I don’t know how many of you give a damn about my healthy baking/cooking escapades, though.

I think “escapades” is my new favorite word.

Spring is almost here!

The Art of Giving Up

Have you ever tried, and tried, and tried, until you were blue in the face, and all the world felt stale and useless and without-purpose all for the fact that you could not succeed and it was making you miserable?

And have you ever, actually, given up?

Because I did. And as it turns out, that’s not as terrible as it sounds.

Yes, it was gut-wrenching and horrible at first. I had an identity, and a goal, and they were so wrapped up with this thing-I-could-not-have, that to sever my bond to it, my need for it, was like cutting out my heart and leaving it on a stranger’s doorstep. “Here. You take this dream. I have failed it, and cannot go on living with it withered inside my chest.”

But there is a secret to successful giving-up. I’m not talking about giving up bad habits (though, maybe in a sense I am)–I cannot tell you how to quit smoking or eating ice cream for dinner. But I can tell you how I successfully gave up, and how it unlocked the very door I had been beating my head against for over a year.

When a dream hurts, it means you want it. It means you’re meant to have it. A dream once born cannot be put to sleep again. It will coo and smile and lure you with it’s warm affection, and it will wail and scream when you treat it poorly. Sometimes the wailing becomes too much, and you’ll do anything, everything in your power to make it shut up, grow up fast, and be the dream you always thought it should be. It shocks you when it disobeys, infuriates you when it rebels, and breaks your heart when it gives you the silent treatment for days on end.

It is then that you have to let it go. You have to give up trying to shape it, and protect it, and coddle it. You have to give up pursuing it with fire at your heels, reeling it in when it gets out of hand, enforcing morals, and standards, and norms. You have to stop looking at everyone else’s dream and wondering “why can’t you be more like that dream?”

You let go, and let the dream be what it wants, and was meant, to be. Sometimes this means letting it stew, locking itself away for a while. Sometimes this means letting it run away.

But dreams are forgiving. Dreams know who they are, and at their core they will always love the one who gave birth to them. They will always come back, when you give them time to heal, and grow, and be who they are. When you’re willing to let go despite the fear and pain and shame, your dream realizes how much you really love it.

Eventually, dreams come home again. They slip in through the back door while you’re asleep, and unpack their things, quietly. As they settle in and rediscover the comfort of home, they re-learn how to trust you. They speak up, on occasion, venture an opinion, an idea. They point out the cardinal at the window, share a funny joke they heard, tell you they missed your smile.

Then one day, while you’re living life as best you can, your dream slips its hand into yours and squeezes tight. It lingers, and says “I’m here, if you’ll have me as I am.”

And it’s up to you to squeeze back, and tell it, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

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Best Laid Plans of Summer Vacation

This has not been a very good summer for blog updates! I guess I haven’t had much to say. I’ve spent more time sunbathing and barbecuing than using this blog to blather on about the weather (hot, dry) or how cute my dog is (very). You’re welcome.

Guess which one is me.

But lo! Summer is almost at an end! I mean, not technically. We still have at least a month. But it feels close to the end. The weather has cooled drastically and, due to the drought, leaves are already changing colors and falling. It reminds me of when I was still in school–college, high school, whatever–and how this time of year meant my days of freedom were numbered. Right about now, I’d probably become a bit manic, oscillating between excitement for the possibilities of the school year ahead, and dreading the end of warm days, sleeping in, and unscheduled weekdays. And I might be a bit disappointed by everything I’d planned to do that summer, but hadn’t–hadn’t had the time, or made the time, or put in the effort. Whatever the reason, I had not done or achieved a lot of things, probably–a road trip, an art project, a book I’d meant to read, a sport or hobby I’d meant to take up.

As a (mostly functioning) adult, my year is no longer divided by school and vacation, but by workdays and weekends. Still, I’m conditioned to see summer as a season of opportunity, both by my schooling and by nature (longer hours of sunlight, milder weather, etc.), and so I still find myself taking stock this time of year. I still find myself straddling the expectational gap between dread and excitement for what the next “school year” will bring.

Whether it makes sense to or not, this is actually a good thing that I (and maybe, you) have been conditioned to do. It is good to stop and take stock sometimes, not to berate yourself for what you have not achieved, but to find out if you have strayed; not to fear the future, but to build hopes for it. Sometimes we stray from plans and paths because we gave up too easily, allowed too many distractions to gain priority. Sometimes we stray because, maybe when we first set out, we were mistaken about what our priorities actually were. It’s good to take a look at all of these possibilities, and examine our true feelings about them. What was the motivation behind my straying? Have I changed, or do I just need to try harder? Maybe sunbathing an barbecues are more important to me than I realized.

And what are my expectations, my hopes, from here on out? Not forever-future, but the next few months. Fall will be here soon, and Halloween (my FAVORITE holiday) and all the parties that go with that. Travel fares go down for a lot of destinations this time of year, and there are a lot of people I haven’t seen in far too long. But the hours of the day will be shorter, and the weather (especially in Buffalo) will become increasingly unpredictable. And I’ll want to drink tea, and make chili, and take long walks through delicious-smelling piles of fall leaves, and bake apple-bacon pies (yes it’s both genius and delicious), and of course, I’ll want to write as much and as often as possible.

Will I accomplish all of those things? Maybe. Probably not, but maybe. It’s good to make a list though, and prioritize it if I can. It’s good to check in now and then, and see what’s changed. I might have flashes of insight on how I want to lay out my garden next year and have to prep the soil before the ground freezes. I might become obsessed with the link between old-world African religious practices and new American Vodou and have to devour books on the subject. I might finally take that voice acting class I’ve been thinking about.

Who knows?

What I’ve learned, thus far, from life, is that it is always best to plan ahead. But! It is also best to be able to accept the fact that your plans will probably change, with or without your permission.

Happy introspecting!

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A New Note on Writer’s Block

Rusty, aka: Lord Rusticus

Well, it’s been a while since I posted here, but I have Explanations. The biggest one being that it’s summer, and I feel like every free moment is booked from June to October. The other big reason is that we got a dog just after my birthday! So I’ve been busy calming our resident cats, training our new pup, and trying to deal with his previously undiscovered allergies that are making him scratch all the hair off his head. Oof. He’s like a fluffy little old man, except he’s hyperactive and chews on everything (like the six pairs of  shoes we’ve had to throw out). But we love him!

The other big thing keeping me away from this blog? I’ll admit it: writer’s block. That thing I don’t really believe in. But let’s call this Advanced Writer’s Block, Code Orange. I wasn’t quite at the quitting stage (Code Red), but I was definitely in the “will I ever write again?” stage. It wasn’t that I was uninspired, or out of ideas, or believed my writing was bad. It was beyond all the normal things that once kept me from writing, long ago before I called them out as frauds. It wasn’t any kind of belief in lack that was a problem–it was a belief that there was too much. I had too many choices, too many questions–but there was lack, too, I guess, because I didn’t know myself well enough, or my story well enough, to know how to resolve my concerns.

Ultimately, it wasn’t about any of those things though. It was about fear, of making the wrong choice, of wasting time and effort. And even beyond that, it was something more: I was putting too much pressure on myself to write the “best book EVAR.” And even beyond that, the pressure was there because, essentially, I hate my day job, and it was also there because I hate false hopes, hate getting so far as to have lots of agents (I’ve lost count now) request the full manuscript only to pass a few weeks later. I’d reached my limit of stagnation and disappointment, and I was depressed. (Actually, I had “severe anxiety” for three months, but that was basically just me, doggedly determined to Solve All The Problems)

Anyway, I could go on and on psychoanalyzing myself here, but who cares? The point is actually something much easier to digest: I have got a lot of experience under my belt when it comes to creative recovery, overcoming blocks, and understanding how the artist’s mind works and surprises us. I know a lot of tricks, and I know a lot about my own creative habits, and I know a lot about how to avoid the common pitfalls of Doubt. But even with all that I know and all that I’ve experienced? Writer’s block still got me. Like a virus that’s mutated to become immune to antibiodies, my ego ramped up its bullshit to weasel through my wall of well-grounded ambition, and then proceeded to kick me in the teeth.

It’s more than that, though. It’s not just that the insidious part of my ego that likes to kick me into place has adapted–it’s that I, myself, have grown and changed, by leaps and bounds, as a person. Emotionally, mentally, creatively, I’ve grown in depth and width and height, but consciously I have not yet stretched my awareness to cover my new borders. I don’t really understand myself as well as I thought I did, because I’ve changed shape. That’s why, when looking at an old manuscript and a partially finished rewrite, I had no idea how to proceed. Of course, I love the old version. But the new version is amazing too. And both are very different. How can I choose what to keep, what to change?

The thing is, the story I loved several years ago when I wrote that novel is still a story I love, but no longer a story I can tell. My shape has changed–my stories have changed with it–and in order to tell the story I want to tell, I have to explore this new creature I’ve become, get used to my skin, my height, my voice. So,  I guess this whole period of anxiousness and sadness and crippling indecision was/is actually just growing pains.

I’m not quite there yet. I’m not entirely certain who I have, or will, become, but I’m finding my footing more and more each day. The smoke and debris are clearing from my head, and I’m beginning to make out the shapes and sounds of the new stories I’m carrying in my heart, incubating, until I’m ready to put them onto paper.

I’m also trying to learn patience, because god DAMN it I want those stories ready to be written.

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Abusing the Use of Sexual Assult in YA

If you haven’t seen this article on The Victimization of Lara Croft, read it. It brings to mind an issue I have, specifically about YA novels, that has been bugging the hell out of me lately: there is too much god damn sexual assault.

Before you get upset and say “it’s a real thing and YA needs to address real things!” hear me out: Yes, YA is doing a bang-up job at addressing real things, and yes, sexual assault is real. For all the women I know, the majority of us have either been sexually assaulted, harassed, or straight up raped. I know how real this thing is, and that’s why the common and complete mishandling of this highly sensitive subject pisses me off. 

I’m not saying all, but if you read a handful of YA from the past few years with female protagonists and romance, just like in real life, 1 in 4 females will be a victim of sexual assault. The abundance isn’t what pisses me off, but how it’s most commonly used in the context of the story: aside from stories where rape and the emotional fall-out is the prime conflict throughout the book, almost every single time a female protagonist is sexually assaulted, she is then rescued by her romantic interest. Not only is that probably never going to happen, because most girls aren’t semi-stalked by their teenage dreamboats, but that course of events makes the female protagonist into a victim, and her romantic interest a hero. It artificially deepens the bond between them by taking a serious trauma, something with long-lasting psychological and emotional effects, and romanticizing it.

Pardon me, but what the fuck, people? 

Forgetting the fact that this is a widely overused trope, it’s also insensitive as hell, completely dismissing the fact that it’s not healthy or expected that a girl would fall in love with her rescuer, and for many people who have experienced emotional trauma of any kind, that is a potential problem: it’s called erotic or romantic transference, and it’s like an inverse Florence Nightengale effect–patient falling in love with therapist, or rescued falling in love with rescuer. Girls who experience sexual trauma are much more likely to form unhealthy dependencies and attachments to romantic or sexual partners, and even develop romantic feelings for people they don’t actually love or probably shouldn’t fall in love with. Likewise, some women have a hard time developing romantic feelings for anyone, ever, because their ability to trust the human race (and in particular, men) has been shot to hell.

The scary thing is, as both readers and writers we’ve created this trope unconsciously–making the female protagonist incapable of defending herself by making her a victim of sexual assault does two easy things: makes her vulnerable and desirable. Weird, huh? That’s our reaction, for the most part: this person had such a strong reaction to this character that they tried to violate her, and now she’s a little more interesting to us, too.

I’m not a proponent for invulnerable characters by any means–Superman is boring and his superness causes many a plot hole. Sure, I love a strong female protagonist, but what makes them real and what makes their strengths even cooler is that they are not perfect. They do have weaknesses, weaknesses that they often overcome or come to terms with–that’s called the character arc. But I’ve never read a non-rape-issue YA novel where the protagonist was sexually assaulted and actively overcame the traumatic effects of it, because for the most part those are glossed over or not even mentioned. Yes, it’s a big deal at the time, or maybe there is some obvious residual fear if the actual character who assaults the protagonist doesn’t go away, but for the most part it goes like this: set up, assault, rescue, love, no psychological or emotional repercussions whatsoever.

I admit it’s possible that a character is strong enough, mentally and emotionally, to pick themselves up and dust themselves off and go on about their lives as if nothing ever happened, but we’re talking YA, which means teenage girls without well-defined senses of themselves as sexual beings, and…well, good luck selling that line.

As writers, we need to try harder, not just for the audience but for the dignity of our stories, to avoid abusing sexual assault as a vehicle for character appeal. As readers, we should be wary of our own reactions to this trope–it’s natural to want to protect a girl who has been victimized, but don’t be complacent about this form of emotional manipulation. If the author wants you to care about their main character, demand female protagonists who are made appealing to the reader because they are intelligent, insightful, hilarious, brave, brutally honest–anything besides so hot and vulnerable you either want to rape or protect her.

This is a touchy subject, I know–hell, discussing YA is a touchy subject in general these days. Feel free to yell at me and tell me I’m wrong, because truly, I would love to hear what anyone else thinks about this subject.

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Happy Birthday TPaL!

Happy Birthday Week TPaL!

Tomorrow, I turn 27 (years young!?) and my baby, The Poppet and the Lune, turns 1 year old. To celebrate, TPaL is available for FREE in the Kindle store until the end of May 17th, our official birthday! (Go on! Get ye to the kindle store! Download an app! It’s FREE!)

an original illustration from my little blue journal which holds the earliest chapters of TPaL

In another bit of happy news, somehow this whole “free” business has gotten TPaL some visibility! As I write this, The Poppet and the Lune is ranking #129 for free books in the entire Kindle store, #6 in free Fantasy Kindle books, and a mind-blowing #6 in free Children’s Sci-fi-Fantasy Kindle books. I am shocked, and amazed, and so, so grateful.

It’s been almost a year exactly since I published TPaL and released her to the world at large, and I want to say something about what I’ve learned. I’m not sure exactly, how to say it (a more common problem for writers than you think), but I’m going to give it a try.

Some of you may recall that TPaL was originally a free web serial hosted on my wordpress blog, with a very small, but very kind and loyal following. The story was told for the sake of telling stories–it was meant to be fun, and adventurous, and to explore the heart of my own love of story. I hope that it’s been all of that to those of you who have read it.

If manuscripts are like people, and many authors say that their manuscripts are like children, or lovers, or enemies, then I would have to say that The Poppet and the Lune has been a dear and constant friend. She has never been demanding. She has never been difficult. She has always been exactly what she is and was meant to be, never straying, never giving up. Even when people cock an eyebrow at her premise, or shrug their shoulders when trying to think of publishers to sell her to, she is steadfast, and certain.

I have a lot to learn from that.

original illustration from the blue journal

It’s so easy in life, especially in the publishing world, to lose sight of who and what we really are. For the sake of marketing, we don genres and audiences as if we’re trying on winter coats, seeing if our stories appeal more to one crowd or another, wondering if our story is appropriate for one age group or another. The line between telling your stories and finding an audience versus fitting your stories to a specific audience is not very fine, but it does get blurred. We get blurred–when we lose sight of who we are, and the heart of our stories.

Being true to your story means being true to yourself. Sometimes that doesn’t get you an agent, or a book contract, or very much in royalties. But it gives you peace of mind, and that is invaluable. That is what primes you for your next book, and your next. There is clarity there–precious, priceless clarity–that is sometimes called insight, or inspiration, which is at the heart of all creation, of all storytelling. We cannot afford to lose sight of that–we cannot afford to lose sight of who we are, even as we grow and change.

Birthdays and anniversaries are about more than celebrating that first breath, kiss, or step into the world. They are about taking stock, reflecting on change and what you’ve learned, the ways you’ve grown–they’re about setting goals, and planting hopes and dreams–and celebrating every victory and failure that has shaped you into what you are today.

So with another year under my belt, and many lessons learned, I think I’m going to take the time to do that for the rest of my birthday week.

Happy Birthday, TPaL. You’ve come a long way.

And Happy Birthday, Self. Remember, you never stop learning.

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My Appalachia

When I was just out of high school, standing on (what felt like) the verge of the rest of my adult life, I developed a strong and unexpected desire: to thru-hike all 2,100+ miles of the Appalachian Trail. (If you’re not familiar with it, the trail begins in Georgia and ends in Maine, and takes on average 6 months to complete.)

I. Was. Obsessed.

For months, years, I read everything I could get my hands on about the trail and people who had hiked it. I read recommendations, novelizations, guidebooks, hiking books, hiking books specific for women, thru-hike planning books… my thirst for knowledge was unquenchable. I was in love with the idea that one could go on such a journey alone, through the woods, exercising both mind and body, attuning with the earth, meeting other hikers, walking with the seasons as they cascaded changes up the mountain range. I had no illusions–I knew it would require training, and the physical strain would be great. I knew that hundreds set out from Springer Mountain every spring with the intention of completing the trail, and I knew that many–most–88%–gave up.

But I wanted this.

When I was 19, I began to save for the adventure, certain I would be able to take 6 months off from school once I’d saved up enough money. I had a plan. I had the resources. I was determined.

But Life has a way of undermining us in the ways we least expect it to. The summer I began to collect the gear I would need for my hike, the one piece of equipment I could not replace proved that it was unreliable: my own body.

The long and short of it was this: It took 5 year, 3 chiropractors, 2 orthopedic doctors, 1 x-ray, and 1 MRI to determine that I had degenerative disc disease and a herniated c-7 vertebra, which had caused the nerve clusters in my general left hip/butt area to be pinched off and, essentially, shortened. Chronic pain was my companion for many years until I found the right doctor (an Active Release Therapist, which I would not even know was an existing practice but for my brother’s masters thesis on physical maintenance and injury among professional musicians), but even at that, there are no cures for most back injuries. The best I could hope for was to avoid pain through physical therapy and avoiding things that could aggravate my condition.

I will spare you the depressing details about giving up on my Appalachian dream, worrying about my future health, and the difficulties of finding work in college that didn’t involve being on my feet for long periods of time.

Fast forward to now: The funny/magical thing about the human body is, if properly motivated, it can compensate for and eventually overcome most injuries, even if all medical science says otherwise. I’m not “fixed.” I still have “back problems.” But I am miles from where I was, and my desire to hike that god damn trail has not waned one bit. I have messed up–I have done stupid things to my back and suffered–but it fixes itself, balances itself out the way only the human body can.

So. I talked it over with the hubs last night (let’s not forget that, now, as a 26-year-old woman with a husband, pets, and a mortgage, that my responsibilities are very different from when I was 19), and I decided something that hopefully won’t surprise you:

I’m going to do this.

And not just that: I have another plan.

I have several plans, actually, and we’ll have to see how they really play out in the coming months/years as our lives change and our income (hopefully) increases over time. But I’ve done the calculations, figured out how much income I’d be failing to bring in those months, figured out how much I’d need to survive on the trail, both low and high estimates… and basically?

Three years from next Thursday, I will be celebrating my 30th birthday on the Appalachian Trail.

How d’you like me now, Life?

I’m curious though–how many of you have a dream that you’ve given up on? How many of you have buried a desire because of hurtles you feel you cannot cross? Maybe they aren’t as impossible as you think. And if they still seem so impossible, maybe they’re worth the risk of failing, so long as you know you at least tried.

Love you guys.

Small Victories

I did something this weekend that I’ve never successfully done before: I outlined my novel!

I know, I know, that’s not really a big deal for all you clever people out there who always outline your novel because you realized long ago the importance of having a track for your writing, so you at least know when you’ve fallen off of it. But I’m not as clever as all of you. I’m what they call a seat-of-the-pants writer. I get a basic idea that excites the hell out of me, a handful of characters that slap me around until I get them right, and a general idea of the ending… and then I write. I figure it out as I go, each scene as surprising as the next. This seems horrendously inefficient when I explain it like that, but it’s how I’ve always worked best.

So why outline now?

I’m beginning a second re-write of my current Work In Progress, a novel that has been an off and on love affair since 2008 (more obsessively the past two years…I kind of wrote it around The Poppet and the Lune). This new (and I hope final) version is a combination of version 1 and version 2, plus a little tweak that fixes a million different Problems I’d been having, so there is a lot less creativity involved at this point when it comes to the plot and structure of the story and character arcs. My job now is to write the scenes as beautifully and gut-wrenchingly and hilariously (you get the idea) as I can.

So I’ve outlined, essentially, to make a to-do list. Scene execution is the best part about writing–it’s the actually word play, the actual act of writing–so now it’s like I have this long to-do list full of things I can’t wait to do. Which is why this outline is so exciting!

I suppose what I can take away from this whole experience (if the outlining helps as much as I expect it will) is that perhaps my first drafts should be more like very detailed outlines. I can still write them seat-of-my-pants style, but also not lose as much when I discover plot holes or pacing issues. In writing version 3, I’m throwing away over 200,000 words from my previous versions. Which…ouch. Just ouch. Those are some really good words I’m tossing. But a novel isn’t just the sum of its pretty words–the pretty words need to weave within the structure of a well-crafted world and story.

We’re always learning about ourselves and our craft, aren’t we?

Anyway. I’m excited!

What about you? Do you outline, or write seat-of-your-pants? Do you perform major surgery on your first drafts to make the second draft work, or do you find most of the revisions in later drafts are less massive? Let me know! Sharing is caring!

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