Some mornings you're productive, brilliant, thousands of words, writing like it's akin to breathing.

And some mornings your infant son chews on your laptop cord while your preschoolers tool around the house in cardboard boxes, which can only mean that whatever had been IN the boxes is now somewhere between your kitchen and living room, and then you hear the sound of something tearing and then there's a crash or a shout, and perhaps a foul smell trailing behind your daughter as she zips past and you realize that writing will not happen.

Is Lost...

Somewhere between novella and novel.

Send help.

Reading

I've been feeling swallowed by life lately. I write in my sleep and wake up feeling blissfully productive - without ever having touched my fingers to a keyboard. Characters flourish, stories gracefully arc, phrases turn themselves.

The reality is, I am in a slump. Creativity is blossoming, imagination is at work, the will is there - but then life comes and drags me away. Ok, perhaps that's a tad too melodramatic, especially when life comes in two forms. The first is my children, the hustle and bustle of maneuvering my family through the hoops of preschool, babysitters, work, meals, cleaning, teaching, learning, exploring, settling into sleep. Rinse and repeat. In this instance, I am dragged. There is no avoiding life.

The second is the time spent with my husband in a near catatonic state of television watching. Ok, catatonic is not a fair assessment as often I will exercise while watching, but still, it's the way my mind feels after watching an hour or two. This is the form of life swallowing that must stop. Especially with my self-imposed deadline now firmly looming on the not-so-distant horizon. December 15th. I will be done.

In the meantime, I have been invited to do a reading on October 1st at Adelle's Coffeehouse in Dover, NH. Anyone local is welcome!

And for no other reason than because photography has been my creative outlet of choice as of late, snapping photos as life swallows me whole, here are some glimpses into my world.

Imagination

Now that summer has finally showed itself here in New England, after weeks of gray skies and dreary mornings with rain splattering our windows, I'm hoping to be inspired by the imagination and whimsy of my children.

The novel is progressing, taking it's own turns and surprising me as I write. I've begun sneaking it in while working. In between answering inquiries about 401K's and minding my schedule adherence, I'm typing away to myself, lengthy emails of scenes I've been meaning to sit down and put to paper at home. Since I'm, nearly literally, glued to my seat at work, I have no excuse not to get writing done. Except, of course, that it might be frowned upon by my employer.

The people around me read or otherwise goof off during their down time as well though, so if they can sit and watch live coverage of Michael Jackson's funeral or skim through the latest Nicholas Sparks novel, why can't I at least be productive?

Still. I'd rather be chasing bubbles.

And I'm getting writing done as well...

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.

~ Henry James

Then followed that beautiful season...Summer....Filled was the air with dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Expression

Why the montage of my baby's face? You might ask. Why not, I say. It's my blog afterall.

(On a writerly note, the LL Book Review had some kind words in their review of The Simplest of Acts.)

Writing Cycles & eScene

I'm coming back to a place where I'm able to write.

You see, my novel writing cycle goes like this:

Write.
Go back and skim what has been written, think it's good enough to continue.
Write more.
Skim again, think it's fantastic...
Dream about the characters, think about turns of phrase while driving, showering, eating.
Write more.
Go back and skim what has been written and start to question if it makes sense.
Begin to feel in over-your-head, wonder what made you think you could write in the first place.
Leave document open, but unused, on the desktop for a week.
Maybe two.
Pick up a book and attempt to spark the desire to write again.
Here is where there may be a variation:

If the book is good, it inspires writing and the cycle can start anew.

If the book is bad, the cycle stalls and will remain in a holding pattern for a little longer. Eventually though, bad writing can motivate a writer as well. Thoughts begin like this: if this gets published, what am I waiting for? Why am I being so hard on myself? - and writing can once again commence.

Of course, for me, this cycle is also dotted with about a hundred diapers, twenty (ok, sixteen at the most) hours of office work outside the home, bouts of mommy-guilt, and sporadic attempts to regain a bathing suit worthy pre-pregnancy figure.

Needless to say, it's a slow process.

In short story randomness, I noticed this evening that my short piece, "Fishbowl" (currently up at Word Riot), is also noted at eScene as part of their compilation of the best of the literary web. Nice.

Although, this reminds me that I haven't worked on short fiction for months now and I think I might miss it. Novels are exhausting.