Woohoo, I just wrote a seven hundred word outline (well, the beginnings of an outline) for my November Novel, in one hour. I have thirty-one days to write fifty-thousand words, starting November 1, so if I can manage two thousand a day I'll reach the goal and win. I think Mary Moonwalker and Ilk are going to do it too. Thanks so much Miss Mary. The hardest part was narrowing down my focus enough to decide what to write, and when it came to me it all just started flowing together. Now I wake up every morning with ideas and sentences forming in my mind. I'm going to write about my years spent in an all girls Catholic High School but I'm going to base it on my experiences and fictionalize it, I think. If it turns out to autobiographical rather than a novel well, then so be it. At least I'll have narrowed my focus enough to be writing something.
And if this doesn't work then you can go here.
I was just talking to my neighbor across the street the other day and she was talking about how she's decided she is going to be a writer, how she keeps journals, and writes things, so I told her about my journal and she told me she doesn't even have a computer, she doesn't like technology. I called her a ludite, then I told her about this project, thinking it would be helpful to her, and without giving it a thought she just shot it down with a, "Pfff I don't need anything juvenile like that to make me write."
Sigh, people can be so small minded and airy in their dreams of creative achievement. I remember a few other creative schemes of hers that suddenly pop up and challenge my long starved artist's heart. All that training, all my years of struggle, and someone can just suddenly decide to be an actor one day? It just pisses me off because I've seen it happen. I remember when she proclaimed she was going to be a voice over artist during a particularly challenging financial period for her, when she was worried she might lose her house. She said, "I think I'll take a night class at the Learning Annex, I mean how long do you think it would take me to make serious money doing this?"
This is the same woman I had some major conflict with when she bounded out of her door one day and attacked me with shrill opinions about my choices in child rearing. It was so sudden and surprising, it really scared me and made me cry, and then she pointed at my crying and said, "See, see, look how emotional you are." (I find that most people just can't handle emotion, especially crazy fragile people who are often hanging on to their own capped off well of feelings themselves. One of the many reasons I take antidepressants, it keeps the feelings in check so I don't have to express them the second they come up, especially in places that aren't safe. But they also mute them and that may not be a good thing, who knows.) At the time my therapist called her borderline and told me to keep things as light as possible between us, to keep my distance, which is what I've done and it seems to have worked. We didn't speak for years but I've finally managed to make a kind of peace with her. I used to get hurt by things like this but I've learned to let it flow over and around me so now people can make their comments about whatever I tell them, comment on my weight or my house and cats, shoot down kind helpful suggestions I offer, and I truly do not give a shit anymore. Well, at least it doesn't penetrate as deeply as it once did. I'm learning that people who come in to my life just because they live near me or are the parents of kids Beau decides to befriend does not mean I have to befriend them. People are not necessarily my friends because of their proximity to me.
I used to care much more about writing about these little exchanges with people in my journal for fear that they would read them and become angry with me or hurt. But what I've learned is that a lot of these geographic "friends" have a similar dynamic in that they are super self centered, can't really connect with me, aren't listening to what I'm saying, and probably wouldn't deign to read my journal in a million years anyway. I mean, what was I thinking worrying about writing about people in here? For now I think I'll just let it rip. Let things fall where they may.
I'm so excited. It doesn't matter if its perfect, it doesn't matter if its crap, it just has to be fifty-thousand words long and completed within one month and then I can call myself a novelist. I love this idea. Perfect for my driven perfectionistic inner artist who shuts down and becomes immobilized. I'll have to just cuddle her up and keep her busy with something while I plow ahead and create some movement.
This fits in super nicely with my year of change goal that I set last January. Although how I'm going to do this and list things for sale on eBay, lose the twenty five pounds I need to lose in order to have weight loss surgery in February, be a good Mom, a sexy loving girlyfriend, a devoted understanding daughter of an aging parent, the caretaker of close to a hundred pets, a supportive employer who is acting as an auntie to six extra children who as of tomorrow have nowhere to live, be the block captain, manage to connect with old/new friends, pet my friend Jen's horse once before I die, and still write in my journal is anyone's guess. I said this yesterday, just not as succinctly.
Okay well, I'm off to get some cleaning and organizing done around here in my never ending goal to finally move all of my stuff out of the old office and into here so Beau can have that extra room all for himself. Then it's a bit of Halloween yard decorating before I have to go to the gynecologist and spread my legs for a stranger. I got so scared the last time, I used my sickishness as an excuse to cancel.