I'm Still Standing

This month's confession: I had great intentions last year, I promise. Then, 'round about March, my best-laid schemes went "aft agley." I can't say for sure what happened since much of the first half of last year is a muddled, fuzzy memory, but I'm confident it had something to do with life—i.e., more things to do than time in which to do them and not nearly enough sleep. The reports are true, y'all: Sleep deprivation is just as mind-numbing as alcohol (but not nearly as entertaining :P). At least my brain cells are still mostly intact.

But hey, it's a new year, and all my good intentions showed up right on cue, big plans in hand, ready to kick off their annual visit. We hunkered down around the drawing board, making lists and drinking copious amounts of coffee (because that's what writers do, you know), and we feel pretty good about 2015.

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

Nietzsche may have been a little extreme in his views, but there's some truth here. You don't build muscle without struggling against the weight. You don't build character if everything in life is easy. And most of the time, after the crisis has passed, we can look back on it and pull out a lesson—or see a strength in ourselves that we hadn't had to develop before.

For example, last summer, after too many episodes of hair-pulling and epic tantrums (yes—mine, not the kids'), I made the decision to pull back on my editing work to free up time for my family, focus more on my own writing, and salvage some of my sanity. It was a good call. From September to November, I dove into my novel, Absolution of the Gods, with enthusiasm. I made outlines. I created a many-page-long "Because of That" story spine. I did research. I dug deep into my characters' psyches and pulled out Really Neat Stuff. I blew off some steam about an unrelated (but frustrating) situation and wrote a little chapter just for fun that turned out to fit perfectly where a big chunk of the plot was missing. I stitched together a few scenes I'd already written and ended up with an almost-coherant first 10 chapters. **happy dance**

As a result, for the first time since I began my writing journey, I'm looking down a visible path and not just the tiny, machete-cleared spot in the midst of the plot jungle. What an incredible, exciting view! And that fills my cup almost as much as a good cuddle with my kids or a kiss from my husband. In the aftermath, I learned a few things about myself, not the least of which was figuring out how big my "plate" is and how much will fit before I need to say, "No thanks, I'm full." If I'm happier now, I can only imagine how much happier my husband and kids are. Ahhhh....

Anyway, after the dust settled, it occurred to me to wonder what my characters would say after their own crises had passed (if I ever got to writing them through it). What lessons or strength would they say they'd gleaned from the whole debacle? Their answers amazed me and revealed a much deeper level to the whole story. I'd been struggling with the emotional depth of my characters—or the lack thereof—but asking this simple question opened the floodgates. It was like stumbling into a cave of wonders and treasure.

Now, I know not only what they want on the surface (Zach wants his missing dagger and the power that will come with it; Anna wants to restore her plantation house, to get the mob off her back, and to prove to society that she's more than the bad name her dad left behind) but also why they want these things and the intrinsic value that will be gained. I know their deepest motivations and desires. For a writer, the process of discovery like this is nothing short of euphoric (squee!!). Now I just have to get it onto the page.

Yeah, last year had a few ups and downs, but I am still standing—a lot more steadily than I was a year ago, for sure. Zach and Anna will be standing too—after all the trauma and mayhem I've got planned for them... *mwahahaha* (Don't worry—I didn't just give away the ending. ;) )

The sun had shifted into its downward journey, catching the colors in the stained-glass panes over the French doors and spilling them across the floor. He’d designed it that way, on both sides of the house, so that no matter what time of day, he could walk into a room and bask in the awesomeness of his masterpiece. The blues, greens, purples, and reds were now cast over a very different scene than the last one he’d reveled in, a century and a half ago. The rainbow seemed to cut a line between the two of them—symbolic of the chasm he had to cross to claim his prize—with Anna on the other side, holding the last key. It would be her choice to either help him up or push him back down into the depths. 

His gaze followed the colors across the floor and traveled up, coming to rest on the battered, beautiful face of the woman who held the power to save him, and suddenly, it hit him that his dagger and his freedom might not be the only prizes to be won in this fight. 

You just can't get more '80s than this.  I'm Still Standing by Elton John.

# of proofreads: 24
# of edits: 81