Ugh...the humidity today (and yesterday) is unbelievable. It's like you are swimming out there. It gets hard to breathe after a while. The kids and I just walked up to the auto repair shop to pick up my van. It's only a few blocks away but holy shit...I thought we were going to melt. The sun was beating on us furiously. "Isn't this fun?" I said. They did not agree. "Come one," I said. "It'll make you strong."
Now we are home again the comfort of central air conditioning. There are four weeks left of summer vacation. The kids tied the hose to the slide, but all that happened was that Marley got all wet and muddy. Garrett is hosing him off right now.
I have been working on my characters. I found this list of great questions to answer, things that I should know about my major characters, whether or not they are needed for the story. It has been fun filling it out, and I know it's going to be very helpful.
I also bought a used book from our library called Remembering and Forgetting - Inquiries into the Nature of Memory by Edmund Blair Bolles. It's an older book, but still very interesting stuff that I'm sure will come in handy.
I have also been reading some of my old books. Even some of my really old books from Junior High. It's quite hilarious, as the writing is atrocious, even in the book I tried to write in my early 20's. It makes me feel like I have come a long, long way, and that makes me feel good. It also makes me think that even if I finish this book and have it published some day, in another ten or twenty years I am going to look back on it and think it's crap. Maybe not. But hopefully I will have improved even more by then.
The thing is, these old books I wrote are not complete trash. I had good story ideas. I just lacked the tools to get there. There are good moments, though, even in the worst of books. I am looking through them to find out mistakes that I don't ever want to repeat, as well as good things I want to hang on to. There are some good lines, good dialogue, good writing, in a paragraph or two along the way.
But still, mostly trash. I am not just being modest either. There were times I could not suppress a thoroughly disgusted groan at the utter cheesiness.
And that is perfectly okay. I made my first attempt at a book (an actual novel) when I was eleven years old. And I never stopped. Among all of the short stories and hundreds of poems I wrote throughout my teen years, and even beyond, I was also always working on a book. Or two.
That is a shitload of practice.
I have been writing newspaper articles for seven years now. I have interviewed hundreds of people, taken hundreds of pictures, attended hundreds of government meetings, met hundreds of deadlines. I have learned more than I could even measure. I have met amazing people and heard amazing stories.
Even though this is not fiction, this is also writing exercise, and the benefits are incalculable.
For years I have regretted not completing college and getting a degree, thinking that it has been holding me back, thinking I could be much better and even be published by now if I had only stayed. But sometimes I think that it's okay. I chose to get married and have children, and the fact that I am still writing and following my dream is at least something. Right?
I think so, anyway. And even if I never, ever get published, I am always going to be working on a book. Because it's so freaking fun I can hardly stand it.
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