Dis/inhibition

Oh my God, I’m gonna cry. I’ve posted in here a bit about a novel I was writing for ages and ages up until about two years ago, one that I set aside because I basically outgrew it. It had gone through five drafts. The fourth draft took two years and was done with a writing coach. When we were through, she sent her hard copies of it to me, complete with her notes. I then did a fifth draft on my own for about a year before the setting-aside occured.

I backed the whole thing up on a zip disk and removed it from my hard drive. Last December, I went back to look something up in the manuscript only to discover the zip disk was corrupted, and I had lost not only the fifth draft but the fourth. Just gone.

I was devastated. All I had was the fourth draft in a hard copy.

Well, short story long, I just found a backup of the fifth draft that I had buried on my hard drive at work!

This doesn’t mean I’m going to start working on it again, but to have not lost it, to still have it, that means everything to me. It’s my baby. I was its mother, I was its lover, for ten years. It taught me how to write.

She’s gone!

She left me. *sob*! She packed up and moved to Cuernavaca!

My muse got all offended when I took a break from fiction writing back in April to work on my Angel episode analyses and it’s been two months now and…

I.Can’t.Write!!!

Oh, I can write LJ entries and comments, and I managed in extremely painful fashion to put together a wretchedly pathetic personal ad, but fiction is escaping me. I can’t work on my novel for longer than 15 minutes before I abandon it. And the little femslash pr0n I’ve been trying to write for the cracktrailer is just the uber!suck, and not in the fun way. And here I thought it would be just the thing to provide me some frothy, no-stress wordsmithing. And entertainment.

I’m hoping the Season 6 fic will kick me into gear, ’cause summer is always my writing marathon season, and this year… *sob*!!

Plus, I have a pulled muscle or something in my shoulder that gives me stabbing pains every time I take a deep breath. I hate that! I think I slept on it wrong.

Tossing and turning and pining for my lost muse….

Please, can any one think of something that will inspire me??

Doing a novel synopsis…

I have no problem telling people I’m writing a novel. It makes me sound Interesting at parties. “You’re writing a novel?” But inevitably, people ask me, “What is it about”? They want a 30-second synopsis. Or is it 30 words? Anyway, that’s when I get tongue-tied. I suck at giving synopses, and usually just say lame stuff like, “I don’t know,” or “It’s complicated”, or… I change the subject.

It’s not like I’m embarassed about my novel or anything. It’s just it’s… it’s a character-driven novel with a bit of a complicated plot, and how do you summarize such a thing? Plot-driven novels usually have a concept, or a premise. Something that started the whole writing process in the first place, something the writer is shooting for that lets him/her know when it’s complete.

My novel

Metaphorical coffee

I complain sometimes about how doing my website/moderating the board takes up time I could be working on my fiction, but in other ways, the ATPo board has greatly enriched my fiction. I’ve made it one of my goals in life never to take a literature class (don’t ask me why, I have no principled reason, the thought just makes me squirm with the potential for sheer boredom).

Talking to ATPoers with literary expertise has taught me a lot about metaphor and symbolism. I never purposefully tried to incorporate those literary elements into my writing until recently. And now I seem to find interesting symbols and metaphors in passages I’ve already written.

Like this weekend. In one of the very last chapters of my novel, I have the protagonist (Valerie, a brassy graduate student) coming to a truce with the antagonist (Elizabeth, her control-freak advisor). The setting of the chapter is Valerie’s apartment. I wrote the first draft of this chapter years ago, and in it, I naturally had Valerie wearing no shoes, just socks. It’s her house; Elizabeth comes over unexpectedly.

But reading it lately, as I’ve been working diligently on details and descriptions, I noticed there was something symbolic in Valerie wearing no shoes. When she wears no shoes, her feet don’t clomp against the kitchen tile. Valerie is always clomping. She wears cowboy boots, and they are always heralding her entrance into a room. In one big early confrontation scene between Elizabeth and Valerie, Valerie ambushes Elizabeth in the laboratory where they work, and Elizabeth’s first awareness that Valerie has entered the room is through the clomp of those boots.

Naturally, Elizabeth tenses up at the sound. So in the final scene between them, Valerie’s new softer, emotionally spent attitude is symbolized in her lack of boots. Even as she and Elizabeth seem to clash one more time, they are on the verge of an understanding, and it is symbolized by the lack of clomping.

Pretty cool.

Now I find myself actually trying to incorporate more symbols and metaphors into my novel. Like with coffee. Nearly all my characters drink coffee (maybe too much, maybe I overuse this little detail). But each of their preferences in coffee says something about who they are as a character.

Felicia, who is in love with a playful artsy blonde, drinks her coffee with cream and sugar. At one point, her lover even comments of Felicia’s morning cup, “Just the way you like it. Blonde and sweet.” As the novel continues and Felicia starts having problems with her lover, the coffee she drinks becomes increasingly luke-warm and acrid.

Elizabeth, who is abrasive and a work-a-holic, drinks her coffee strong and black and bitter.

Elizabeth’s husband Arthur, who wishes his marriage was better than it was, douses his black coffee with sweetner.

Valerie, who wants to think she is nothing like her mentor Elizabeth, also drinks her coffee black.

Lisa, a teenager being drawn into Valerie’s more adult world, at first drinks orange soda, but later orders coffee and douses it in cream and sugar to make it palatable, but then doesn’t drink it. At the end of the novel, when Lisa has started coming into adulthood, she orders an mocha espresso and drinks it down. Grown up, but still sweet.

I need help from my hip&groovy music-listening friends

OK, first the confession. I stopped listening to new music in 1992. Now, when I do listen to music at all, which I don’t very often because I find it distracting, I listen to old favorites like Depeche Mode or Elton John. I wake up to random classical music in the morning. But most of the time? I prefer to think thoughts, engage in mental argumentation and tell myself stories, and music makes it hard to concentrate.

Anyway, so I’m writing a novel. And my characters, who aren’t me (much), they listen to music. But I don’t have a clue what they would listen to. So I need suggestions.

What would the following people likely listen to?

• A seventeen-year old high school senior, female, white, middle-class, living in the ‘burbs*

• A 25-year old working class/no college woman, white, who is a bit of a “stoner” (do they still call them “stoners”? Loadies? *Ack*). I’m thinking she’s sophisticated enough not to listen to stereotypical “stoner” music, though. By that I mean she wouldn’t listen to music to enhance the “getting high” experience, but she would listen to things a somewhat intelligent person from her background would listen to.

• A 27-year old somewhat musically sophisticated male grad student, mixed race (white/native american), who I’m thinking listens to contemporary jazz

• A 24-year old registered nurse, female, black, middle-class, somewhat anal and neat-freaky and domestic

• A 22-year old hippy artist type, female, white, from a rich background she has rejected

Honestly, when I started this novel I was 29 and a lot closer in age to these people, but they’ve remained young and I’ve gotten old and I don’t know what these whipper-snapper young people listen to anymore!

*I would describe her as intelligent and bright, but rather sheltered and inexperienced. She’s spirited, but not really punk or “out there” in anyway. In high school, she’s part of the marching band crowd, but not in anyway a nerd. Developmentally, she’s in that in-between place where she might see things outside her experience (urban music) as interesting and exciting, but have enough intelligence not to be impressed by things that are rebellion for rebellion’s sake. In fact, I would describe her as someone who is learning as the novel progresses to be herself and NOT try to do those things teenagers do to seem more sophisticated/trendy that actually make them look juvenile.

Has anyone seen my right brain?

I can’t seem to access it.

At the beginning of the month, I got back into the editing of my novel, and what I feared was a case of writer’s block turned out to be a necessary two months of focusing on other things, namely buying a house, moving, the holidays, and a brain vacation.

Now that I am back into it, however, I’m finding myself dissatisfied with my editing efforts. Part of the editing process is very left-brained: are the details in each chapter consistent with each other? Am I using too many adjectives? Does this section contribute anything to the plot? I do well with that.

Other parts are more intuitive. This is the stage where you actually really need to concentrate on making your writing sound pretty, and I am finding some bits I’m happy with, and lots of other bits that are totally bland sounding. Which is not a federal disaster, I just need to make them read in a more interesting way.

The problem is, the part of my brain that puts words together in interesting ways seems to be asleep. Or it’s back living in my old apartment. Or maybe I left it behind months and months ago but didn’t realize it because I was working out technical problems.

Where is my creativity, the part of me that comes up with novel catches of phrase, interesting details and complications, fresh perspectives on old material? Where is the part of me that takes mental leaps beyond the obvious?

*Ack*

note to self: I want to be aliera9916 when I grow up. Or I might just steal fresne‘s brain.