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In every race, a runner at some point hits his or her wall. The point in which the mind and body have no will to go on, to keep going. The desire to lie down and curl up into a fetal position looks good and inviting.
Today, I've hit my wall--my writers wall. I look at my nanowrimo story and I think: I have a crazy guy looking for Red (my female character). What am I gonna do with him? I don't know. I have a zombie-loving mother with a rifle. What am I gonna do with her? I don't know. Where's Red and Wen (another character in the novel)? I don't know. How are they gonna get out of this mess? I don't know. I blink. I have no answers. But it’s your story, you say. You should know what you’re doing. True. It is mine. I am the author. But sadly, I haven’t a clue. The characters in my zombie western novel have led me in directions and along paths I know nothing about. I do not plot. I do not outline. I allow the story to take me where it will. Sometimes it ends up being a problem. Like now, when writing a nanowrimo type novel (a novel in a month). There is no time for revisions. Not now. Not in November. December, yes. But November no. In November, I have to write, and write quickly, and then I have to commit myself to what has been written and press forward. My children are in bed and I can't write. I've written myself into a corner, I fear. The concept is good—I like the twists and turns. It could be a great thing if I can figure out what to do next—the writer behind the concept, not so much. I need a Pepsi. I have been without for the past 3 days. It's starting to show.
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 I have always had an active imagination—even as a kid. Some might even say an “overactive imagination.” In some respects, I would probably have to agree. I can get carried away some times.
Why I make mention of this, is that this morning Callie woke up earlier than usual and came and crawled into bed with Scott and I. “I had a bad dream,” she said. “It was scary.” This got me to thinking: my daughter is sooo much braver than I was when I was a kid. I had bad dreams as a little girl, but there was NO way I was climbing out of my bed to go find my mother. There was NOTHING you could do to make me step foot on my bedroom floor. The obvious reason—there were living things under my bed. Things that would grab my ankles and drag me under and into the dark abyss where monsters and boogiemen reside. Nope. No way, was I getting out of that bed. Instead, I would scream for my mother until she came for me. It is a well-known fact that monsters do not like mothers. It’s true. (My mother has never seen a monster, and now that I am a mother myself, I have yet to lay eyes on one as well). I also believed that if I lay in the very middle of my bed—the VERY VERY middle—no monsters could reach me. Because everyone knows, especially little girls, that though monsters are HUGE, their arms are not. Their arms can’t stretch to the middle of the bed, only the edges. So I did not want to accidentally be found sleeping or resting near the edge, not even if my bed was pressed up to a wall on one side—monster arms can be thin and still slide up the side of the wall. I also made sure my closet doors were closed each night too. I could NOT have it opened even a crack. Monsters live in closets too (just ask Disney). I fully believed these things. I remember having two large stuffed lions (carnival game prizes someone gave to me) and I would place them on either side of my bedroom room. They were big, maybe two feet high, and they looked scary with their red and pink fur. They were my protectors. I also believed that stuffed animals had souls and feelings. I would struggle in picking only one doll or one stuffed animal to sleep with at night, fearing I would hurt the feelings of the ones I had not picked. I had tried to come up with a rotating system, so everyone could have their turn. I tried for equality. (Funny thing, I still feel bad for the stuffed animals Callie does not choose to sleep with. I look at them sitting there, hopeful). When Toy Story was released, it confirmed everything I had ever believed. Toys are real. Obviously, I was not the only one who believed as I did—Disney did too. Me and Disney, we’re like this (crossed fingers—tight). Anyway, I still have bad dreams. Awful, end of the world, apocalypse type dreams. I kid you not. My first was when I was a teenager. I still remember it to this day—men on horseback rounding people up to slaughter. Since then, I get one every so often—the world burning while I hide in a cave as hot lava pours down the sides of the mountain; buildings falling in on people, like sand, crushing them; 9-11 dreams where I am in the towers, the building is burning and I am trying to call my loved ones to say goodbye; I even had my very first zombie dream several weeks ago (this dream is going to be a scene in the zombie-western I’m writing. Creepy) Now this dream, I blame myself. Zombies have been on my brain a lot while I was preparing for NaNoWriMo, so dreaming about them was bound to happen. But the others, I have no idea where those come from. Crazy? Maybe. Imaginative—OH YEAH! Perhaps that is why I am a writer. My brain is TOO full of creative things (It is. Don’t look at me that way) and so writing is my outlet. I have mentioned before, I have been writing ever since elementary school. I was told by my sixth grade teacher (years and years later, when I ran into him and asked him if he remembered me), that I wrote the longest short stories of anyone he had ever taught. I am different. I know it. I overheard a lady at one of my book clubs mention that to go away on a writing retreat would be torture for her. She couldn’t think of anything worse than to have to write for hours and hours at a time. I had to stop her right there and insert myself into the conversation, because to go away on a writers retreat and write for hours and hours without interruption or having to participate in the rituals of everyday living (dishes, laundry, yelling kids, etc, etc . . . ) would be my DREAM. I would LOVE it. I think that’s what I want for my 40th birthday—send me off by myself somewhere nice to write, and relax (maybe hit a spa too) would be a great gift. I hear Hawaii is perfect for that kind of thing. I am grateful for my overactive imagination. It helps me create novels. I love it. I embrace it. Except when I hear weird noises downstairs in the middle of the night, then I’m not too fond of it. Because EVERYONE knows, creepy noises mean homicidal maniacs are in the house. Writing about zombies has been quite interesting this past week. I’m actually creeping myself out a little. Oh, let me tell you about how creeped out I’ve been . . .
I was busy typing away, listening to my iPOD (jamming out to country music to get in the western mood), when Scott snuck up behind me (he had actually been calling my name, but I couldn’t hear him). He leaned over my shoulder in an attempt to kiss my neck, but OH MY GOODNESS! I jumped from my chair, screamed like a little girl, and slapped at him a couple of times. “What the heck?” he yelled. “NEVER, NEVER sneak up on a person writing about zombies and put your head near their neck! NEVER do that!!!” (It is a well known fact that—not much different from vampires—zombies go for the juggler). After I calmed down, we laughed at how stupid I was. Super funny. You should have been there. But writing about zombies hasn’t been as lighthearted and fun as I had at first imagined it to be—zombies kill, zombies bite, zombies are gross. I find myself writing horror, which is NOT something I do. It’s bothersome, BUT (a great big but) I am willing to go outside my comfort zone, my normal writing genre, and do something different, just to see if I can. How much more different can it get than to write a zombie-western-romance? I really can’t think of anything, can you? Also, I am taking this opportunity to write in the 3rd person and in some chapters, from a male perspective. My last three books have all been 1st person POV from a female perspective. So this is all new uncharted territory for me. I know I had mentioned in the previous blog entry that I would post my first chapter of the zombie book for y’all to read, but I’m not so sure about that chapter. That chapter may become a prologue instead—it’s dark and dreary, but plays a role in why the girl (heroine) of the story is the way she is. But it paints me in a pretty bad light as far as writing goes (it’s a gross, sad chapter). So instead of posting that chapter, I am going to start you off on chapter 2 (which may become chapter 1 anyway) where it is less yucky and more fun (you be the judge). Also, I am going to post the first little bit of another story that came to me after I woke up from a dream in which someone kidnapped Callie and I couldn’t prove she was mine. The people who stole her had all the records to indicate she was actually theirs—I had nothing (not sure why. That’s just how dreams work sometimes). Anyway, in the dream I ended up kidnapping her back. When I woke up, I knew I had the makings of a story—a woman’s daughter is kidnapped from her car and she has no way to prove the little girl was hers to begin with. This is a story I want to revisit after nanowrimo is done, because I want to give it more thought and time. I think it could be an interesting story, if I do say so myself (ha,ha, I just said so myself). So check out the tabs above and PLEASE feel free to comment and let me know what you think, which story you like best, if you think the zombie book is disgusting, and such. I’d love to hear from you. http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2010/11/12-reasons-to-ignore-the-naysayers-do-nanowrimo.html
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