Maze of mud

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Friday night a group of us got together and bravely explored a corn maze. It was a first for all of us, which might explain how bad we were at navigating the maze.

The entire maze was supposed to take 1 hour, but it took 1.5 hours for us to just make it to the middle!

Shortly after we FINALLY reached the halfway point I decided to practice my non-existent reporter talent and interview members of my group. After an hour and a half slipping and sliding through the mud in the dark, those fire pits looked extremely inviting.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHidy1n6iq4

That was 4 days ago, and my muscles are still sore!

I want to try it again, maybe next year. But next time I’ll be sure to pick a day when it has not been raining. I’m sure walking through a dry maze will be quite a different experience than the one we had Friday. And to be honest, although it was quite an adventure, I can do without the constant threat of my feet flying out from under me.

Loglines

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At the beginning of this week I didn’t even know what a logline was. Now, since the week has progressed to the ripe old age of Tuesday, I need to write 10 of them before tomorrow.

Nothing like a tight deadline to get the old creative juices flowing!

I will need all the creative juice I can get. Loglines are handy-dandy one sentence beings that tell the story of the story. The blurb that bubbles with the good stuff of a script. The short summary that satisfies the question, “what is this about?”

I need to write 10 of them by tomorrow. Ten new, fresh ideas, presented in a compact package complete with character, action, and drama. Ten little gems that will stand the test of the old red marker.

And then, I will have the pleasure of choosing one of them to write into a 5 page script. By Sunday.

Good thing I enjoy a challenge!

I wonder if they sell creative juice in the grocery store in the frozen food aisle?

Dripping with sap

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I had finished a draft of the first part of the screen play, and it was…it was…well, I really couldn’t tell what it was! I enjoyed writing it, tremendously, but something about it just wasn’t right.

And you cannot fix a problem until you can identify it. I had no clue what was wrong with my baby script, I just knew that it stunk.

So I read it aloud to family members. It was embarrassing for me (since I knew it was bad) and for them (since they could hear it was bad). But it had to be done. I needed help. Desperately!

I was very fortunate that they were honest enough with me to tell me that it was a little sappy–that it read like a bad 1940s movie. And they were perfectly right, except it wasn’t just a little sappy, it was covered with it!

I talked through the problems with them and began rewriting, then and there. I could immediately tell the difference.

As I worked to de-sappify the script I realized that my main problem was that I was trying to stick to the outline which I had turned in last week as a class assignment. I forcing the story to stay within the outline, but the story was fighting back tooth and nail.

So while I was writing from point A to point B to point C, my story had gotten bored and wanted to visit point 5 and point 12 and point 32. I had not known that those points even existed!

I’ll tell you, that script is one good fighter. I would write a line, it would throw a punch, and POW, suddenly there was sappiness all over the place. It was quite a mess.

Assignment or no assignment, I’ve decided to negotiate a truce. I’ll toss out the original outline I was trying to follow and write a new one. That way, we’ll both be happy.

With any luck, the sap will stay in the trees, where it belongs.

Writeaholism

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I wanted to use a different word, really I did. But nothing seemed to fit so well.

Okay. I admit it. Maybe writeaholism isn’t in the dictionary, but it should be. No other word describes my addiction to writing so concisely.

It was like…like…like a chocoholic deprived of chocolate for months, suddenly coming across a Dove bar hidden away in the back of the cupboard. One bite, and bam, all those old wonderful feelings of satisfaction and joy and, well, euphoria came flooding back.

That was what my morning was like.

Because today, for the first time in over a month, I wrote. Really wrote.

Not a blog. Not a note. Not random thoughts on a piece of paper intended to allow my creativity to flow.

I wrote the beginning of a screenplay. It felt wonderful! As I reached page 4 the sun burst through the clouds, energy began to course through my body, and birds in the trees outside my window broke out into song. Tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp.

You know, I’m sometimes rather stupid. I know what is good for me, and what is bad. For example, I know I should get 8 hours of sleep every night and I am allergic to milk. Yet, I often stay up too late, and sometimes I eat pizza.

To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure if it is purely stupidity or simply a bad case of stubbornness. Deep down inside I am aware of the presence of a belief that if I try really hard, I should be strong enough to overcome anything, even allergies and sleep deprivation.

So I shouldn’t be surprised to have such a strong reaction to writing after my self-imposed hiatus. I learned years ago that the creative process of writing energized me, and while depriving myself made me become somewhat depressed.

I am a writeaholic. I am addicted to writing.

It is my chocolate.

Green with anger

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It doesn’t happen very often, thank goodness. As a matter of fact, I can only remember a handful of times that it did happen.

But yesterday afternoon I turned into the Incredible Hulk.

It was all because of an email. My youngest daughter is participating in an event, but had not been given a schedule. Since the event required months of preparation and an overnight stay, I emailed the person in charge and asked if he could help fill in the details.

I was told in no uncertain terms (in a typo-filled email) that this was an event for my daughter and that I needed to step back and let her handle everything.

I love my children. If I perceive them to be in danger my claws come out and my fur ruffles up and I do turn into a mother bear. But that rarely happens since I reared strong, independent daughters who can handle most things for themselves.

But this man, this man who doesn’t know my daughter, felt he had the right to tell me to step back when all I was asking for was a schedule–well, he crossed the line. I skipped right over the mother bear stage and brought out the big guns (figuratively speaking, of course).

Because no one, and I mean no one, tells me I should step back and not be a  part of my child’s life. It brings out something in me that is rarely seen. Something primitive. Something powerful. Something hard to control that really does feel a lot like the Incredible Hulk.

I could feel it as it was happening. My pulse began to race, my breath to quicken, my muscles to swell. I looked down at my hands typing away at the keyboard and was not at all surprised to find they had turned to a deep shade of green.

It has happened before. Once when when a school librarian told me he knew better than me what my second grade daughter should read.

And again when a middle school principal told me that I should not trust what my daughter says because all children lie to their parents, all the time.

When will these people learn not to try to drive a wedge between me and one of my children. It makes me angry.

And they won’t like me when I’m angry.

Once there was a family

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Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a family.

This family, a typical American family, consisted of a mom, a dad, two boys, and a girl. They were the picture of happiness and the envy of their neighbors until one day, to the surprise of all who knew them, the mom and dad decided they couldn’t stand the sight of each other any more and filed for divorce.

It was a very nasty divorce and not something worthy of further thought. Instead, we should focus on the children, ages 2, 4, and 6.

The upheaval to their lives was immediate and confusing. Instead of the safe haven of a loving home, they had to learn how to split their loyalties between the two warring sides. Nothing good could be said about mom while with dad, and the subject of dad was taboo in mom’s presence.

Friends and relatives were horrified. Trying their best to soften the blow to the children they showered them with gifts and coddled them. They threw them fantastic birthday parties, supplied them with all the latest gadgets, and whisked every obstacle away before it could cause anguish to the poor little dears.

The parents, conscious of their guilt, also did everything in their power to lighten the heavy load of divorce they had created. The children enjoyed the most lenient style of parenting, always getting to watch their favorite shows and eat their favorite foods. Their clothing was washed and folded for them, their lunches made, and allowances provided.

All in all, it was a very cushy life and the children lacked for nothing. Or so it seemed until they grew to adulthood.

Because now that the children are all well out of their teens it is obvious that among the gigantic piles of presents that always overwhelmed the children at every gift giving event, the most precious gifts of all–independence and selflessness–were never given.

So now, because of the coddling of the past, these young adults are going to have a monumental struggle ahead of them. They must learn the hard lessons that most of us learn as a child.

The only way to succeed is to risk failure. Again, and again.
Being self-absorbed is a short road to depression and unhappiness, and the only way off that road is to think of others first.
The world does not owe anybody anything, instead, we owe our best efforts to the world.

And now that these children are no longer children but adults, the sooner they break free of those old entitlement thoughts that have them bound and gagged, the better. They are all grown up now and it is time for them to act like it.

Come on you three, you can do it! Stand on your own two feet and take that first tentative step.

If you stumble and fall, good. It is all a part of learning. Just get back up and try again. It is how we grow and learn. It will make you tough.

Besides, who’s afraid of a few bumps and bruises?

Humanity mourns

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Steve Jobs died, and the world mourned.
Elizabeth Taylor died, and the world mourned.
Michael Jackson died, and the world mourned.

But why? Why do we mourn people we have never met, would never get to meet in a million years? Why do we feel a sense of loss for something we never had?

This desire to mourn, this compulsion of empathy, can be seen not only when a celebrity dies, but also in other tragedies. Tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanoes, structural defects in buildings, train wrecks–and multiple other catastrophic events that cause a loss of human life–all result in a pull on our collective heart strings.

It is a phenomenon that is strange, worldwide, and oddly comforting. It illustrates, as nothing else does, that no matter our cultural heritage, political beliefs, or religious upbringing, we are all the same deep down inside. We are human.

I’m good with that.

NaNoWriMo 2011

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What is NaNoWriMo, you ask?

National Novel Writing Month, otherwise known as November.

I participated in NaNoWriMo in 2009 and ended up with more than 50,000 words of Gray Zone (my young adult novel about cyberbullying), 23,000 of which I had to cut. It seems that in my desperation to reach 50,000 words I sometimes wrote gibberish. Lots and lots of gibberish.

Still, it gave me a good start. I was further along in writing than I would have been if I had not participated in NaNoWriMo. It made me sit down, night after night, and do the one thing that is absolutely necessary to create a novel–write.

So cutting 23,000 words was a small price to pay for a 27,000 word beginning of a novel in a mere 30 days.  23,000 words–just a little light pruning. Not too awfully painful.

Besides, the novel grew back healthy and full of life, so the pruning was a success.

I think November is going to be a very good month! Yes indeed.

Four little points

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Honestly, why can’t I just be happy with a 96 out of 100? I’ve now received 96/100 on both of the graded assignments I’ve turned in and I should be glad, ecstatic, happy as a lamb on a hot summer’s day right after visiting the shearing shed. After all, 96/100 is an A.

But those points, those 4 little points that somehow lost their way, are really bugging me. I want to find them, reunite them with their brothers and sisters, and make sure they never get lost again.

I want to improve. To become the very best writer I possible can become.

Unfortunately, there is a problem. The only comment I received with my grade was “Excellent job! Keep up the good work.” Which doesn’t give me a lot to work with.

So sadly, the mystery of the disappearing points remains unsolved.

Where are Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, and all the other great detectives when you need them?

Three a day, every day

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It is harder than it seems.

The assignment is to write, in longhand, three pages a day, every day. The instructor doesn’t care what is written–words repeated over and over, a grocery list, or even complaints about the assignment–as long as it is three pages written in longhand on paper.

I know, that’s exactly what I thought! How can I possible waste that much paper! Think of a year’s worth of writing, over 1,000 pages of, well, scribble.

Honestly, just between the two of us,  I haven’t been able to get myself to do it yet. I can open Word and type out all sorts of things using my computer, but the thought of writing it down longhand gives me the shivers. Which is silly, since I grew up in a time when legible handwriting was valued and the art of using a typewriter was taught.

Unfortunately, I’m not one of those that thinks she knows better than everyone else, so I know I’ll have to give it a try. It could be true that there is something magical about pen meeting paper that is lost in the electronic world of computers and keyboards.

Good thing no one can see me rolling my eyes!

Okay, okay, I’ll be good. I’ll do it. I’ll log out, right this minute, and kill a tree. A lovely, wonderful, oxygen producing tree. I’m sure no one will mind, since the fate of my future writing career is at stake.

What did you say?

Oh my goodness, you are absolutely right! I could use recycled paper!

But honestly, couldn’t you have mentioned it sooner? I’ve been agonizing forever about this, simply forever!

Point taken. I’ll just be happy that I don’t have to kill a forest as I spark my creativity.

I guess I should thank you for your help, because I really do I feel much better now.

I’ve got to go now. I got some scribbling to do!