Behind the Fence

      For as long as he lives, and probably longer, he will never forget her face.
      It was Friday afternoon. The neighborhoods in this part of town were amazing. Well-kept lawns told of expensive lawnmowers and landscaping classes at Ivy League Universities; cool pastel colors in coats of fresh paint boasted of holiday bonuses and deceptively calm exterior lives; even the children’s toys scattered around the front yards seemed orderly and precisely placed. It was enough to make him wonder what the inside of the houses looked like, what these people’s lives really consisted of.

                                                                       - from A Black and White Photograph

So begins a short story I wrote over ten years ago, about a day in the life of a taxi driver, five of his fares, and a ghost from his past. It’s called A Black and White Photograph, and was meant to show my six roommates (five girls and a guy) how I perceived them. Of course, none of them really got it. But it was a great story.

It was the summer of 2002 and we were renting a house in Seattle. I didn’t have a job, was only friends with one of them, and was not in a good place as far as my autism went, so it was not a summer I look back on with fondness. A few good things did come from that experience – this great little story, and the beginnings of my first novel A Guest In My Life, which has since morphed into Coming Home (a work still in progress I’m afraid) being among them.

Although the last time I actually read all of it was a few years ago (it's in my "to be revised" folder), I don't think I really spend any more of the story exploring the idea of what lies behind the calm, quiet exteriors of the suburbs, as that wasn't my purpose for writing it. And yet, when I drew this card for the first week six prompt, it immediately came to mind.

So, what’s really behind the white picket fences of a “typical American neighborhood”? Do they even exist anymore? Did they ever? It's become quite a cliche in our culture, especially after "Desperate Housewives" started. I suppose it depends on where you live. To me, our country is like a giant box of puzzle pieces that all look different and unconnected, then you put them together and see this amazing picture of unity in diversity, an irony that will never cease to intrigue and inspire me. I could write a whole blog just about the mosaic of America! Maybe I will. But not today, it's too long of a rabbit trail, we may never get back.

I also thought about one of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite poets, Robert Frost. It’s called “Mending Wall,” and I found a great commentary at Spark Notes that also includes the poem. I would definitely recommend reading it a few times (since we all have so much free time!) and the notes that follow. They discuss boundaries, both literal and figurative, and the many layers that are always found in the provocative writings of Mr. Frost.

I honestly have no idea how I will use “behind the fence” in my art journal this week, and I must say it’s kind of exciting. I’ll continue to “explore the possibilities” as I put it in the slow cooker of my subconscious and work on some other projects. Hopefully by Saturday I’ll have something to share, along with the second week six prompt. So far I’ve really enjoyed the combinations I’ve drawn from the decks and the pages they’ve inspired. Here’s to another great week!

NaNoWriMo

For those of you not yet fluent in abbreviation, November is also known as “National Novel Writer’s Month”. There are groups that meet in cities and towns all over the country, encouraging each other to meet word counts and deadlines designed to finish a novel in one month.

Now, I realize how crazy this must sound to anyone who isn’t a serious writer. It sounds crazy to a lot of people who are! But it’s a great way to find support and accountability, and it’s just the rough draft we’re going for (I think). I’ve heard rumors that there are “winners” of “NaNo” who get their novels published….

Obviously I haven’t looked into it very well. The social aspect of it was enough to keep me at bay, and the prospect of maybe getting published if I can get my novel finished wasn’t enough to motivate me to write (go ahead, cry, I won’t judge; it’s a painful truth for me as well).

However, I am now finished with the whole first section of Coming Home (although I’m undecided on whether the finished product will be divided into sections), which contains the first nine chapters. I’ve also written chapters ten and eleven, and four others later in the story, so my focus now is sort of on twelve.

I say sort of because I could just as easily write the last chapter next, and work my way backwards; or start on chapter 21 and jump around. I have them all outlined or summarized or some combination of the two; let’s just say I know what I want to happen in each one, I just have to write them.

There it is my friends, the bald truth: I just have to write. It sounds like such a simple, matter of fact notion. And yet….I’ve got nothing. I wrote chapter eleven on October 13th. I looked at the calendar and realized there were 11 full weeks (plus a few extra days) left in 2012, and I had 21 chapters left to write. That meant if I could average two chapters a week, Coming Home would be finished before 2013. A reasonable goal, to be honest; so how many chapters have I written in the last month? None. Zero. Although last night I wrote most of chapter twelve (it helped that half of it was already written and intended for something else that I scrapped). Still. Something is wrong with this picture people!!

Is it still possible for me to finish it by the end of the year? Absolutely. I just need to write. And I will. Keep checking back friends, watch the miracle unfold.

I Am A Writer

We’ve all had those moments, when you’re reading a book or watching a movie, and it hits you – “it,” an emotional response, you laugh out loud or you start crying and can’t stop. Because it spoke to you on some deep level. We always carry that place with us; but it takes something special to remind us it’s there.

I want that. I want people to have those moments when they read my story. I want them to laugh at the craziness of Jordan. I want them to jump up and down and do a happy dance when the two (I won’t say which two) finally kiss. When someone dies I want them to cry. I want to reach that place in my readers.

And when they walk away from it, when they close the book for the last time and the story is over, I want them to feel a sense of satisfaction, completion, hope. I want them to know that they were part of something bigger than themselves, something that changed them, even just a little bit.

You see, I don’t write about aliens or monsters, I don’t write about worlds that will never exist. I don’t know how. All I know is what I see around me, this reality that I live every day. And that’s what I write about. I take pieces of myself and mix them with pieces of who I want to be.

I don’t write because I have a story to tell. I write because I feel like I’m suffocating when I don’t. I write because God gave me a special gift and not using it would be a great dishonor to all that He is to me. I write because I have to. I don’t know if I’m any good. I don’t know if anyone will ever read my book. But I’m writing it.

Coming Home

I’m a writer. I wrote and illustrated my first story in first grade, at Emmanuel Lutheran Daycare (no, I’m not Lutheran, I’m Baptist, that’s just where the daycare was). It was eight pages long, each page held one or two sentences, about a girl who had a dragon for a best friend. They went for a walk, it rained, they hid in a cave. It ended with a rainbow.

I've advanced quite a lot since then. Currently I’m working on more pieces than I can count, but focusing my attention on one in particular. It’s a novel. I wrote the first pseudo-outline summary for it about ten years ago, the summer I left University, before I moved out of Seattle. I was living in a five bedroom house with six other people and looking for a job, so I spent a great deal of time writing at small coffee shops. The original version was titled “The Guest.”

Well, I ended up getting hired into AmeriCorps (that’s a post for another day, I’m afraid), and over the next few months while I worked as an elementary school reading tutor this novel changed shape. Several times. It would take me far too long to explain how the evolution occurred; there are small bits of the original idea still embedded in what it transformed into, but they are so specific to my own life that no one would ever know. Unless I told them. Which I'm not going to now. It’s a long story.

So now the novel is titled “Coming Home.” At this point in my blog post I should have a prepared paragraph to lay out for you, describing this novel in a way that would hook you – basically what you would read on the back of the book – but I haven’t been able to explain it to my liking in just a few words. Basically, and this might sound awfully boring, it’s about a girl who returns to her past in search of a future, and learns to live in the present. How’s that for a hook??

The setting is my hometown (Cheney, WA) though the name has been changed to something far more interesting (September Valley). The characters are loosely based on people I know, but are more constructed of how I wish people could be. The main character has a lot of me in her. It features a large family and the beginning of a love story (all with Christian values, nothing explicit). That’s a subplot, really, woven throughout the story of a girl who learns how to come “home.”

At this moment, I have completed twelve of the (somewhere over) thirty chapters I’ve pseudo-outlined. Not the first twelve, but twelve total. I believe the first six are done, and then it jumps around a little. I will on occasion post updates on this novel, or questions, or snippets (mainly because I think snippets is a fun word!), so this post serves as my introduction to those future posts. And one day when I’m published you can say, “Hey, I used to read her blog when….”