So, here I sit in a glorious hotel suite a few miles from where, tomorrow, I’ll be entrenched among other people of like mind. I’m at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. It starts tomorrow. A few of us have come in a day early to get our heads cleared, to get settled here in this strange land of Ohio.
And then tomorrow, the craziness starts.
I’ll come home inspired, exhausted, and thrilled. I’m so ready to start. Because yes, even introverts get out into the world sometimes and have fun.
I’ll just have to curl into a fetal position for most of Sunday afternoon. But it’ll be worth it.
Get up to feed hubby breakfast at 6 a.m.
Wave to hubby as he leaves at 6:45 a.m.
Head back to bed at 6:46 a.m.
Sleep until it adds up to something close to 7–8 hours of sleep.
Get up again, this time to feed myself breakfast and coffee.
Catch up on DVRed TV shows from previous night, if needed.
Head up to home office and go through bajillion emails from companies I have unsubscribed from thirteen times already.
Answer the 2–3 valid work emails.
Go back downstairs to grab veggies for guinea pigs, Bob and Frid, who have been wheeking at me from across the office ever since I got upstairs. Realize that I have just reinforced the wrong habit of coming upstairs without the veggies by doing it yet again today.
Look at clock. Panic that it is nearly noon already.
Sit back at desk. Go through the half-bajillion new emails from other companies from whom I was sure I had unsubscribed back in 2010.
Continue with paid freelance work for other writers: typesetting, proofreading, copy editing . . .
Tell self I should take time to do my own writing once in a while.
Stare longingly across the office at the writing desk I set up two years ago — you know, the one I dust faithfully every week.
Sit at writing desk boldly. Feel invigorated and empowered.
Open diary program and tell it all about my day, which sounds suspiciously like the last entry in the diary program, from 2011.
Give myself a self-imposed deadline for finishing first draft of novel.
Talk myself out of self-imposed deadline because it’s not like I’m going to fire myself or anything.
From the office window near the writing desk, glimpse mail carrier coming up the sidewalk.
Squeal in delight that the mail is here, scaring Bob and Frid, and run downstairs to get the mail.
While I’m down here, do a load of laundry, start dinner, and mow the grass.
Weep uncontrollably at my own mortality.
One day out, and so far, so good on the Kindle edition for Fork in the Road … and other pointless discussions! Still awaiting word that the trade paperback version is available on Amazon (although I’ve ordered my own copies because I get certain privileges the little people don’t).
No, wait—the little people DO get those privileges, if they don’t mind ordering directly from CreateSpace instead of from Amazon. (CreateSpace can, well, create them immediately. A few more days for Amazon to catch up.) So if you’re dying for a print copy and don’t care about Amazon’s free shipping thing, you can order trade paperbacks here:
Otherwise, I’m okay with the one-day information on the Kindle edition, having seen this little page on Amazon just now (click the picture to see it bigger and better):
And now, I’m off to go see my dad for Father’s Day. And just because he’s so danged awesome. (Or should I saw “au-some”? No, I shouldn’t. It’s an old Au joke. There really aren’t any new Au jokes, though.)
Tomorrow I head off for the St. Davids Christian Writers’ Conference in Grove City, Pa. Once I’m back, I hit the ground running getting several of my NaNoWriMo novels tweaked and sent out in the big wide world….
It says something about the state of our society when seven people can sit in the back room of a coffee shop and write … and attract the stares of the other patrons and even the attention of the local newspaper. The seven of us are all writing feverishly and yet we’re making more noise than most of the patrons in the main room combined. How can this be, you ask, if the writers aren’t talking but are only writing their brains out?
Well, dear reader, I am writing this from The Great American Type-In at Cafe Kolache in Beaver, Pa. Yes, we’re typing … but we’re typing on typewriters. Not just any typewriters, either. There is no electricity required for this type-in. We’re sitting here using manual typewriters.
The strange part is all the prep work we had to do to get to this point. Hugh can’t figure out how to release the carriage on his typewriter, and there are cries of “Release the Carriage!” from all corners of the room. Three writers hover around the Olympia typewriter, pushing every piece of metal sticking out of the thing, trying to get the platen to move. The victory shouts when the thing finally sails off to one side are deafening. But not as deafening as the noise coming from the other six keyboards.
Someone else tries to find the “on” button on hers. (Okay, that was me.) Turns out a manual typewriter doesn’t have an “on” button. How very retro.
Shouts emanate from the gallery once we start the typing proper.
“Where is my apostrophe key?”
“Why isn’t there a ‘one’ key?”
“What is this key that says ‘MAR REL’ on it?”
“No exclamation point! No exclamation point!” (It’s an apostrophe and then a period after you hit the backspace key. And yes, I had to actually do that to get those exclamation points.)
My spacebar (which is not to be confused with the space bar in the first Star Wars movie) keeps giving up on me, and some of my words run together with no spaces before I catch the problem and physically pull the entire key set back into place. I discover early on that my old Royalite doesn’t even have a tab key, and I must resort to the old method of manually spacing five counts on the spacebar to make a simulated tab. The problem, of course, is that the aforementioned spacebar doesn’t always work, and so I end up with no tab/indent at all … and after all that hard work, too.
Most of us have now been reduced to using three or four fingers since these blasted things have such sticky, difficult keys that we need some real “oomph” behind our typing to get the letters to show up on the page. And don’t get me started on those sticky keys. I spent too much time last night prepping the keys with a few dozen Q-Tips and some rubbing alcohol … and the question mark key is still sticking.
As a proofreader, I find this entire exercise vexing to the point of tears. I am making typos so fast I feel I will faint from the carnage. They’ll have to cart me off weeping and gnashing my teeth by the time we’re done here. I just checked the clock and it has taken me over an hour to type this much. Amazing how much my typing productivity plummets when I have to pound the keys.
That last paragraph has taken me twenty minutes to type, but this time it isn’t the typewriter’s fault. Hugh and Val have launched into a recreation of the last scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, complete with all the characters’ voices. We all feel the need to stop and listen and encourage them (not that either one of them needs encouragement) … if only to give our tired index fingers a rest.
I have tried not to mention Val’s typewriter because, well, it might embarrass him. You see, he brought this bright red plastic thing—well, it looks plastic, but it might actually have some metal on it—and I swear I saw a Fisher Price logo and an emblem of the Cookie Monster on the side. And that end-of-line bell sounds suspiciously like the Good Humor truck. But hey, it doesn’t have a cord or a battery, so it’s all good. Even if it does look more like a prehistoric Speak ‘n Spell.
Nate’s contraption (another Royal) has a button that says “Magic Column” on it. I begin to wonder if we should allow typewriters that have magic keys on them. Hell, I don’t even have a tab key, let alone a magic key. I sense a growing hierarchy of typewriters in the room. I hadn’t expected to experience typewriter envy, but I think some of us are ogling Roe’s old Remington Rand. I know I am. Not so much Val’s plastic Radio Flyer typewriter. Well, no, okay, that one too.
I sit here wondering how prolific writers of old ever churned out all those pages when it feels like a gym workout to get twelve words down at any respectable rate of speed. And now, having brought my productivity down to a mere two fingers, I find I have to look at the keys to make sure I hit the right ones at least ten percent of the time.
But I’m also starting to see the sheets of finished paper coming off the platens, being placed lovingly on the table around me. All facedown, of course, because we’re all trying to hide the rampant typos spilling off every page. Well, okay, every line, really. None of brought any Wite Out, and even I occasionally long for a spell checker. We have a ten-minute discussion on how to spell “bizarro,” followed by another on how to spell “commode.” Both questions come from the same person—okay, it was Val—so we all begin to wonder just what he’s writing over there. Then we realize that no, we probably don’t want to know.
Every so often, patrons from the main room drink enough coffee to brave wandering back here where the cacophony is erupting. They tentatively ask the question everyone else is thinking but is too frightened to ask us (since we all look like idiots back here and nobody wants to challenge the inner logic of an idiot on a mission): “What are you guys doing back here?” … followed by a stunned utterance of, “Are those typewriters?”
Then they see seven of these things sitting on the long table, and their jaws drop. We look like the sad rejects of a small town news room, and Val’s fedora with the handwritten “PRESS” pass bears this out. Not to mention Hugh’s bowler hat, which I just mentioned.
And, like any cultural oddity, any societal deformity, we are eventually left alone again and ignored. Nothing to see here, people, nothing to see here. Move along….
Hugh’s ribbon has now come to an end and has decided not to behave properly. It’s supposed to reverse course on its own but it has abdicated this responsibility. It takes Hugh two minutes to figure out how to open the typewriter up to even get to the ribbon, and then he and Rachel take another ten minutes to figure out how to turn the ribbon around. They sound like car mechanics over there, and now Hugh has come back with a flashlight to look under the hood.
Another five minutes and they have the old ribbon out and have turned it around. There is a strange sense of pride when you get one of these beasts to submit. It’s one thing to work out a software glitch with a Windows update … but it is not as satisfying as getting one of these mechanical monsters to type that stray “e” that has been sticking on you for the first hour of typing.
Our time is up and we’re wrapping things up now, after two hours of clicking and clacking (and bemoaning the fact that there was no whiskey in our coffee). I realize that, if we had been typing on laptops and tablets and netbooks, we wouldn’t have heard nearly as many cries of “Ouch!” … which came from those of us who got our fingers caught under the keys, where little keyboard monsters hide and nip at our fingertips. We’d have gotten more words written—properly spelled words, properly spaced words, words that would be readable once we got home—but they wouldn’t have been better words. Just prettier words.
These words, our words, came with copious amounts of literal blood, sweat and tears today.
We will meet again, and we will conquer these machines. And, next time, like the fabled writers of old, there will be whiskey in our coffee.
Otherwise, most of us won’t show up.
Ah, a blog hop! I still haven’t quite figured out what it is, but I’m participating anyway. Read here, then hop away!
Below are my thought-provoking and informative answers to some questions a bunch of authors are asking and answering right now. And, I really do hope to have Secret Agent Manny out by late spring. Yes, of THIS year. Why do you ask?
What is the working title of your next book?
I’m most excited about Secret Agent Manny, a comic pseudo-spy novel (more comic than spy, although the pseudo part would probably be the best adjective of the three if I’m being perfectly honest).
I have a hard time getting into a project (especially a large project) until I have a good title, and although I’m usually open to suggestions for titles, I also know it when I hear it. And, at the end of the day, I’ve usually come up with it myself. And then I can move forward.
I’ve been told I’ve got a knack for coming up with great titles. When a previous project, Do-It-Yourself Widow, placed as a runner-up in a national novel contest a few years ago, I was told that my title was the best of them all.
Now, if only I could get similar praise for the other 75,000 words in that project.
Where did the idea come from for the book?
Secret Agent Manny is my 2012 National Novel Writing Month project. The idea has to be credited to two writer pals of mine, James Watkins and Fara Howell Pienkosky. While at a writing conference last June, I got a disturbing phone call from my husband still at home, about a burglary there. As the writing conference progressed, Jim and Fara poked and prodded me into believing that my husband was actually living a double life as a spy.
Since Jim and I are both humor writers, and since Fara, though much more spiritual than I, has one of the best senses of humor in these parts, we escalated my poor husband’s imagined double-life to outrageous proportions the rest of the week.
By week’s end I knew I had to adapt their crazy (or not-so-crazy) ideas into a novel—a novel that starts out with a phone call strangely similar to the one I had with my husband that day: “There’s been an incident at the house…”
What genre does your book fall under?
I’d be more worried if you asked me what table my book fell under. But, to answer your actual question: It’s a comic pseudo-spy novel. Weren’t you paying attention earlier?
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
See, I don’t think there’s enough real spy action for this to be a James Bond movie, and I’m not sure the comedy translates all that well outside of book form … but since you ask, I’ll have to go with Oliver Platt for Manny and Mary Louise Parker for Amanda—but only if she’ll eat a sandwich or something first. That woman is too thin.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A bored wife with too much time on her hands begins to suspect that her quiet, mild-mannered husband is really a spy … and she inadvertently turns their lives upside down in her quest to discover the truth.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
After years of telling myself that it was all right to self-publish the humor-essay books but not the novels, I’ve decided that God gave me a direct path to self-publishing even the novels: I’ve worked in the prepress publishing world for decades, and I have professional skills as a typesetter and proofreader. Why would I wait to see my book in print for years while going the traditional publishing route when I can wear all the prepress hats myself?
Life is too short to be traditional about this. Besides, within the next few nanoseconds, the term “traditional publishing” won’t mean anything anymore.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I’m still working on Secret Agent Manny, but the first 50,000 words are done—and now edited—and were originally written in November 2012, as part of NaNoWriMo. But, once I’m on fire about a project, I can churn it out quickly. I hope to have this ready by late spring 2013. Just don’t quote me on that.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Ha ha ha. Genre. Compare. You’re so funny.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
More kudos to those pesky friends of mine, Jim and Fara, for the inspiration. And once I went from just having fun coming up with reasons my husband is a spy during a writing conference to actively taking notes for a novel, the ideas just wouldn’t stop coming.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
You’d be amazed at how differently you’ll look at your own spouse when you see just how many common household items and common daily routines you can call into question. All you need is a paranoid, suspicious nature and a little creativity, and all hell breaks loose.
Powered by Linky Tools
Click here to continue exploring this Blog Hop!