A Typical Writing Day...

One of the most common questions I get in blog interviews is something along the lines of “What’s a typical writing day for you like?” Usually I end up saying, “I mostly write at night.” I say this because I figure most people that ask only want to hear about the writing part of the writing day. Or I assume they have this vision of a writer alone in a room, thinking writerly thoughts, or going for walks, thinking about writerly things, and I don't want to ruin that vision. It looks so calm and peaceful in my head.

But I think a lot of writers are like me—they have jobs or kids or jobs and kids or other responsibilities that they work their writing around. Me? I have kids. The day I documented this, they were 5 and 1-day-shy-of-4.

So, right, I planned to document my writing day. Partly because of this question, but also because I was kind of curious….I mean, what do I really do all day? So I set this past Monday as the day to document because Kid #2 is in preschool that day, which means it’s technically a “writing day.” At least more so than a Tuesday.

I currently have copy-edits for my 2013 book. I had already finished one pass and was ready to address the items that I had sticky-noted. On Sunday night, it looked like this:

Sunday night, it also became obvious that Kid #1 would not be going to school (for reasons I shall leave to the imagination). I thought about postponing the blogging, but then I realized that since January there’s pretty much been a 50% chance that one kid would be home from school/get sent home from school/be of questionable disposition. So I guess this qualifies as “typical.” So. Here goes.

The upside of not having to get Kid #1 to the bus stop before sunrise is that I don’t have to wake up at 6:20. I turn off my alarm.

Kid #2 wakes up:

Kid #1 wakes up:

Yay.

7:15: The kids want breakfast. I assume that the fact that Kid #1 wants breakfast is a good sign. I give them breakfast. I answer emails.

8:10: Kid #2 announces he wants to be a “seeker” when he grows up, which, according to him, is a person who looks at other people and runs away when they see him. I inform him that the word he is looking for is “creepy,” and he cannot, under any circumstance, be creepy when he grows up. This quickly deteriorates into an argument over whether or not he can, in fact, be anything he wants when he grows up.

8:40: We get in the car.

8:41: For reasons I will spare you (but let’s just say that Kid #1 wanting breakfast was actually NOT a good sign), we get out of the car. When we get back in the car, my daughter is carrying a plastic bag. I actually did take a picture of this, but I feel like in about 6 years she might find this blog post, and if she doesn’t hate me by then, this might push her over the edge.

But you can imagine.

As I’m taking this picture that I’m choosing not to post, I flash back to driving with my grandpa who would make my cousin (who had a history of carsick-ness) wear a plastic bag with the handles over his ears. I start to giggle. I don’t stop giggling until we arrive at preschool. Kid #1 is not amused.

Drop Kid #2 off at preschool. Preschool starts at 9. It would appear that we are 7 minutes late. But I’m usually 10 minutes early, so really it’s more like 17 minutes late. I hate being late. Deep breaths.

9:30-11: I put a movie on for Kid #1 and plow through 60 pages of copy edits. Not bad.

11:15: I research pay phones (it’s relevant to the manuscript, I swear)

11:40: Leave to pick up Kid #2 from preschool. Kid #1 carries a plastic bag.

12:24: My mother texts me with some News and to discuss her feelings about said News. It’s a situation very near and dear to our hearts, and we’ve been following the coverage closely over the last few weeks.

Notice she’s on a first name basis with Peyton Manning. Notice also the typo.

Early afternoon: attempt to keep kids separate so Kid #1 does not infect Kid #2, especially since Kid #2’s birthday is tomorrow. Tell Kid #2 not to touch Kid #1 because if he does he’ll get sick and he won’t get to eat birthday cake. Kid #2 says he already touched her and starts to cry. Attempt to take back words while simultaneously explaining probability to a crying almost-4-year-old. Fail.

Kid #1 says, “I don’t get cake?” Cries.

2:30: I research tox screens (also relevant to the manuscript) through the crying

Take kids outside. Kid #1 sits on my lap because she can’t do much else at the moment. As the youngest, Kid #2 is used to getting first dibs on the lap.

Kid #2 retaliates by pulling the tulips from the garden:

I retaliate by throwing out his lollipop (lest you think this shocking display of immaturity is a one-time thing, sadly, it is not)

Kid #1 falls asleep. I research signs of dehydration (not relevant to the manuscript)

Dinner, baths, bed.

7:30-10:30: I work on copyedits. Then I realize Kid #2 is going to be up at the crack of dawn for his birthday and I need to have my game face on. I stop working.

Not bad. Not done, but not bad, all things considered.

So. There it is.

How about you?

Plots, Logic, and the Tooth Fairy

Kid #1 lost her first tooth last week. This is relevant, I swear (or, at least as relevant as anything else I write on here). For the record, I never told her there was a tooth fairy. I also never told her there wasn’t a tooth fairy. Mostly because, like everything else, I couldn’t decide on the right thing to tell her, so instead I said nothing. Which in turn makes my parenting like one weird social experiment.

But anyway.

Her world is full of books and shows and other kids, and so there is knowledge of a tooth fairy. And here’s where things get interesting, because she’s kind of at that in-between stage. Like, she doesn’t just believe things. She’s at that stage where she’s trying to reason out the world around her. It’s like watching evolution or something, but not.

So she’s sitting in the backseat of the car, looking at her tooth inside a Ziploc bag (because we were mooching dinner off my parents at the time of tooth-losing (also, at what age does one become too old to do that?)), and she starts in with The Reasoning. It occurs to me that The Reasoning is pretty similar to deciding which kind of book to write:

“So I’m going to put this under my pillow, and then there will be money.” *insert look of terror* “Do you think the tooth fairy checks my pillow every night?” (Horror)

“Or do you think the wand has money inside of it, and she points it at my tooth and zaps it into money?” (Fantasy)

Then, after some more thinking…

“Hey, I think you need to practice. If you want to be the tooth fairy.” AHA! She’s got it. Also, I’m a little proud. (Contemporary)

Then: “But can you practice on another tooth?” (Okay, she doesn’t quite get it) Right. Because obviously I’m out of practice and my magic might screw up the whole turn-her-tooth-into-money thing. (Magical realism)

But hey, that works, too, right? Just a different kind of book. As long as the logic is consistent….

“No, I think there’s a fairy that flies around outside and all the teeth turn into money.” (Paranormal)

Okay, we’re going with that.

So, yeah, we put the tooth in a bag so I’d be able to find it and stuck it under her pillow. And while she slept, I took the bag away and put money in its place.

Except the next morning she examined the money, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Hey, what happened to the bag it was in?”

Crap.

At The Beginning

Every time the kids and I cross over the highway in our car (which is pretty much every time we’re in the car, since said highway is only a quarter mile away), Kid #2 points out his window and says, “That way to Disney!” He’s not wrong or anything. He is pointing south and all, but it’s not exactly right down the road.

And then I start to have heart palpitations because that trip takes us two days. TWO DAYS strapped in a car with two small children. And then I’ll remember the last time we made the trip, when we didn’t even make it onto the highway (yeah, the one that’s only a quarter mile away) before we had to make our first stop.

And then, while I’m recalling the time that Kid #2 screamed at the top of his lungs for the entire first hour of the trip, Kid #1 points out her window in the opposite direction and says, “And that way to New Jersey!” Also not wrong. ALSO a long trip.

And then I’ll remember that trip, which is always an adventure. I’ll remember the storm that rolled though Virginia when we were stuck on a road with no way off for miles, and everyone pulled off onto the shoulder, and it felt like this weird claustrophobia, even though there was nothing in sight for miles. And I’ll remember how I started to panic that we were sitting ducks for a tornado or something. The Husband explained why that was highly unlikely, but it didn’t matter because I’d already thought it, so I couldn’t unthink it.

Or I’ll remember the time when we cut through the mountains and every car had to put their flashers on because the fog was so thick that we couldn’t see three feet in front of us.

Or when we finally, finally, crossed the border into New Jersey and traffic stopped dead (because that’s what happens when you cross the border into New Jersey) and it took another two hours to go the last 20 miles.

But then we get there. And it is wonderful. (YES, I said NJ is wonderful). Later, we'll tell the story of our adventure to get there. We’ll roll our eyes, but we’ll laugh.

But each time I start out, it’s like I’m looking down this road of a million different possibilities, equal parts excitement and terror.

Which is how I’m feeling now, about to start in on a new project. Like I’m starting a long drive to some place I can’t wait to be. And I’m wondering if I’ll have to stop, or if I’ll make a wrong turn, or whether the kids will cry, or maybe they’ll sleep, or maybe they’ll sing the ABC’s 734 times in a row. And maybe there’ll be traffic, or maybe a storm. And will I know what to do if a tornado comes through? And what if the fog is so thick that I can’t see what’s right in front of me? And maybe we’ll have to pull off the road for a while. But maybe we won’t.

I don’t know yet.

But right now, I’ve just got to get on the highway.

Writing Trip. Also, Bears.

So, I just got back from here:

Coincidentally, I have an idea for a story that takes place here. Okay, so really this isn’t such a coincidence after all, since I planned the trip after the idea. And even though I’ve been to the mountains and I’ve gone hiking before, I haven’t been hiking in these particular mountains, and I definitely hadn’t been hiking recently.

Anyway. I quickly remembered some stuff about the mountains.

Like that you can hear the wind coming.

And that the temperature feels at least ten degrees cooler.

And that you shouldn’t hike without bug spray.

And that I am seriously out of shape.

I learned a lot of new things, too. Of particular note, I learned about bears. I wasn’t planning to learn about bears. But there had been a lot of recent sightings nearby, and even though I was pretty sure black bears didn’t typically attack humans, I was still concerned. Very concerned.

Because animals do not like me.

Really.

Name any animal. Ten bucks says it doesn’t like me.

(Side note: a wild turkey once attacked me. Completely unprovoked. Before that day, it had never even occurred to me that such a thing could happen.)

Coincidentally (or not so coincidentally given the increased bear sightings), there was a pamphlet in our room outlining what to do in the unlikely event that a bear seems *overly interested* in you. This made me happy.

Rule #1: Do Not Run.

Crap. Historically, this has always been my plan of action when it comes to animal encounters.

That wild turkey attack? I ran like hell.

Anyway, back to the pamphlet.

There was this whole series of steps for avoiding a bear attack, and each subsequent step was like, But if THAT doesn’t work, slowly back away. And if THAT doesn’t work, make yourself appear bigger and yell or growl or something… And the last step, if none of the previous things worked and the bear did, in fact, attack, suggested that you fight back. Aggressively. You know, just in case you were getting attacked by a bear and thought, maybe I’ll just gently tap it a couple times and see how that goes.

Anyway, I digress.

It was a productive trip. The writing idea grew. And so did my repertoire of “animal encounter” tips. Run like hell. In the event of failure, defend self.

Aggressively.

Existential Writing Questions

These are the questions that keep me up at night:

Does a draft count as a draft if only three characters, two paragraphs, and one idea survive?

If the above happens twice, should that count as two first drafts or two rewrites?

So then is this thing that I’m working on now a fourth draft or is this the second draft of the third version?

And should I refer to those first two versions as drafts -1 and 0? (I think I should. Just so I can say things like, “In the negative first draft, that character was originally called Lauren. But in draft zero, her name became Danielle.”)

When calculating the time it took me to write this book, should I subtract out the month when I did nothing but stare at the ceiling fan? Or the periods of time when I was working on FRACTURE edits? Or the number of hours I spent trying to calculate how long this was actually taking me?

And what is my obsession with assigning everything a number, anyway?

Does my critique partner think it’s weird when I email her about what I ate for lunch? (I guess this is not so much an existential question as it is a rhetorical question.)

Does my other critique partner think I’ve crossed the line when I invite her over to talk shop but then ask her to kill a giant spider instead? (also rhetorical) (ALSO she was a spider-stomping hero)

I ask these things because I’m about to finish this draft, or manuscript, or whatever it’s called when it’s still a document on the computer and only your critique partners have seen it but you’re pretty sure it’s done.

Except for that small list you’re keeping in your notebook of things you need to fix.

Wait, so what would this next step be called? The second pass of the second draft of the third version?

Yeah. That. I’m about to do that.