So the past three days I’ve been wiped–absolutely wiped–by crazy sinus pain. Which definitely exacerbates the feeling of ‘huh?’ I’ve been experiencing, but doesn’t entirely explain it.

But I digress. I’m in the awful ‘why do I even bother?’ phase of writing. That’s really hard, because I can’t imagine not writing, but I’m also not actively writing, at least not very much. It’s not because I am procrastinating, or lazy (although that charge could be legitimately levied at times), it’s because life otherwise is so busy. But, given that so many other writers handle way more than I do and still produce, perhaps I am lazy? Or bad at time management?

My son is in school from 8:40 until 3:00. That gives me six hours of Son-Free Time. But during this S-F T, I do my freelance work, which takes about three hours. I also handle all the household stuff, go to the gym (usually–today I forgot my stuff, which was fine, because I feel awful anyway), do grocery shopping, errands, etc. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for free-flowing writing. And then, when I can sit down at the computer, I wonder why? Why do I bother? I haven’t gotten much positive affirmation for my writing in the past five years or so, although I have written books. I’ve got a few things out on submission, but I can’t allow myself to be way optimistic, since I have to keep a realistic perspective. So why do I bother?

I would go all woo-woo (Thanks for the verbiage, Picky Vegetarian!) and say it’s because I can’t not write, which is sorta true, but really, would it matter so much if I quit? But then I think about that, and it makes me sick inside. So I flounder along, not writing enough, not producing enough to get myself to the point where I might have a chance for success, and then I beat myself up. Oh, yay.

And then here’s where the Carolyn Jewel example comes in to shame me–Carolyn had early success, then spent a long, long time not being published. And then longer after that not sure she would have a career in writing. But she continued to believe in herself, and did crazy things with time management to make it all work, and now she does have a career, and a good agent, and publishers who believe in her. So why can’t I be as strong as Carolyn? I don’t know.

Anyway. This is a lot longer, and a lot less fun, than my usual posts, so thanks if you made it this far.

Megan
*A Bryan Ferry album, obviously. I like the duality of the image.

Yeah, you don’t come here to hear me talk about my writing, or lack thereof, but today I’ve got nothing. NOTHING. Because I am still revising, am going to the New Jersey Conference this weekend, where I get to hang with the Alpha Sparkle Dog, Liz Maverick (who begs you to vote for her and awesome Hope Tarr in their Quest For Thailand, go here to find out more), and the Partner-In-Crime, Kwana. Not to mention seeing fellow Risky Janet Mullany and Pam-frickin’-Rosenthal. Woot!

So I’ve got writing on the brain. I am close to done with the revision, and have all kinds of awesome hopes for this version of the ms.

So–your Action Plan for the day is: Vote for Liz and Hope; wish me luck on the final throes of the ms.; and further luck that I do not make an ass of myself at the NJRW, and that I have some productive writer events happen.

Thanks!

PS: It’s Viggo’s birthday today! All that, and he’s an amazing actor, too!

Okay, first off, is my entire life RUN BY LYRICS? Because I thought ‘oh, I’m gonna write about something serious, way more substantive than what I usually blather about’ and the first thing that pops into my head is that stupid Jermaine Jackson song! Which I then had to google to discover it was Jermaine who sung it in the first place (not that lazy ass Tito), and now it’s stuck in my head.

But anyway.

Today I wrote, nearly 2000 words, on what I am grandly calling the women’s fiction contemporary. Although it’s really contemporary romance, only it was FOUR–count ‘em four–points of view, so it’s broader than straight contemp, I think. And I am trying to figure out the overriding conflict, and it’s just–the conflict is just LIFE and living it, and my characters muddling through. I need to throw in some extra drama, too, so I am trying to make it about money, which is always a motivating factor.

And the new Park Slope Mom book has just come out, to much excitement, optioned by Sarah Jessica Parker and stuff, and I keep wondering if there are any legs to my Mothering Heights book, which has a similar–albeit not as wide in scope–premise, or if that book is just self-indulgent Megan being funny without an overriding conflict (sense a theme?). My agent likes the book, but doesn’t rep those kinds of books. Not sure what the next step is. Or maybe there is no next step.

Of course I am torn in a gazillion directions, because there’s this shiny historical project that is so much FUN to write, not like this 100+ page thing with no O.C. (shorthand for overriding conflict, you know) with which I am currently wrestling. But the 100+ page thing is good, I think, and funny, and if it works into something bigger, could be a real book.

Blecch. And, as usual, I have to go resume being Mom and save the writer angst until later. Or keep it inside my head where it is normally.

Geez, this is a long post for me, huh? I must be really agitated.

Thanks for letting me share.

Which would be an awesome noir book with a mute heroine, only I’m not writing that*.

I’ve been quiet here, mostly because I haven’t had time to write fiction, much less talk about writing fiction. Le sigh. But things are easing up a smidge, and I spent money on myself (eyeliner, brow shadow, loose powder, nail polish**), which means I will now commence to feel guilty for same, and will try to reapply nose to grindstone.

And, oh yeah, I did a total New York thing and went to Aquavit, Marcus Samuelsson’s restaurant, and had an AYCE herring buffet. I never need to eat herring again.

I am heading to DC in just over a month for RWA’s National Conference, so I sure as hell better get some writing in. Ouch, my nose!

Thanks for hanging in with me, even if I’m being short-winded.

Megan
*Although there is already a book with that title, which I own, and haven’t read. Oops.
**OPI’s Metro Chic, which I’ve wanted for ages.

It’s weird; for some reason–and I’m not going to scrutinize it too much–I’ve been able to fit writing into my schedule. Even if I just manage 500 or so words, I’ve been doing it at least every other day.

Yay!

This Friday, I am going to Book Expo America, where I will hob and nob with authors, publishers and other pub-related folks.

And, currently winging its way to me, is the Faux Critique Partner’s book:

But I won’t be reading anything that I desperately want to until I reach 25,000 words on the current WIP. Gotta have goals, yo.

I wrote today! Yay! I did over 600 words, more than I’ve written in a long, long time.

More tomorrow? One can only hope.

So I sent the first three chapters of Mothering Heights to my agent, who said she liked the character (yay!) and liked the premise (yay! squared), but it needed to start off with an ‘oomph,’ like a car being repossessed or something dramatic.

The Creative, And It Hews To Real Life Spouse suggested the heroine needs dramatic dental work, or all her teeth will fall out (disclosure: I am having oral surgery in two weeks. Ugh).

But I thought maybe someone out there would have another idea so I could throw all the ideas into the Idea Blender?

Here’s the blurby thing:

Molly Hagan is overwhelmed.
Her husband left her for a younger, blonder woman six months ago, her six year-old son is questioning her authority–and so is she. In order to pay her Brooklyn rent and keep her son supplied with Pokemon and Legos—not to mention food and clothing—she  has to get a job. She’ll never have enough caffeine—ever—and she’s forty years old.
If it weren’t for her son, she’d have thrown herself out the window 5 months and 29 days ago.
But Molly knows that constant mourning isn’t good for her or her son. And it sure as hell won’t pay the bills.

Thoughts for some oomph?

Today I went to Target. But that is not the point of this post (despite your NEED for me to tell you about the great bargain on shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese I found. Never mind that I got lavender hand wash refills, SCORE!).

As usual, I went to the books section to see if there was anything that was “Bookmarked” and therefore within my miniscule budget. And was hit with a pang of envy* so great I felt ill. Because my first, and only, book came out a long, long time ago, and there are authors represented on those shelves who write what I write, and are good, but of course I think I am as good, or I wouldn’t bother writing. And I got super-envious that they were pubbed, and I am currently not.

That makes me feel like a lesser person, honestly. I am ashamed, and normally I accept that I can be a snarkster of the highest order, poking fun at people I like to judge. But this is something that is dangerously not nice, and I like to feel that I am, at heart, a nice person (I dubbed myself the oxymoronic Nice Bitch in talking to the Alpha Sparkle Dog the other day).

So what do I have to do to get over myself?

Write something that will sell. Be patient with those things that are out there that have not yet been completely measured and judged. Be supportive of all of us authors, even though my heart kerclumps when I hear someone else got another contract. Because, hopefully, someday I’ll be that pubbed person, and I wouldn’t want anyone to be mad at ME when they’re in Target (unless I snagged the last 12-pack of Coke Zero, $2.75, thanks very much).

Megan

*In high school, six of my friends and I went to a Halloween party dressed as the Seven Deadly Sins. I was Envy; oddly enough, no-one wanted to be Sloth.

Yesterday was the much-vaunted Snow Day, and I took the Nine Year-Old out sledding. Now, normally I stay safely on top of the hill, happy that I am a Parent and thus do not have to sled.

But my guy is an only child who spends a lot of time with me, and likes doing stuff with me. He particularly likes it, being a kid after all, when I do non-Parent type things. Like sled.

So he and I spent almost two hours sledding in Prospect Park, and since we were on a steep hill preferred by teenagers and the feckless, we hit a lot of people with our sled. And were hit back. I tried to combat it with screaming as we went down the hill, sort of an aural warning system, but we still nailed quite a few sledders.

Honestly, once I got past the fact that I Really Don’t Like Sledding, Or Much Physical Activity in General (like, fun physical activity. I like the gym and I don’t hate running, but I don’t like playing sports), I had a blast. I decided that my guy wouldn’t have nearly as much fun if his mom was a pooky-face, so I whooped it up and was definitely, even admitting for my own bias, the most fun Parent on the hill.

The worst was walking home–we were both sodden, it was well below freezing, and we were over ten blocks from home. But it was worth it.

So I am taking that “Megan Is A Participant!” spirit into my writing, since I am trying to wrestle this novella into the ground, even though there is no deadline or anything. Because, as Steve Forbert said, “You cannot win if you do not play.”

Okay. I’m playing.

So I might’ve mentioned my freelance job just got harder–for no more pay (thanks, recession!), so it’s been even harder for me to find time to write and edit.

But I’ve got two pieces of writing that need some attention, and I’m really tired of my own inability to get stuff done, so I am sitting myself down and having a talk.

But now I gotta go back to work. More freelance, yay.

And then, maybe, some of my own editing.

Sigh.

Megan
PS: We’ve just started watching Mad Men, and every scene I’m gasping about the clothing, the furnishings, the hotness of Jon Hamm, whatever.