Retreat Review

I have found the perfect way to write.

Step 1: Get a whole bunch of writer friends.
Step 2: Get a house somewhere secluded.
Step 3: Insert friends into house with food, games, and computers.
Step 4: Profit. Word profit.

So, yes, the writing retreat with my critique group was a success. We rented a lovely cabin up in the Smoky Mountains and shoved fourteen of us in there. Everyone had a meal to cook (I haven't eaten so well in years), most of us brought board and card games, and we all had our writing utensil of choice ranging from notebook and pen to full gaming desktop with 25inch monitor.  Hey, you use what you got. All together, we wrote nearly 30,000 words, with additional progress on edits, converting a novel to a screenplay, squeezing two drafts together, and research.

Some folks mastered the art of procrastination with walks around the mountain, chilling in the outdoor hot tub, and playing 3-puck air hockey, pool, and Cards Against Humanity. Others wrote their butts off and topped their best one-day wordcount. My new count to beat: 5048. I could have kept going if 1) I wasn't so tired and 2) there was a game of CAH calling my name.

All-in-all, it was a fantastic, productive weekend that brought us all closer together, and we will be doing again. I can't wait.

Camp Wordcount: 24,166/30,000

Camping Time!

On my March 4th update, I said I'd decided on the necromantic weed titled Queen of Bones as my next novel project. A little after my Terry Pratchett post, I finished my outline. An actual, honest to God 100% complete novel outline, a story ready and raring to go from start to finish. I'm still in shock about it. I've always thought I was a pantser, but after the last few short stories and this, I think I can no longer deny the facts: I am a plotter. I got lucky pantsing. Once. I finished one pantsed novel. Everything else is a mess of words I'm going to spend half the year untangling.

In any event, I got roped into doing Camp NaNoWriMo thanks to a bunch of friends doing it. The NaNo team has made a bunch of positive changes since my last one. No more "add friends and hope for a cabin together," now you can invite a whole group and be with up to 11 friends in one cozy cabin. It's nice. I'm shacked up with a wonderful group of Absolute Writers that, on day 2, are already destroying their word counts, and we've got a fun little competition going with another AWer cabin. It involves s'mores, so that's all the motivation I need right there.

I've set my goal at 30,000 words for the month, 1k a day and approximately half the novel. Mid-April, I'll be going to a weekend writing retreat with my local critique group. I'm excited to see what kind of word count I end up after.

What about you, dear readers? Is Camp NaNoWriMo on your April schedule?

Goodbye, Sir Terry Pratchett

Just because you see the sledgehammer coming, it doesn't make it hurt any less when it finally hits you.

Whether you look up and suddenly there's a hammer two inches from making contact with your cranium or you see the windup from the other side of the room before they shot-put it into your face, it still hurts, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Terry Pratchett died yesterday.

Of course, he'd been sick for a very long time. Eight years, according to the various obituaries. It was going to happen. It was unavoidable. A sledgehammer from across the room.

Around a decade ago, my then-boyfriend now Mr. and I took a look around a bookstore. In the fantasy section, he stopped and pulled out a book: Guards, Guards!

"Have you ever read Terry Pratchett?"

"No. I've never heard of him."

"I'm buying this for you and you are going to read it."

He did. And I gave it a try. It didn't work for me. I just wasn't really enjoying reading anymore. Oh well. But when we moved in together, he brought all his books. Many, many Terry Pratchett books. They seemed interesting. His father gave him a copy of Making Money, the newest book, as soon as it came out. So I sat down with it. And finally, on the second try, I fell into Discworld in a way I have never been able to escape, nor have I wanted to. I wanted it all. I needed it all. I wondered how I didn't love Guards, Guards! the first time I read it. I read it all. Then I started to read everything else again. And a few years later, I wrote again. Thanks to Terry and the Discworld. He didn't just bring me to the Disc; he brought me back to my muse, to myself. I wasn't dying, but all the same, he saved me.

I cried when I heard the news. In the middle of my office, when the words "RIP Terry Pratchett" settled into my mind, I bawled and prayed that no one would come by or come in. How could I begin to explain what was wrong? "My favorite author died"? No. That's not right. "My idol died." Stronger, but it doesn't quite work. Not exactly. No, the only thing to say is, "Terry Pratchett died." Because he was so much more than an author, an idol. Those who didn't know him wouldn't understand that it's not just saying goodbye to one man.

It's goodbye to Sam Vimes and Sybil, to Carrot and Angua and Detritus and Cheery and Fred and Nobby and Reg and all the other members of the Watch who've protected and changed their city and their world.

It's goodbye to Granny and Nanny and Greebo and Magrat and Tiffany and all the wee free men. 

Goodbye to Rincewind and Ponder and the Librarian and Ridcully and the Bursar and all the other wizards, to Two-Flower, Cohen, and the tireless Luggage.

Goodbye to Moist and Vetinari and Adora, to Susan and the monks of Time, to Gaspode and Foul Ol' Ron and his beggars and CMOT Dibbler.

Goodbye to Death and the Death of Rats and the Great A'Tuin.

Goodbye to the Disc.

Because, though we'll always be able to visit it, its story is done. Everything we have now is everything we will ever have. Other people can try to write it, but it won't be Terry's Discworld. It's time is over, too. We haven't just lost a great man with a kind smile, a black fedora, and a creative mind like no other. We've lost the future stories of a hundred great men and women, dwarfs and trolls and Nobby Nobbses. And just saying "My favorite author died" can't begin to explain that.

Goodbye, Sir Terry Pratchett, and thank you. For everything.

Brief Update

Just a quick fly-by update on my status.

1. I am alive. Survived the southeastern snow of last week, although the drastic temperature changes are causing havoc on my sinuses. Last Wednesday, we had snow that buried us for days, to the point where there are still patches today. Today, with our 77 degree high. Friday's high is 38. Welcome to North Carolina.

2. Following my last post, I copied out my notes on both the stories I was trying to decide between, one document each. I was expecting to work on both. Story 2, the teenage necromancer, shoved the superhero tax collector out of the way and has run away with my plans. So I guess that answers which one I'll be working on now. It's growing like a weed. A necromantic weed.

3. I spend a good amount of time during the last few weeks updating my Goodreads account. Hadn't touched it since 2012. It took a while, but I'm all up to date now, I think. Feel free to add me as a friend if you have your own account.

Goal 2: Done. Now about Goal 3...

Goal 2: Write and edit this year's Sekrit Solstice Science-Fiction Fantasy Story Swap (a holiday short story exchange) by Feb 14th, 2015.

A day late, but as of last night, the short story is off to the story exchange host. I had a blast writing it. I can't say too much at the moment without risking the person its for bumbling into this post. I can say that with the final addition of a few sentences to make the ending (hopefully) a bit more satisfying for my giftee, it's all done. I'm sure I'll find more to edit and clean later. For now though, it's time to focus on Goal #3.

About Goal #3...

When I wrote it, I made it specific: I was to outline and write the novel that tied in to Goal #1's short stories. It's a story I like with vibrant characters I'm looking forward to playing with, and there's a professional writer who's waiting for me to get off my butt, finish it, and do something with it. He's offered me a plug to his fans when I do have it complete. Pretty cool, right? Most likely, I'll see him at a convention in June, so I made Goal #3 with the intent of being able to see him there and say "It's done. Well, the first draft is."

And then I heard a knocking on the inside of my skull, and a plotbunny that's equally developed poked its head into my ear and said, "Write meeeeee."

So now my dilemma is, which one do I write?

Story 1, the misadventures of a superpowered tax collector who tracks down villains in their hideouts and the mad supervillain who moves in with him while he has his lair rebuilt. A comedy of Odd Couple proportions.

or

Story 2, the tale of a teenaged girl necromancer raised in a Death God cult going through a rebellious phase right before she's expected to summon said god's undead dragon to terrorize the world on her 16th birthday. Not your usual "chosen one/rebel teen" story.

Both heavy on comedy with romantic elements, they should be entertaining to write... as soon as I can choose between them. Currently, the plan is to outline them both and see which one goes further. It'll be a bit more difficult than I anticipated (only one week each to outline, equivalent), but no matter which one wins getting written now, I win overall, because I'll have a second story ready to go outline-wise.

So, readers, with those two brief descriptions, which story do you think you'd like to see?

Goodbye to an old home

I came home last night to a Facebook alert that an old friend had tagged me in a post. Curious, I proceeded.

"At the end of this summer, a very important place will be closing permanently. This place played a huge role in my life as I was growing up, and did the same for many of my friends. Friends I wouldn't have even met without this place."

I didn't even have to click the link she provided or look at the other people she tagged. I knew who they were. I knew where she meant. The place we met many years ago: Camp Ocala, our 4-H summer camp.

From ages 8 to 18, I spent a week every summer swimming in the lake, sleeping in the cabins, playing games around the campfire, and singing the silly songs engraved on the heart of every child who attended. I learned tennis, archery, line dancing, and arts and crafts. I was hurt, humiliated, loved, lost, respected, and educated at that camp. I caught every bug possible from six- and eight-legged (Bug Camp, fun) to parasitic and viral (chiggers, lice, colds, and flu, not as fun). I made some of the greatest friends I've ever known in the dining hall, and strengthened relationships with the ones I already had over candy bars at the canteen. Two of them were guests of honor at my wedding.

And at the end of summer, it'll be all gone, for everyone, forever. No more kids cannonballing off the floating dock. No more whistles lost to the lake's depths. No more singing for our supper (and breakfast and lunch) at the top of our lungs in front of the dining hall to be granted the privilege of eating first. No more first loves on the dance floor for Wednesday night's dance. No more Thursday night shaving cream fights in the cabins while the counselors were out having theirs, even when we weren't supposed to (everyone knew the good counselors-in-training smuggled in their own shaving cream.)

I remember the layout of that camp better than I remember some of my own houses or apartments. Many of the people and the places have inspired my own writing. I wouldn't trade a single memory for anything, not even the bad ones. I sincerely hope the 4-H can find another place for a camp so other children can experience what so many of us did, feel the same love and inspiration I did for many years to come, but wherever they go, it won't be Camp Ocala. It's closing its doors, and it's taking a part of my heart with it.

Killing Your Darlings

I can't remember where I first heard the phrase, "Kill your darlings." It may have been at an RWA meeting, maybe in Stephen King's On Writing. Most likely, though, I probably just found it online somewhere and didn't really understand it until King's book. It's controversial, well-debated advice. Some people will tell you it means if you're stuck, cut the parts that you're attached to because you're probably favoring them too much. They'll say your darlings hold you back. Others will say it's advice to ignore. Why kill something that's good? It's okay to have darlings, they'll say.

After the week I've had, I have my own understanding of "Kill your darlings."

You're probably sick to death of this song, right?

It means, "Be able to let go." For whatever reason, you have to be able to let go, no matter how in love you are with it. Whether that means keeping something from the readers because there's no easy way to introduce it, or completely destroying a line, a character, a subplot, or even a plot. You have to be able to take the red pen to it.

Let go of the hilarious but out-of-character line, the unbelievable character trait, and the Deus Ex Machina Band-aid over the plothole. Continuity, character development, and believability are more important. If it gets in the way, let it go.
 
Let go of worldbuilding and backstory if you can't make it fit naturally into your story. Let go of the idea of showing off everything you've made, no matter how cool or deep or interesting it is. If it doesn't fit, let it go.

Let go of the character, the idea, or the name that's been done by someone bigger and/or better than you. It's not worth the copycat accusations at best and lawsuits at worst. No matter how much you love it, no matter how long you've used it, let it go.

Yes, some of these are from experience. That last one definitely is. God, it was so hard to ax, but when it's your untried idea versus George R. R. Martin's published work, Martin wins. I had no idea he'd made a superhero world where the heroes are called "Aces." I'm counting my blessings I haven't published anything in my series yet. It would have been a disaster for my career simply because I didn't know. So I had to take a kryptonite ax to the name I've had for my heroes for four years. The Aces are dead, long live the Arches.

So commiserate with me, writer readers. What darlings have you had to let go in a particularly violent fashion?