So much snow! (and terror)

SPRING SEMESTER SENIOR YEAR.

Man, there is so much terror in that. I'm trying very hard not to think about it, while still applying for jobs, internships, etc. etc. Mostly, what I'm doing is going, "LOOK AT ALL THE GLORIOUS OPPORTUNITIES - I MUST HAVE THEM ALLLLLL", which is not really that productive. I'm trying to keep my options as open as possible, though, since I don't really know where I want to be next year.

We've had at least a blizzard per week since I've got back to uni. It has been beautiful and glorious, and I'm really hoping that my French professor will cancel class this morning. It's not that I don't like her class... but I'm not a fan of Mondays.

In other news - I finished The Mime Order by Samantha Shannon! I enjoyed it immensely. It was everything I wanted in a sequel and more, and while I was not as crazy about the first book, I wholeheartedly recommend the series as a whole. I am very much looking forward to the next one.

Anyway, back on track with TA. It's actually my senior thesis right now, so... yeah. Scary stuff. Right now, I'm aiming for a first draft by 31st March, and I think it's doable. This semester, I've deliberately made my schedule as easy as possible to focus on my thesis. So far, it's working.

Finals week aka the week of DOOM

Ugh, finals week.

It knocks you out and crushes you flat, and still somehow I'm twitching on, like a pesky spider THAT JUST WON'T DIE. Still, it's given me a chance to reflect back on this semester and how it's gone.

It's been happier, I think. I've felt more productive in my classes, particularly in my senior workshop. I've really enjoyed writing genre fiction in class (le gasp) and everyone has been great fun to work with. Even though I'm frustrated with my own work, it's interesting to see how everyone's developed.

Some days I've been on the struggle bus more than others. But I keep going because you know, what else am I going to do? I can always choose to put down the pen. It is the easier choice, in some ways. But it is so much more fulfilling to keep at it, no matter how exhausting it gets some days.

I've just gotta keep twitching on.

Is this thing on?

So I've been away for a while... like half a year.

I know. I said I wasn't going to do this.

But at the beginning of the summer, my computer died, and I lost about 20,000 words of various projects, including TA. Which, as you might imagine, set me back a little. Although I tinkered around a bit, I didn't really start anything until September, by which time college had started, etc. and I got busy.

Anyway, I'm back now!

Catching up

I haven't been on for ages, so I thought I'd give some updates.

1) I've started training for Tough Mudder.

Currently, I'm jogging like a very old person, but I'll get better at it, for sure. It's actually sort of nice to wake up early and head to the gym; I feel like I'm accomplishing something. Once I get home, I'll be running around the park behind my house.

2) Finals are here!

Ha… haha. *sweats nervously*

No, I'm kidding. The workload is light this semester, and I'm much more comfortable with what I'm expected to do than I have been in the past. I want to try and finish as much of my work this weekend so I can spend the rest of my time here basking in sunlight and reading.

3) I've resumed work on TA.

This is something I've wrestled with in my head more than on paper in the last month or so, but I've finally plucked up the courage to delve back in. I'm revising and making changes to the beginning of my story so I can move forward. I hope to have a draft done by the end of the summer so that I can hand it to my critique partners. There are definitely a lot of other stories on the mental coffee table, but some of them are still percolating, and I know how important it is to finish creative work.

Anyway, that's it for me now. After finals, expect to hear more from me.

The Reveur

         Once a month, I risk my life for reveurite. It is the most pliable metal of the dreamscape, infinite in its uses but deadly to shape. Like an acid, it corrodes leather, clothing, skin. The only mine is on an island impossible to reach, unless you know the way. In a tower at its peak I wait for the moon’s apex, when reveurite falls from the stardusted ether. My hammer and tongs rest on the workspace, handles towards me where I can reach them. Moonlight comes in from a narrow port at the top of the tower.

         Three minutes to midnight, I begin my preparations. With a silver dagger, I slice my palm open and scatter my blood across the worktable as a baker does with flour. I pick up the hammer, weigh it in the palm of my hand, and give an experimental swing. The furnace on my left is swelteringly hot. Exactly three minutes later, the reveurite falls like a lead weight sent by the gods. It lands through the port onto the workspace in a viscous smear.

         I work rapidly, wrestling it into the shape I need, though it slips and slithers under the tongs. This is a battle of willpower more than anything else. I command the reveurite to shift form, to line the mould that I have prepared. Grasping the tongs with both hands, I shove it into the furnace where it screams. Before the night is over, I will shed more blood in an attempt to fix its shape. It must be perfect.

            An hour later, I put down my tongs and hammer. My hands are shaking, either from blood loss or fatigue, and I wipe them on my trousers. There are small craters in the workspace that will need to be filled and the wood that supplies the furnace must be restocked. But the work is done. A small box sits in front of me, whalebone in appearance only. Three engraved dragons cross each other at the centre of the lid, topaz eyes glinting in the darkness. Foxgloves dance along the sides. It doesn’t have to look this way – it can be wood, or glass, or even cardboard for all the difference it would make – but a craftsman always takes pride in their work, and furthermore, she will appreciate the effort. My orphan creation. With haste – because there is not much time left, not now – I open the lid and place the letter within. This is the only way to guarantee its arrival, no matter the circumstances, and it is imperative that it reaches the shores of the living. To her.

          If I could I would linger, but dawn is grasping at the horizon, so I take the box from the middle of the workspace and depart. For a few more minutes the island exists, hanging precariously on the edge between one life and another, until the moon fades and the ocean swallows it whole.

This story was made possible through the writing prompt at terribleminds.com. 

Revision Blues

I haven't written here in a while and I'm sorry, dutiful readers. I will endeavour to be more active, despite the dreaded last month of the semester. Portfolios need to be wrapped up, stories revised, and things handed in.

Claire Messud is visiting my college at the moment and we had a special masterclass with her on revising, using "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver. It was a fascinating exercise, but it brought up a lot of my own anxieties about revision. Here's the thing: I hate revisions, but I love rewriting. I love going back to a story and rewriting it from scratch, using nothing but the barest of outlines. It makes me feel like I'm both starting anew and making progress.

Revision, on the other hand, makes me feel like Theseus in the minotaur's labyrinth. There are a million paths that the story could go down, and although only one of them is right, I have to explore all of them before I know which one is true. Figuring out where the story starts, for example, ties me up in knots. It's paralysing, whether at the computer or on paper. Blank page round two.

How can I possibly make something so beautiful out of these words? How can I commit to what I've written?

I wish I had an answer for this.

Evaluating my progress as a writer

This post's theme is courtesy of Chuck Wendig at terribleminds.com.

In his post, the wonderful Wendig asked his readers to evaluate ourselves as writers, and I thought it was a really good exercise. Honestly, I kind of need it right now, given that I've come to a tremulous point in my life. (Junior? Grad school? Writing samples? *sweats nervously*)

Anyway, here goes:

a) What's your greatest strength/ skill in terms of writing/ storytelling?

I'd say at this point, I'm getting better at specific description. With TA, it's crucial for me to have good description because I'm working within a fixed location. Everything has a reason to be where it is. I'm trying to convey a history, and there's nothing that works quite as well for that as description.

b) What's your greatest weakness in writing/ storytelling? What gives you the most trouble?

Everything! No, I'm kidding, but some days it really does feel like that. Right now, though, I'm struggling a lot with finding smaller - yet crucial - conflicts to move the plot forward. In general, I tend to worry about my dialogue, and about whether I divulge too much about how my characters feel.

c) How many books or other projects have you actually finished? What did you do with them?

I mean, how finished are we talking about here? Draft 1? Because that's usually where things end up when I abandon them. I've written first drafts of nine novels, give or take. And then I hated them and left them in the corner to die. I do, however, tend to go back to projects and rewrite them a year or two down the line, so I've not given up entirely.

d) Best writing advice you've ever been given?

Get rid of adverbs. If you need to use adverbs, your verbs aren't strong enough. Get rid of anything that isn't "said", otherwise your dialogue isn't strong enough. This was a huge revelation for me.

e) Worst writing advice you've ever been given?

Use lots of adverbs.

f) One piece of advice you'd give other writers?

Don't discard writing on the basis that you don't think it's good enough. Stephen King threw away Carrie because he thought it was terrible, and his wife fished it out again. Bottom line: let your readers tell you what they think of it first.