I came through a fantastic breakthought tonight on my novel that I’d like to write about a family dealing with Alzheimer’s. Yes, I know, it’s been done before and in fact, my idea on how to do it was not as original as I thought.

Until I realized that my mom has a different kind of Alzheimer’s than most people in novels, it’s much LESS, well, I think it’s a more difficult form in that it’s less like living in the past and more like schizophrenia. The POV is a bit different too, but I do need to read some novels to help out. After The Madonnas of Leningrad, I’m guessing it might be The Notebook And perhaps I should see Iris, a movie I’ve longed to see for a long time, but avoided because I heard it was really heart-breaking.

Ah but I love that stuff anyway.

This is as easy as a metaphor. In the olden days, before I was ever pregnant, I went to Crunch, back when it was still a good gym in New York City. I was only interested in the Tai Kickboxing and Yoga. Both were harder than I thought - I had led a pretty sedentary 35 years.

But as I continued to go to one of each class every week, I discovered something:

Yoga made the kickboxing easier.
And kickboxing made the yoga easier!

This was a shocking discovery for me, but I realized that one sport stretched and toned me, while the other built my muscles - and both were needed to perform each of these sports well, only in different measure.

I was thinking about this as a metaphor for my writing. Because I was a better writer when I was a writing poet, as well as I was a more involved poet when I was writing fiction. One built my writing muscles (fiction) and the other stretched me (poetry).

I want to give up everything else I’m doing and do this. Don’t know how that will work, but it’s just what I want.

I’ve started reading How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lightsby Ariel Gore which I’m absolutely loving, and she exhorts us as writers to embrace our faults and go forth and celebrate them.

So I confess here and now I am officially a non-literary literary writer. I’m intelligent and can read anything, EXCEPT dull stories. This all began in high school. I was, as mentioned before, an avid reader, but something happened when I got into high school in the 9th grade (it was Catholic private school). The books they gave us to read were no longer interesting but important. And one day, I was forced to read “Ethan Frome”.

Don’t ask me why. This is one piece of classical literature I’ve never heard mentioned ever since the 10th grade. So there I was, 15 years old and shopping for cliff notes. I was a straight A, honor role, honor society, advanced class kid and I believed cliff notes to be cheating. (They didn’t even have the yellow Cliff version, only the cheezy red, 2nd class brand.)

The thing was, I read EF - or tried to. After 10 pages, I had no idea what I was reading and started again. And again. And then said, fuck it! and bought the cliffies.

Somehow I got a 90 on the test, because I gotta tell ya, even the damn cliff notes were boring.

Which is not to say that all literature is boring. I liked the Scarlet Letter (story about a hussy in a time when they were taboo), and I love Shakespeare (all that blood, and violence, and madness, and suicide!). Crucible was good too (evil children), and Jane Eyre was ok, but I do have passion for Jane Austen (early feminism). As an adult, I’ve tried to catch up. Les Miserables was miserable. Atlas Shrugged was great except for the 9000 pages of philosophy in the middle. Anna Karenina just made me want to drink, and don’t get me started on the 7?9? times I tried to get past page 100 in the Brothers Karamazov.

BUT I adore GOOD literary fiction. And I’ve found a truth: just because it’s old and studied in school doesn’t necessary make it relevant to my life. That list of books I have on this site? There all fairly lit. And yet, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that you can’t be a good writer without being well-read - meaning those ancient texts that have nothing to say or relate anymore - then I’d be quite wealthy.

So that’s one of my flaws. I’m sure there’s more…

While it is excellent to read fiction that will improve your writing, it is also imperative that you NOT read things that kill your writing, not at least until you have finished writing or editing for the day.

Damn the show Lost.  I got caught up in Lostpedia and LostEasterEggs and now I can’t write, plus the little one just started crying.  Argh!!

I’m up to page 199 of 266 in my editing of “Shapeshifters” (woefully mistitled!).  That is a good thing, but also a bad, because here’s the issue: I want this to be a novel but it’s only got 64,500 words.  You need like 100,000 for a novel.  Now it IS true that there is subplot that needs to developed, so that will add. And also that I need to move it from being as explicatory as it is to descriptive, but even so I’m not sure I can get there.  I’ll have to really think it over and decide.

I’ve been longed resolved to this thing having at least a 3rd rewrite/edit, but plotline and character emotions are coming together.

OK, now I’m off to write some backstory on a pivotal character that may in of itself be an interesting side-story.

So I’m start reading this piece from a fellow writer, and I’m like DAMN, this is GOOD. It’s a kind of story I would never pick up and read myself, but it was just SO GOOD. And I’m looking through someone else’s crit, because I’ve just gotten on the list and I can predict the editing - I mean, for me, editing is cake.

And then that little demon that sits on the shoulder of every writer says, “That’s because you’re an editor, NOT a writer. You should make a living from editing and give up this writing thing. You SUCK…but you’re a great editor!”

I had to breathe my way through it. What I am is rusty. What I’ve done is sat in 2 chairs, and I still am, still am trying to. But perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps a change is coming. When I took that poetry workshop before Amelia was born, I was GOOD. And it was the first workshop I took. What I am is out of practice. My stories are good ideas, my writing is out of shape. I need a good workshop, I just don’t live in an area where they are.

These are not excuses. These are part of a master plan, a plan I am TOTALLY unsure of.

Off to edit (my OWN work, that is).

you keep me crawling,
do you even know that?

you keep me crying.
have you closed the door from one error
or have my crimes multiplied, and i did not know.

my knees bleed from the groveling
you don’t even know i do

and even
as I write these words
what i feel is

how much I miss you
how much I love you
and how in what life
I can ever right this wrong

I touch her hair, it seems all I can do; it’s silver, soft, and I’m surprised at its silkiness. I don’t remember it being this smooth. She’s asleep, like she is whenever I am there, like she is most of the time, as if this world holds nothing for her and she can just dream beautiful dreams instead.

They tell me, She’s good, she’s doing good, her heart is strong, her kidneys have healed: this is good? Her brain, I think, what about her HER BRAIN? It’s past the point of any recovery, of any healing, and its cruel of her heart to go on so firmly.

In my family, we valued the brain, admired it from afar, 3 children set to worship the idol of higher education without ever earning it, schooled in theology, politics, literature, film, TV, somewhat on our own, but there was always something intellectual going on. And who could ever get by without a book? It was my refuge in a life with 2 much older siblings. While I was learning to walk they were screaming for independence, and as soon as I could read, I read everything I could get my hands on. It didn’t have to be fiction, or even interesting, but stories and poems loomed large as the glittering gems of everything I read. And my mother read too, consumed Christian literature at an unbelievable rate, while Dad read techy things, when required, and I guess I was the spawn of all that reading. And sure, for a brief period, other parts of my body - my legs, for example - were my prize possession, but above all my brain remained the source of all my hubris and all my joys.

And here she is in a home, alone, her brain deteriorating…what does she dream of? Is it childish dreams, or can she remember the happy moments of her life? Is she chatting with God, did she retain all that she learned about Him, or is she just laughing and enjoying the peace of not being present, not having the damned curse of not knowing who is in front of her, or where she is, or why can’t she go home.

So I stroke her hair. It glitters silver, where once and always it glittered gold, but it is still her hair, shiny as a precious metal in my helpless hands. I wish I could take a lock of it because I know before long, she’ll be gone - and all I’ll have is my already-fading memories, moments shining in my mind, briefly, then escaping, as I lose her forever.

If you’ve read my blogs, then you know I never do memes. I find enough to yak about it seems. But THIS one was different (see the 6/10/07 post “Tagged!”) and intrigued me, so here goes:

“Turn to page 123 in your work-in-progress. (If you haven’t gotten to page 123 yet, then turn to page 23. If you haven’t gotten there yet, then get busy and write page 23.) Count down four sentences and then give us the next paragraph.”

Which leads me to:
“Yes,” I said, wondering if the truth would reach him.

Dialogue, uh oh, is that bad? Yikes, wishing it were something better…

What did I do for my art in the last few days? I bought How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights by Ariel Gore, who’s blog I immediately liked.  Maybe it’ll give me the kick in the butt I need.

Thought I’d post on my progress on different things.

1. Joined a local writer’s meetup group today, we’ll see how that goes.

2. Joined a writer’s group at writers.com, still waiting to hear about being accepted.

3. I’m 3 for 3 in terms of editing progress on my major fantasy novel.

4. Just started re-editing (and then need to complete) the serial scifi story I want to submit for pay. Edit what I have to, then continue - or should I just continue, THEN edit? Hmmm… Have to re-read the 8000+ words to get familiar. Maybe I should do my own nanowrimo type progress counter?? Wonder if WP has one??