perfection?

I should not have such a hard time with this, but I confess that I do. I keep writing the main male character in my novel with too much kindness, too much consideration, nearly no human flaws or frustrations.

The poor man was nearly killed at the beginning of the novel, suffered broken ribs and a nasty case of pneumonia, and then is stuck inside a wealthy man's house completely dependent on others. Even a good man would get restless, tired and testy. But I am not letting him show his humanity, his vulnerabilities ... I need to make sure that when I show that he accepts his bad fortune, he is not a weakling, but a stronger man for it. Also, he needs to be allowed (by his biographer) to show that his restlessness does not mean he is ungrateful, but that he may (like anyone) appear ungrateful while struggling with his dependency.

I hope I can do him justice.

Opportunities

I am finally planning a trip to visit Morehead City in person! Through my mother and aunt, I have come in contact with another writer who is interested in the area and insists I must visit. After having prayed for the last 18 months, some money has recently become available and with the connections of my new friend, I might get a great deal on a flight. Now I need to decide exactly what to research during my stay. My trip will probably not be until this summer and I am determined to finish rewriting the lost portions of the novel before I go. This will take considerable discipline while not neglecting my family or teaching, but I know that I must master this to become a successful writer in the 21st century. After all, a successful writer, and by that I mean published, must get back to agents and editors on time with rewrites and be available for book signings, etc. This "deadline" will only help me focus ... I am grateful (beyond grateful!) for the opportunity to finish collecting all the information I need to do this story justice.

In a Name

Having done a great deal more research into surnames, I am adjusting a few in my story. My research included looking through the 1895 Census of New Jersey, and discovering a great resource out of North Carolina dating surnames back to the 1700's. Hooray for the geneology kick! I cross-referenced the meanings and origins of the surnames, because in each of the novels I have written (this is now the third, though the other two are still being edited and then will seek publication) I become obsessed with names and their meanings. Maybe it comes from reading the Old Testament at an early age and feeling horrible for Hosea's children (who would want to be called, "You're-not-my-kid" or "Unloved"?) or from reading the New Testament and getting all excited when someone's name would be changed (Peter and Paul) to have a fuller meaning in their new life. Well, whatever the reason, I am much happier with the names I have chosen, feeling they are now complete.

Onward

Now having computer access on a more regular basis (thanks to the ingenuity of my husband) I am making progress on my outlined scenes, re-writing and working my way out of the dreaded "writer's block" I felt stiffling me. Of course, most blocks are truly blanks, whereas mine has simply been the inability to figure out how to continue on with so little access to research materials and computer.

As I rewrite what was lost, I feel I am understanding the characters better, and even the direction of the story seems clearer.

Lost

How many times have I found stories about writers whose writing got lost? By fire or other forms of destruction, the work seems lost, but when the writer disciplines himself to rewrite, the work is better for the rewrite.

A month ago (could it have been so long??) my hard-drive crashed. Short of spending an exorbitant amount to attempt a recovery, we tried every avenue to no avail, but I greatly appreciate the efforts of my husband and our good friend, David. I felt lost, for my novel had been saved (on a separate drive) up to chapter 6, but I hesitated saving chapters 7 on becausse I felt that I had possibly taken a wrong turn and had been reading and rewriting for months. Now it is lost, including the wrong turn, and for a while, so was I.

I questioned what God was trying to teach me. I loathed my hesitation, my laziness, my horrible error. And then I became resigned. I had not lost everything, and I wondered if I could be one of those disciplined writers who rewrite better. Could it be for the best?

I choose to think so and have outlined the important scenes I remember and look forward (and dread, truth be told) to giving it life again. I'm afraid and happy, feeling I must get it right this time ... (and save it in multiple places.)

Hanging

Amazing what craziness ensues when you have three people headed to three different schools twice a week. This year I have returned to teaching preschool while my husband has returned to finish his master's and my oldest is starting first grade. As I was wrapping up the summer and preparing for our school year, I knew that I had better get my novel to a good place as I would have to set it aside for a week or two in order to get things under control. But to make matters worse, all I could see were the problems in my novel, no solutions, and no new scenes; as though all my characters had decided to give me the silent treatment.

While exercising one morning, my writer's block disappeared and I jogged in place beside the kitchen counter as I quickly scribbled out ideas for several new scenes which would take my characters closer to their destinations. So excited to flesh out the ideas, I kept thinking and praying for a moment to write. Finally the moment came and I literally left one of my characters hanging upside down. All through school opening I kept envisioning her face upside down, dripping with saltwater, waiting for me to get settled so I could finish what I had begun. But the days went by and I hadn't settled yet - lesson plans, homework, lunches, laundry, teething baby, nametags ... and then, finally, a moment and I got to finish the scene. What a feeling! It was the perfect scene to leave unfinished because my mind kept returning to it, working on it, longing for it. And now, I can keep writing. (and no one is left with blood rushing to their head!)

Victorian Obsession

While in high school, I was mildly obsessed with all things Victorian. I read Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, finding the characters absorbing from an era when station and manners mattered. I then purchased a complete collection of Jane Austen (who would technically qualify as pre-Victorian, but I didn't differentiate as the heroine's dilemnas appealed to me). I now own every novel and short story written by L.M. Montgomery, thrilled with her lesser known books, especially The Blue Castle which I still read annually. Instead of a sweet sixteen party, I invited my best friends over for tea. I collected imitation cameos, lace dinner gloves, and grew my hair down to my waist in hopes of one day looking like the Gibson Girl. Everyone else was addicted to flannel and all things grunge. I was making dance cards.

Much of my obsession was encouraged by my seclusion, as chronic migraines kept me home-bound for much of my high school years. It was easier to dream of a time when being ill was romantic than to deal with my pain. And so I day-dreamed and read and wrote until I got better and left my fancies behind.

But now, it seems, I have returned to them. Only, I'm trying to look beyond the niceties. It's not romantic to waste away in ignorance because medicine is not advanced. It's also not romantic to never be allowed to walk alone because society looks down on white women walking unescorted ... and if you're single and happen to meet a single male, it is not romantic to not be able to walk with him simply because you have no chaperone. It's inconvenient. It's tiresome. I'm certain, if they thought about it, which many probably didn't, women of that era would have found it annoying. And the figures that I coveted having in high school? I didn't realize just how painful and unhealthy corsets were. After all, they were the largesst reason for fainting benches and why women were considered so frail. Hello, they couldn't take a deep breath! Try being strong and virile if you can't breathe properly.

So, my perspective has changed, but I still appreciate the good manners. My little girls now play with my lace gloves, and we have tea parties, but I cut my hair long ago. There are things I envy from the Victorian era, the respect ladies and gentlemen had, I just recognize the dangers of legalism now.