In-between

I’m not sure if I’m the only writer who suffers this, but I very much doubt it. I’m talking about the in-between, the void between projects. I finished the fourth book in my crazy writing streak, and I’ve even gone back and done the first revision on one of them. But now I find myself drifting, and I’m not sure which way to go.

When that happens, I’m not good for much of anything besides housework, which is why my laundry is almost caught up and my kitchen is clean. But my brain is mush. Little spurts happen, and possible future books are born, but I can’t commit to anything. I think I must be addicted to the first draft process, because I’m having withdrawals and needing desperately to throw myself into a new world.

Today when I woke up I had a clear picture in my mind of a book I’d love to write but that didn’t fit into my typical style. I can be a grammar Nazi, which I think I’ve said here before. But I started it anyway. Something to get my fingers moving and let out some of the bottled up tension in my head. Here’s the result. I don’t know if it will ever get any longer. Many of my in-between bursts never take off.

 

 

 

I’m hammering away at the cart when she passes by, and she’s so pretty, and I’m so distracted that I’m in danger of smashing my thumb. But I’ve learned to abandon whatever task is at hand when she’s near, so the hammer only falls lightly onto my left thumb, because my right hand has opened up and dropped it.

Her eyes are on me, blue eyes, but sometimes I swear they’re purple, and today they certainly seem so. In fact I’m sure of it. They’re purple, like the flowers on my mother’s favorite tree, and that pink dress she’s wearing could be the sunset behind them. She’s past me now, and all I see is her long blond hair, straight all the way down to her waist, and then spirals at the bottom as if she’s straightened all she can and has to let the ends do whatever they want to.

She looks back at me over her shoulder, which I know she’s going to do, because she always does it. And I’m waiting for it, actually, before I dare to pick up anything I could hit myself with. And I can tell even from the side that she’s smiling, but then she’s turned around again, and it’s safe to get back to work. But I don’t. I watch until she turns down the dirt road toward her home. And then I watch a little longer, because I can see a speck that I’m pretty sure is her.

Only then do I pick up my hammer and choose a new nail, because the one I’d intended to hit has fallen into the grass, and I’m too lazy to dig around for it. And now I’m humming, and I don’t even know what song it is, but I like it. It makes me think of the sunset, of quitting time, of purple flowers. And then I realize that boys don’t think about purple flowers, so I shove that image out of my mind and admit the truth to myself.

“I love Selena. Dang it if I don’t.” Which though I’m not singing, sounds like a song in my head, and then I’m humming again, and this time her name slips out on the best notes.

And then I hit my thumb.

But the cart is finished, which is good, because I’m tired of hitting my thumb. And it was a small job anyway, a “Picky Pete,” as my father calls it, which means that I have a tendency to do jobs that don’t have to be done, and he’s actually named the tendency after me. Pete. But it did need to be done, no matter what anyone says. I like for all the boards to lie down flat. It’s easier to slide heavy things across it that way. Picky Pete, likes things neat.

“Pete and Selena,” I say to myself as I put the hammer back into the tool box and clasp the rusted latches, and it makes me smile. And I imagine that one day I won’t be hammering boards in place on my father’s cart anymore, but instead I’ll be building a house, and Selena will be there telling me exactly how big she wants the porch and what color she wants it painted. And I’ll do whatever she asks, because as long as she’s near I won’t be able to do anything else.

Before I leave I check all the connections between my horse and the cart, which haven’t changed while we’ve been still, but I do it anyway. I can’t help it. But then I hear something and know what it is before I look up. She’s coming back, which she never does so soon after going home, and I realize she must not have made it home at all. She hasn’t had time. So I look at her, only because I can’t help it, and she’s staring at the ground, which she certainly never does.

I hear a sniffle. I know it’s come from her, because there’s no one else there except me and Boss, and Boss doesn’t sniffle. He snorts, which he does exactly when I think of it, and that makes Selena look up, but only for a moment. Only long enough for her realize I’ve seen her face and for me to realize that her face is wet, which makes every muscle in my body go rigid. Selena is crying, and that means that somewhere between her home and my farm, someone needs to be pounded, and I’m just the man for the job.

On mornings like this one, it’s hard to imagine pounding anyone. It’s hazy outside because the dew has lifted in the warmth, but it’s not quite hot enough to burn it up. A gray day, which makes most people move a little slower and maybe miss details that normally stand out in the sun. But there’s no missing the tears on Selena’s pale cheeks, and there’s no missing that she’s coming straight toward me as if she doesn’t even mind that I’ve seen her crying.

Of course she doesn’t mind. She’s a girl, and though it’s not an opinion I’m likely to get much agreement on, I happen to believe that girls are braver than boys, at least about things like this. Sometimes I think I’d like to cry, but I’m too chicken to do it, and I’d never show it if I did. But here she comes, cheeks shimmering softly in the haze, eyes like hooks that pull me toward the fence in my ungraceful steps that I can’t help because I’m built for heavy labor.

I’d wipe those tears away if I wasn’t afraid my rough hands would scratch her perfect skin. Or that she’d run, and then I wouldn’t know the words to bring her back, and I’d never see her glance over her shoulder at me again with that sideways smile that seems invented only for me. I’m at the fence now, and she’s there too, on the other side, leaning against the post I put in the ground myself not a year ago on a day nothing like this one. A day with enough sun to turn my shoulders red and bake a pound of sweat out of my skin.

But I’m not sweating today, thankfully, so her nose doesn’t turn up as I approach, and I’m not sure it would anyway, because she’s much too sweet to do it. And that makes me wonder if maybe I do stink and she’s just not showing it. But no, it’s too early. If I smell like anything, it’s bacon, and no one hates that smell. And I can’t smell even bacon, because there’s a breeze, and it’s lifted her hair and carried the scent of it into my nostrils, and once again I see flowers in my mind, and I would hum again, but she’s looking at me.

I swallow. And she keeps looking at me, and the tears have slowed, but one is still there, and my hand comes up without my permission. And she doesn’t run, but I’ve stopped moving, because I’ve never touched her before, and I’m not sure it’s okay to do it. But she sniffles again, and that makes me feel like I’ve touched Mr. Anderson’s fence, and now my muscles will do what they want to, because that’s what happens when you’re electrocuted.

I take that tear, and she may as well be a statue, because she doesn’t move at all. And then we both jump, because Boss has snorted again, and we’ve been standing so still we’ve forgotten to breathe, and we both suck in air at the same time. And I realize that she’s waiting for something, maybe for me to help her, so I blurt out the words before I can change my mind.

“What happened?”

She closes her eyes, and another tear comes loose, and since I’m feeling bold after my last success I take that one too, and now my fingertip is cool and wet. But I don’t wipe it off. I don’t know why, but I can’t, and I think maybe it’s because I don’t want her to think anything about her needs to be wiped away, even if one finger is cooler than the others, and I can hardly stand it. So I let it dry on its own, which I’m sure will take a long time, since the air is wetter today than normal.

Then I get the idea to rub it between my fingers, all of them, and then I feel more balanced, and I can think again and form new words.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

That startles her. I know this, because her eyes grow too large, and she gasps. “No,” she says. “It’s something I’ve done.”

That surprises me so much that I frown, and then she looks away, and I’m sure it’s because she thinks I don’t approve, even though I don’t even know what she’s done to upset herself. And then I’m feeling helpless because I have no one to pound and I’ve made her sadder. My fingers have dried, and they’re starting to warm up, and even though I hate that cool feeling I wish it was back, because it made me feel connected to her, and now it’s gone.

And she’s not looking at me anymore. And whatever it was inside me that made me feel strong before is gone, and now I feel useless and frightened, and I think that maybe I should have stayed by my cart and left her alone. But I can’t wish I did, because she’s still there, leaning on my post, and I think to myself that I’m glad I put it deep in the ground, because I know it won’t fall over, and so neither will she. I’m holding her up, and she doesn’t know it, and that makes me feel strong again, if in a different way.

She turns around then and looks at me, and she speaks, and I watch her lips move, full pink lips that wrap each word up like a gift, and her voice fills my head, and her smell makes me dizzy, so I’m not sure what she said for just a moment. But then all the pieces of my brain finally line up, and her words make sense.

“I’ve lost my mother’s ring.”

My heart twists, because her mother is dead, and Selena has worn that ring every day since it happened, and I know how much it means to her. And then she cries again, and it’s all I can do not to jump the fence and hold her.

Dusting things off

There’s one good way to see if I’ve been writing. Just look for dust. Dust in my house, dust on my camera, and even dust in my blog. Ideas for things to write here have come and gone, but I haven’t found my way back in for some time now. And here’s why.

At the beginning of September I started a book titled Under. I finished it on September 13th at 45,000 words. Just a first draft, but complete. As I’ve said in other posts, I try to step away from a draft for at least six weeks. So I started a new project.

I took a few days off and then began work on Wicket, which I finished on October 5th at 59,000 words. I had expected to kill at least six weeks writing that one, but it just didn’t happen. So I started my third new project. Restorer. I finished it on October 17th. See the trend? I still hadn’t killed six weeks, and Restorer ended up being 63,000 words.

Enter project number 4, my newest book, which has no title. And I won’t say what it’s about, because I want it to be all mine. It’s at 60,000 words and not close to being finished.

So while I haven’t been here, shoving my opinions down your throats or amusing you with my crazy life, I have been busy writing, honing my craft, and I’ll admit, losing touch with reality a little bit. I’ll be back here, I’m sure, when this tidal wave of words leaves me, but for now I just don’t want to stop. I may never get a rush like this again.

Under. Young adult to adult fantasy. This is a ghost story, but not the typical one. I can’t say more without ruining it. It’s the first in a planned series.

Wicket. Young adult. This one turned into a bit of a romance, not my usual style, but it has some twists and turns that I’m proud of. It will not be a series.

Restorer. Young adult to adult fantasy. My favorite ever right now. It’s the one I will query first, I think, and it’s definitely going to be a series.

Untitled. Also young adult fantasy. I think I’ve left middle grade behind for good.

As always, if you want to read for me, shoot me an email or leave a comment here.

Isolation

Isolation.

Think about that word. How does it make you feel? Is it positive? Productive? Or does it sound hollow?

We have a problem in our public education system in this country. Maybe not in all schools. But it’s in the one my son attends. You want to know where bullying starts? Look at the administration. Look at some of the teachers.

I was sitting where I sit every day while I wait for Gabe to get out of school. A class walked by, and a teacher barked at one child.

“You are in isolation. Do not look at or talk to anyone.”

In front of me she said this as if a child in elementary school could have deserved it.

Isolation.

It’s an ugly word. If you don’t think so, look it up. Add to that a search for symptoms of depression and suicide. And tell me that putting a child in isolation is beneficial. Tell me that teaching other children to shun a child is beneficial to them.

 

Know what it does? It desensitizes them. It teaches them that it’s okay to isolate someone. If the teacher says to do it, it must be okay. In elementary school they are learning this! And we’re surprised when they kill each other in junior high? Why?

Why are we surprised when some children get shunned by everyone? We have to be responsible and teach our children that people matter. Not just when they behave, but always. Isolation is not discipline. It is torture. Some will think I’m over-reacting, but I’m not. I saw the other kids snub that little boy. They would get in trouble for being kind to him. How sad. How very sad.

I thought about what she would have said if she had actually given the definition of the word. It would have gone something like this.

“You are alone and alienated from everyone else. No one cares for you. What you’ve done has separated you from society and marked you with shame. Lonliness. Don’t try to change it with kindness. It’s too late.”

Ouch.

Teachers, while you’re handing out vocabulary words, please remember that words have power. And look up the ones you use.

The Drive Home

I sit at the longest red light in the universe. A song comes on and transports me to another time, and I go willingly. So long ago.

Carefree summers spent on naked feet, wind-whipped hair, red tipped shoulders. Tattered jeans, whose strings we bat away like horses flicking their tails at flies. Pockets full of magic—rocks that are sure to glitter when busted open, iridescent shells, a leaf shaped like a heart that is surely smashed beyond recognition, a locust skin that will have fared no better, a piece of anything handed to me by that special boy. Nights spent under the stars and the one garage light, laughing, dancing, being wild.

Innocence and ignorance mingle to form the perfect canvas for the best paintings. Pictures of youth, full of hope and passion, arrogance. Dreams are attainable, and parents are overgrown children who say no because it’s the easiest and shortest word. Boys don’t lie, and a quick kiss is enough to know who you want to marry. The worst thing that happens is an encounter with a wasp, and the best thing that happens simply can’t be decided.

Food is everywhere, so there’s no need to go home. Apples, still hard but delicious. Blackberries, plums, peaches. Sweet things that make sticky mouths and arms, and later, upset tummies. But tummies can be made almost as strong as feet.  Only hearts remain soft. They break and mend a hundred times before the summer ends.

The light turns green, and I crawl forward. Everyone in town is at this intersection. A new song comes on, and I recall a different part of my life.

My car is a million years old, but it gets me to college every day. I’ve had two hours of sleep, typical for me on weeknights. I’m in my dance clothes. I’ll wear them all day, and since everyone in college dresses funny, no one will even notice. Every kind of dancer will be in that room. The ones who have trained forever, who carry pointe shoes with the ends frayed off. The ones who played football but somehow learned to dance. The new ones who can’t dance and end up humiliating themselves. And me. I’m not sure where I fit. I’m at the front of the class now, though, not hiding at the back the way I did on the first day.

I do a quadruple turn, and the teacher happens to be standing right there looking at me. I have a fit of excitement, and he laughs at me, encourages me. I’m young enough to still be full of dreams and old enough to do something about it. I believe I will succeed. I know I will. I dance hard until class lets out and then head to my second class. I daydream through it. It’s academic. Then it’s time for composition, which I skip to go to a dance class I’m not enrolled in. The teacher doesn’t mind. He welcomes me onto the stage.

I get to dance with the trained people now. They give me a role based on my size and innocence. I thrive on it. I don’t need sleep or food. Only theatre.

Another red light. I’ll never get home at this rate. The dog needs to be let out. My son needs to be woken up. Laundry needs to be hung up, and my book needs to be finished. The song that made me feel like dancing trails off, and a new one comes on. I reach up and touch my Mikey necklace. I fight back the tears.

He was feisty from the start. My Mikey. He’d wrestle with me, bite me, chase me. He’d snuggle and give me kisses.

It’s too sad. I can’t afford to cry right now, so I switch the song myself. Ah, that’s better. This one makes me think of my book. It’s on track with what I need to do today. I listen to it four times before I make it home.

Stuff I’ve Learned from Experience…

• If a wasp goes up your shorts, you are in real trouble.
• A slinky can be wrapped around a swing set several times. But it stops being a slinky. It becomes a mess. A very bad mess, and you will not get a new one!
• Just because you are given a white rabbit and you are a very cute little girl does not mean that you can name the rabbit snowball. You can be outvoted, even when you stick your lip out.
• Fathers, even very clever ones, cannot always hide blood on a white rabbit.
• Stray tomcats are bad for rabbits. Very bad.
• Singing a solo in church is a small price to pay for an Annie wig. But Annie wigs don’t last forever.
• A giant tortoise can be carried home on a Honda 50. It can also be carried RIGHT BACK, though that trip is much less fun.
• Bull Nettle hurts for a very long time. Riding through it on a motorcycle is like the kiss of death.
• A little brother can survive being launched from a trampoline and landing head first on the ground. A big sister might have trouble believing this and tell her mother that little brother is dead. This is an unpleasant experience for everyone involved.
• Dogs don’t like it when you blow in their faces.
• When Granny says not to bite into something, you should listen. Garlic is one of those things, no matter how much you think you will like it.
• Horses are fun animals to feed by hand. Emus are not.
• Emus like pickles. But they prefer fingers.
• Learning to crisscross your feet when skating is a feat worth celebrating with a booty shake. Falling down while doing it backward is a feat worth putting that booty on a bag of ice. But hey, you get a pickle. Maybe you should feed the Emu.
• If you put your foot on a copperhead’s head, you eventually have to take it off.
• Boys lie for two reasons. 1. To get something they want. 2. To avoid getting something they don’t want.
• Girls lie for many reasons. And they are better at it.
• The “sticks and stones” verse is a lie.
• You are not as pretty, smart or talented as your parents say you are. But somewhere there is someone who thinks you are. You should marry him.
• Parents can tell the difference between falling in and jumping in. It is not acceptable to jump into any body of water that requires you to actually “break” the surface.
• Black mud is slimy. No matter how much mind control you have, you won’t like it between your toes. It also tastes bad when someone throws it in your mouth.
• Mean people are costumes with sad people hiding in them.
• If you get a phone call at exactly six in the morning, you will get bad news.
• You don’t know how much you love your little brother until you almost lose him.
• Pain is a relative thing. And relatives cause most of it.
• If you eat too many green apples you will get a tummy ache. If you throw up those apples, you will get a sore throat.
• Being alone is wonderful. Staying alone isn’t.
• A larger house holds a larger mess.
• Puppies don’t care how expensive laptop cords are.
• Taking a break from writing a novel is nice, but eventually you have to get back to work.

First sick day

I climbed in the bed with him, pulled him close, whispered the question I had tried asking a hundred different ways already. “Why don’t you want to go to school?” And he just cried. It was the cry he makes when he’s trying to hide his emotions. The whistling sound that comes before he starts shaking and covering his face. It makes my heart ache. It makes me want to kick things and scream.

 

He can’t answer me. And I don’t know how to help him.

 

This year started badly. I could say that in a fancier way, but I really just want the point to be clear. Badly. My son, who needs routine and thrives on schedule, was moved to a new campus and given a new teacher. When that didn’t work out, he was moved to a different class again, which I thought might help. But it may be more than he can handle. So far, it seems to be. He’s sick this morning as well, but that’s never stopped him before. I asked him if he could tell me how going to school makes him feel.

 

“Sad.”

 

I rarely use that word in my writing. There are so many better ones to color the page. But this simple word, whispered by my little boy, is like a knife in my chest. Sad. But why? Why is it that as soon as I say he can stay home, my happy little guy returns? He hugs me and stops shaking. His chin is blessedly still. I continue to tremble, because I know something he hasn’t figured out yet. I don’t know the answers!

 

Today he’ll be here with me, safe from whatever is frightening him. But what about tomorrow?

 

I discovered this morning, as I was struggling to decide what to do, that there’s another reason I love writing. One I haven’t shared in previous posts on the topic. Control. It’s not a particularly inspiring word, so it’s not surprising it never made it on my list. But today it’s clear to me.

If my characters get themselves into trouble—with help from me, of course—I can always get them out. Or I can choose not to get them out and teach them something valuable. In the end, I always have control. If only life were that way.

I’m still here!

Wow. My last blog entry was on June 15. This may seem like evidence that I haven’t been writing, but in truth, it’s evidence that I have. I’ve heard it said that the publishing world becomes sluggish in the summer, but whether or not that’s true, my writing actually increases when the heat forces me to stay indoors. Reading, too. On rainy days during my childhood summers I used to pull the mattress off Granny’s bed, prop it against the wall and climb under to read. My cave. I’d love to have a writing cave, but I think Phill would not appreciate his sleep number mattress being thrown on its side. (Also, I can’t lift the thing.)

I counted my projects the other day and was astonished to learn that I have written two complete novels and started a whopping  thirteen more. I had no idea I had so many projects. It’s not surprising that I often don’t know what to work on. And it’s also not surprising that it’s so hard for me to find time to keep up with my blog.

On top of that, school has started again, and this year has not been good so far. Gabe has been moved to a new campus and given a new teacher. Change can be hard on any kid, but for Gabe it’s especially difficult. I suspect it has not been easy for any of the children in his class. I’m glad I’m writing about it today rather than a week ago, because my outlook is considerably better now. Things are falling into place…well, I’m shoving them into place, actually. A mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.

Those of you who have nudged me a bit (online, of course) will be pleased to know that I have not forgotten this place and that I do intend to get back on track. Thanks for reading!

Book Nostalgia

I read a blog entry  recently about the changes in the publishing industry, and it started me thinking about why I resist the change. There are so many reasons to embrace the e-book, yet I cling to my ink and paper friends, and I mourn for the empty bookstores. I wonder how much it has to do with the book industry and how much of it is simple nostalgia.

When I was young, my brother built  a platform for me  in a tree in our back yard. I called it a tree house then, but as I recall, it had only enough room for me to sit with a book in my hands and a bag of sunflower seeds between my knees. It was perfect. I sat there on summer mornings that year reading Swiss Family Robinson until the heat (and my salty tongue) drove me inside. I don’t think I would have it in me to read that book any other way now. A coffee shop with an iPad just wouldn’t be the same. I need the feel of those crinkly pages between my fingers. I need to turn a page, as silly as that may be.

I’m sure my children won’t mind the change. And their children will likely laugh at a paperback the way they laugh at VHS tapes. But for those of us who grew up in the days when a book was a book, I can’t be the only one who hopes that someone somewhere will still be printing the old fashioned way twenty years from now. I hope I’m not.

Morgan’s Wonderland

We did the last thing we would normally do and went on a Memorial Day weekend trip. We don’t love crowds, and that’s putting it the polite way. Back when we were a solid homeschooling family that wasn’t a problem. But with public school comes responsibility, and giving up our off-day trips is the only downside we’ve seen to putting Gabe in school. It’s a price we’re mostly willing to pay.

Sea World in San Antonio was the first stop, and it’s one I’d take back if I could. I’m not a hater of the park, but (and yes, I expected it, but STILL!!) the place was so packed we could hardly walk. Long lines for everything, and the shows went, well…not flawlessly…at all. Only my husband managed not to complain that day, so he wins the good sport award. I really have nothing positive to say about that part of the trip, so I’ll leave it there.

Day two was all I could have hoped for and more. Morgan’s Wonderland is a wonderland indeed. If you have a family member with special needs you have to go there. That’s an order. But let me tell you why.

When you step inside, they give each member of your group a bracelet that keeps track of your location. Worries about becoming separated, or even worse, your precious child leaving the park alone, disappear. You scan your bracelet at locations around the park, and it will tell you where your group is. The bracelet is also your key to some unique fun. The attractions greet you by name and then send you emails when you create something. Here’s the car Gabe designed. (His name is Christian. I didn’t know how this would work, so I put in his full name when I bought our tickets. I recommend just putting in the name your child uses.)

The park is never crowded. We literally never waited in a line for anything all day long. Gabe rode the carousel three times in a row because he didn’t want to get off. I’m told they do have busier days than what we experienced, but they don’t allow the park to get full. For this reason, I also recommend buying tickets ahead of time, and so do they. We started on the carousel, and we couldn’t have been luckier. It had an elephant! This elephant got more than one kiss from my little angel.

They had special places for wheelchairs on the carousel as well. And I should point out that the rides cost no additional money. The price for the day was ridiculously low. Next we drove the cars. Well, Gabe drove, and the rest of us cheered him on. These are wheelchair accessible, too.

The train takes you around the pond. You can also walk around the pond, which is worth doing. The trail features rest areas designed as different countries. I’ll show those later. I recommend riding the train early, because you get a good view of other things to do.

Sensory Village!!

Inside the Sensory Village, which is air conditioned, there are a few rooms where you can try out different activities. In one room you can design your car (as shown at the top) or drive in a simulator. Dad and Gabe checked that out…

Gabe’s favorite room had screens with shadow and light play. The staff at Morgan’s Wonderland is always around to help you figure out what to do, and in this room it really came in handy. Here’s Gabe using his shadow to catch drops the way they showed him.

There are two other screens as well, but I won’t spoil it for you! He also loved the floor mat, which reacted to the way he walked on it.

There’s a grocery store where children can shop, weigh produce, scan items and run the register. Gabe put the mustard in the register, which I thought was strange until his father came in later and did the exact same thing. Great minds think alike?

There’s a weather room where you can see yourself on tv and take pictures, which will be emailed to you, and there’s a room with horses to sit on. Sensory Village was one of our favorite features.

I was surprised by the price of food. It was reasonable, with plenty of options. We got our Sierra Mist Naturals for $1.50 from the machine. I don’t think I’ve seen them that low at any other amusement park.

The gym is a great place for older kids to hang out, especially if they need a break. And let’s face it. Siblings to special needs children do sometimes need a break. Noah had a good time playing basketball and getting away for a while.

Then Noah and I took a walk around the pond. What we saw…

The first rest stop…Mariposa.

Shanira, where Gabe and Dad joined us.

Kojima

My personal favorite.

The water play area was a hit for the whole family…

While Dad fished, the boys fired water canons…

And Gabe gave Pirate Cove a thumbs up!

On top of all this, there are several playgrounds and concession stands. There’s plenty to do to keep the family entertained for hours, and the environment is completely stress free. You can play in the sand pit or play instruments and even some things that we never tried. We’ll be back, maybe every year. Maybe more often than that. Please spread the word to all your friends with special needs. This place needs to be shared!

Are we there yet?

Ever tried to stop drinking caffeine? Not slowly, just BAM! No more. That’s what taking a break from my book feels like. I still think it’s good advice; distance makes so many new things possible. But it hurts! I’ve messed around with a few other book ideas, revisited some of my other projects and tried to find new outlets, but I’m winding down now. And it’s only been four weeks!

Revision can go one of two ways. There may be more than two, actually, but if there are, I haven’t experienced them. The first, which is more likely if you plunge into it immediately after finishing the first draft, is torture. Those things you said a month ago that made you want to pat yourself on the back sound trite and stupid. Typos slide right by, because you’re so familiar with the manuscript you simply read what you think you wrote. Your story feels dry and empty. Blah.

The second, the one I’m doing now, is bliss. You finish the book and push it aside. You ignore it completely for six whole weeks—or whatever your personal goal is—never opening the file. It’s like getting married and moving into separate houses for a while. It’s torture in its own way, but it’s the end result that matters. The coming home. The moment when you open the file and let the relationship begin fresh.

Some of the things you wrote impress you. They’re the lines you would wish you had thought of if you read them in someone else’s book. But they’re yours! Ahh…pleasantness. But of course, it can’t be that simple. It wouldn’t be revision if everything was clever and pretty. You’ll find a few adverbs in there. Ew! And maybe some passive verbs. Even more ew! And where did that comma come from?!! There will be some loose ends, characters left hanging and plotlines that just need to be tossed. Work, work, work.

But it will be like the first Dr. Pepper after your fast from caffeine. That headache you had forgotten you had will lift, and your mind will clear. Your story will sparkle in a way you had also forgotten. You will be sucked in. And that is the best way to write. How can you write what you love if you’ve forgotten how to love what you write? So, take a break. Find something, anything, to take your mind off that story you’ve beaten to death, and give yourself time to miss it.