Poking Holes

Two weeks ago, I finished the first draft.

409 pages. 122, 698 words.

I was elated. My squeals of joy shook the rafters, and I am quite lucky I didn't drive off the road en route to pick up my daughter from school, as I finished moments before my "Pick up G" alarm began wailing.

Finishing my "monster in a box" definitely ranks among the big events of my life. Graduation, Marriage, Birth. It's up there. Way up there. I don't think I have ever been prouder of myself.

I was giddy with excitement and I let myself revel in the post-completion bliss for a few days before getting back to work. I may have finished, but it was only a first draft.

I had holes to poke.

The first step was getting my novel on paper. There is something about the touch and feel of pages. I needed a tangible copy. Something I could hold in my hands. Something I could mark up with pen. Something I could take to my favorite comfy chair and enjoy.

With my flash drive in hand, I headed to the local OfficeMax and waited at the counter. This was my moment. The first printing. I am sure the grin on my face was enormous and quite frankly scary for that time of morning. Truly, how many people do you see at 8 AM psychotically grinning ear to ear at your local office supply store?

I had to wait twenty minutes while another customer proofed her two-hundred-page copy. The clerk offered me a seat, but how could I have possibly sat still?

Finally, the moment came. I proudly handed over my flash drive.

"Just one copy?" she says, her hand out but her eyes still focused on the computer screen.

"Yeah. It is 409 pages, so just one."

"Double-sided?"

"Only on one side please. I need room to write all over it."

She breaks her trance and looks at me for the first time, accessing me. "Uh huh." Then, she turns back to the screen. "It will be about ten minutes to print something this size."

"Ok. Thanks." I sit back content to wait, my joy not diminished one iota.

She looks at me again and raises her eyebrows. I think I am crowding her with my happiness. She looks like she hasn't had her morning coffee and this place is eating her soul.

"I said, it will be about ten minutes. You can walk around if you like." What she is really saying is take your happy ass out of my face.

I do. I walk around and get a new pack my favorite pens and post-it flags. Ready to revise, I bounce back to the counter. I heard the copier stop printing. Sure enough, there it is waiting for me.

A different clerk, but one equally as unhappy approaches the counter.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. That's mine." I point to the box on the counter. I am practically doing a jig.

She raises a brow and looks at me above her glasses. "The pens, too."

"Yes."

She looks at me again with that look. I feel there needs to be an explanation. Like she is waiting for one. I can hear her thoughts in my head as she gives me that look over the rim of her frames. Why is this girl so damn happy? Is she crazy? It's too damn early in the morning for this shit. She keeps eyeing me.

"It's my first book. Pretty momentous occasion. First printing and all." The words float out of my mouth like balloons. They contain all my hopes and dreams.

It's that look again and her eyes fix on my words like needles. "Yeah, we get a lot of you in here."

Pop! Pop! Pop!

She pops each balloon. I feel deflated.

I pay my $40.90 and realize if my book gets rejected as many times as Dune, then I will be one broke mama by the end of this process. But I can't think of that. I have to think that Dune did, indeed, get published. And so will mine. I have to keep that faith.

I still have work to do. I can't let those thoughts infect my brain.

I have holes to poke.

PS. A huge thanks to Jason Kiniry, my personal hole poker. He has been reading my book as I finish each chapter and poking holes all along and asking me the questions that need to be asked. He is a lore master extraordinaire. There is nothing more I hate than having magical events not make sense, or having the plot not make sense. These inconsistencies are holes and I plan to sew mine up. Mysteries = good. Leaving holes large enough to swallow your reader = bad.

Why the blog? And what is with that title?

This is a blog about writing.

Let me start out by saying, I have never blogged before. For years I have toyed with the idea of writing some kind of blog. Over ten years ago, I was close to starting a blog for girls who game, but I never did. I guess I really never felt I had a lot to say on one topic. For me, great blogs have a theme. They are more than just journal entries about life. They have a focus and take the reader on a journey through that topic of exploration.

Last night, I was sitting with my husband and was filling him in on the day's writing. He hasn't read one page of my novel and I haven't told him anything really meaty about the story, but I do talk about my struggles with the craft of writing. He asked why I hadn't started a blog yet. I had to admit, it was a good subject for a blog. Every day I discover something new. Every day I seem to have a new challenge. I have had several friends who find the process of what I have undertaken interesting. And frankly, it seems to clear my brain of the clutter when I talk about the craft of writing.

I have written for years - short stories, poetry, journals, academic papers - but never something as long and involved as a novel. And it isn't even just a single book. I am writing the first in a series and the first story arc will span at least five books. Yes, I am a bit ambitious, but this is a story that has been brewing in my mind for about twenty years. It has to be written. It wants to be written. So it will be, hurdles and all.

So what is with the title?

This is not the first novel I have written. Oh no! Many years ago when I was just a wee lass I wrote a novel with my very good friends. We were twelve, I think, and the year was 1984. In our novel, we were a girl band called, Technical Difficulties (our first album entitled Please Stand By), and we opened for a little band you may have heard of called Duran Duran. In the novel, we all proceeded to meet and have affairs with all the band members. /sigh Ahh youth!

In the first chapter, John Taylor was "perched on a barstool." We were very proud of that line and it has stayed with me all these years later. My good friend, Elicia, and I still laugh about it today. My blog's title is a tribute to that first auspicious attempt at writing. Plus, to be perched on a barstool seems to be a bit of a precarious position. You aren't quite stable and at any point you are poised to leap off. I feel that way about writing frequently. Also, writers are observers. You can learn a lot about human nature simply perched on a barstool watching the world go by.