Ginny

Over a year ago, I woke up from a vivid dream.  A new disturbing world was handed to me complete with a kick-ass heroine.  I wrote a voice piece from her perspective and Ginny was born.  Unlike the novel I was writing at the time, this series would focus on a single heroine and would be written solely from her view of the world.  But I couldn't focus on Ginny then.  I had to file her away for another day.

Now, I'm in the final edits of my urban fantasy, and Ginny has started knocking on my door again.  She is ready.  In fact, she is screaming that her time has come.  Although I hadn't written a word about her since that fateful morning, she woke me from sleep, I have thought a lot about Ginny and her world.  And in all that thinking, her story has come packaged and delivered.

Last night, I started writing in my head.  The words wouldn't stop, and her narrative just about drove me to madness until I told my husband the kid's bedtime was in his capable hands and fled to the bedroom, locking the door, my laptop in hand.  She poured outta me and on to the page, and it felt so damn good.  She even woke me up at 5:30 am... tap...tap...tapping.  Ginny is not a patient woman.  


The time has come to balance my work.  Until I start querying, I will focus on final edits of my urban fantasy. My query and synopsises are done.  YAY!  That way, I can carve a bit of time each day to appease Ginny.

For those curious about the genre, Ginny's story will be a western steampunk novel.

A Writer's Stride

For years I had dismissed running, mostly I’ll admit now, because I’m lazy.   Who wants to run when you can sleep an extra hour? I made a lot of excuses.  I can’t find a good sports bra.  I have bad knees.  I don’t have time.  Then, in October, my husband ran his first 5k.  Watching him, a man whose favorite exercise was walking to the fridge to get a beer and back to the computer for another match, complete his first 5k was pretty damn inspiring.  As he crossed the finish line, I vowed the next time, I would be by his side.

So, I started running.  Now I love it.  I couldn’t imagine my life without it.  Especially because of my writing.  There is something magical that happens on a run.  My mind unknots, and my muse is allowed to play.  Working the body is as important as working the mind.  At least for me it is.  After a run, I come to the computer refreshed with plot issues resolved.

This summer, however, is kicking my ass.  Texas heat is NOT something you willingly run in.  At least, I don’t.  If I’m not up and out by six A.M., forget it.  I have tried to run on the treadmill.  I hate it.  I can run two and a half miles with ease on the road, but in the gym, I peter out at a mile.  No amount of creative visualization helps. 

Yet, runners are still everywhere.  And aside from the occasional hot-bodied shirtless runner, I never paid much attention to them.  That is, until I started running.  Now, I find myself looking at people’s strides.  I know every runner who lives in my neighborhood.  Not personally, mind you, but after months of running and waving as you pass them, you develop a certain respect and an unspoken camaraderie.

 

There is one guy in particular that is the most dedicated runner I have ever seen in my life.  He isn’t pretty to look at. He does not stride like a gazelle on the Savanna.  In fact, I am always afraid he is going to trip over his own large feet.  Sweat is always pouring down his face, even in winter.  And I admire this guy tremendously.  Why?  Because rain, shine, cold, or hot, this guy is running.  He is running everyday at two in the afternoon.  That’s right.  July in Texas 100+ degrees, and this guy is out running at the hottest point in the day.  At first, I just thought he was one stupid SOB.  You could not pay me enough money to run at that time of day.  Not in Texas. 

But on Monday, as I crawled out of bed sniffling with the remnants of a summer cold and sat at my computer, I thought of my loping runnerman.  I didn’t want to write.  I wanted to go straight back to bed and snuggle under the covers.  But my sweaty runnerman, wouldn’t do that.  He would get out at the hottest point of the day and run. 

It takes dedication.  It takes balls of steel.  It takes a bit of stupidity.

He made me realize something.  Something I already knew but hadn’t pieced together. Writing, running, it’s all the same.  To succeed in either, it takes commitment.  

I used to only write when my illustrious muse demanded it.  That was before I wrote my novel.  If I had waited on that girl to get it together, I would have never finished my book.  She is far too fickle.  I have to give her some rules.  She still argues with me, but I write.  Every day.  Come rain or shine.  I have to keep up my writer’s stride.  Keep my girl in practice.  Improve her pace.  Build up her endurance.  Because I am in this for the long haul. 

120k, 120k, 120k . . .

Editing is hard.  Really, really hard.

No joke. 

I've learned a lot writing my first novel.  I’ve learned my bad habits. Hello, adverbs!  I’ve learned the importance of note taking.  Hello, Excel charts!  And I’ve learned that editing is far more important than writing the original draft.  Hello, cuts!

When I wrote my first draft, I knew nothing about the publishing industry or what was expected.  My only goal was to get words on a page.  Every time I thought about researching submission guidelines or agents, my creative sphincter would seize up.  So, I saved it for last.  Words on page.  Words on page.  Words on page.  That was my mantra.  I didn’t worry about word count.  I didn’t try to contain the flow of my thoughts.  I just wrote.

 In the end, my manuscript bloomed to a whooping 158k. 

I didn’t realize that was long until I started researching.  And even when I read Urban Fantasy should be no longer than 120k, I shrugged it off.  I was proud of my book.  I just knew if someone read it, the 158k wouldn’t be an issue.  I justified it.  There’s a lot of world building.  It has an ensemble cast.  I am setting up plot arcs for future books.  Excuses.  All of them.

I sent my query out for a few critiques.  One writer said of my word count, “You may have heard this before but… this is quite a lot.”  What she was really saying, “Holy shit!  Are you freakin' serious?  158k? ”

Now, I have a new mantra.  120k, 120k, 120k.  And I will keep repeating it until I shrink that word count.  What good is having a great novel that no agent will ever read because the word count scared them away?  This process hasn’t been easy, but my novel is better for it.  My writing is tighter with less repetition.

But I have cut scenes I love.  I have cut dialogue that made me giggle.  And just tonight, I cut a side-plot that made me weep.  It will have to wait for book two.

And that’s my goal, isn’t it?  To get published and get a book two? 

Hell, yes! 

So, I will cut.  And cut.  And cut, until I hit 120k.

As of tonight, I am down to 130k.  And the more I cut, the less I am attached to any one thing.  The big picture is what matters.  The end game.

Big thanks to those who helped convince me to deflate my monster in a box. I'm a better writer for it.