When Words are like Ninjas

I recently lamented, to anyone that still listens to me, about my having pieces of a story I was unable to make whole.

It happens frequently, an idea slams my brain leaving me unable to focus on the task of living, instead filling my thoughts with potential beginnings and endings. I'm good at that - bookend thoughts, without any real filling.

It also started me thinking about how I create what I call a story. It begins as a glimmer, something fluttering in on tiny fragile wings, hoping to take a breath and become flesh. I've written a number of things I call super short stories, which in reality are likely just drafts of a story - words flung onto paper because they were just too fidgety for me to keep inside my head until they matured. They aren't really stories yet, they could just linger in this stage forever. Well, actually, only until I wake up the next morning and forget everything. So, these ideas do, apparently, have a shelf life. 

Beginnings are my specialty, I start things like a boss. It is the follow through, in depth thought and completion where I falter...so, like all of it really. This brain fog that settles in, refusing to evaporate, doesn't help. I feel as if the completion to my ideas is forever out of my grasp.

But I still try, because I cannot escape the words, those little ninja acrobats that bounce around in my head, and I've come to think of myself as a Story Starter. Maybe I'm someone who writes a draftory (draft + story = draftory...it's brilliant, I'm a genius) and offers it up to the world, sparking a story idea in someone who isn't bound and gagged by their soggy brain. Someone who can actually put a story together. Do people pay for this sort of thing, draftories?


The creating part is so frustrating, especially for someone like me who is so UN-trained in  the art. The idea spills forward like a flood, I edit all the misspelled words, glaring grammar errors (while ignoring those that I deem cute) and then hit 'publish'. That's it. What results is whatever people perceive it to be.

However, it's really just a draft. It needs fermentation, to bubble and toil and be made just right. I have little patience (or skill) for that. And, besides...it is the danger zone. I've hastily written down great story ideas and then let them sit to contemplate. I edit - and wait. I edit some more, because I've done some thinking - ALWAYS a bad idea - and then edited some more. Now, my story resembles nothing of its former self - it has now become Frankenprose, a monster story that I don't like anymore.

It could be I've been impatient, yet again. Maybe I'm not giving my edits enough time, I'm not fermenting the changes long enough to evolve from a tart, juicy thought to a smooth finish. Perhaps.

I feel as if I'm bound within a glass box, where I see the end - but can only dream of it. My stories deserve a writer who can pump oxygen into them. Not all of my ideas are good, but some of them are. Alas, we may never know.

I'll leave you with the latest idea that's been plaguing my brain. It is still a draft, a story in its infancy. We'll see if it grows up some day.

Stairs

Every day after school this is where Gracie stops, the 6th stair. One foot tentatively touching the 7th, one foot up, one foot down - straddled between what is and what may be.

Every day she hesitates, steadying her breath, going over the plan: who to call first? Her best friend or 911? To call a friend means a comforting hand when the paramedics arrive. The one friend who knows everything, who knows how hard it is for mom to make it through some days. The one friend who was there for Gracie through each attempt. The one friend who knew Gracie's pain from Mom begging her not to tell anyone about what she tried to do, explaining them away as accidents, the mishaps of a klutz. Mom could be so persuasive, pleading like a heartbroken child. She was, really, so very heartbroken. Something was so wrongly shattered in Mom that no amount of love or good grades Gracie showered upon her would bring light to her eyes - only shadows lurked there.

One more step and a turn of the knob. One more step to know if fates will be changed forever and whether two people will finally be set free. A turn of the knob and quiet shout, "Hi mom. I'm home. Was today a good day?"

Of Planning and Doing

When day 15 of NaBloPoMo arrives at 4:30 a.m. to the sound of visiting family shuffling about in preparation for departure, it is a sign of a long day to come (despite going back to bed for an hour and a half).

I'm now three cups into my day and it is failing to inspire - so that means it's time to break out the pumpkin pie.

With whipped cream.

Maybe LOTS of whipped cream.

I kid about eating pumpkin pie for breakfast. {no she's not}

And I'm not really drinking my 4th cup of coffee. {yes she is}

And my fingers are not conspiring against me by typing truths in scrolly pink brackets. So if you see any of those, ignore them. {it's a cry for help people, she needs more pie and whipped cream}

It's possible my stomach is in cahoots. {duh, ya think?}

During the first week of this NaBloPoMo experiment I read some great advice about creating an editorial calendar. And, once I found out what the hell it was, it sounded like a very neato-keeno idea.

Skip ahead to week 2 and Hubbypants, in reply to my complaint about finding something to write about, says I should plan out my topics for the rest of the month.

"It's called an editorial calendar," I say, "and I've already thought about it". {she said it like she didn't just learn it a week before - all smarty-pants-know-it-all-like}

I'd like to take a moment to warn my mutinous fingers that I do have a delete button. Just sayin! {pfft, and how are you gonna "delete" stuff? With your toes? You NEED us.}

Cheeky things, those fingers.

So, here I am half way and I have no calendar of blog topics to get me through the next 15 days.

When the subject of an editorial calendar came up, I will admit to thinking of it as a tool for real bloggers and real writers. It isn't something a Dabbler would need.

The fault in this logic, as is typical of me, is that there ARE people who read my daily musings and they would probably like to read something as opposed to nothing...or even nothing about something as opposed to nothing about nothing.

Wow! Did you see that? My train of thought used my ear as an exit to escape my logic and is probably half way to Belize by now.

Where the heck was I going with this?

Oh...right...Planning, Organizing and Building Foundations.

Meaning - taking steps to write down ideas, jotting them on the calendar and then, possibly, stringing letters and words together to form a blog post.

I know NOW that *most* writers plan. I realize NOW that the majority of bloggers do not wake up each morning and wait for the coffee and pumpkin pie to ignite a spark of inspiration on some topic and then viola*wham*bam*thank*ya*mam, a post is born.

I DO realize it doesn't work that way.

I just wish it did. {Because Ms. Piggy wants pumpkin pie every morning}

*whispers* Fingers that don't want to spend the day doing dishes without gloves should think carefully before name calling* {people that don't want their ass expanding should put down the fork and step away from the pie} I wonder if anyone else finds these dual conversations between Myself and I a little disturbing? {no comment}

Anywhooo...I'd do all that planning and organizing stuff if wasn't so boring and I didn't draw a complete blank every time I sit down to do it. Perhaps it is boring because of the blankness? Hmmm....

Organization has been swirling around in my head because I feel as if I need to move forward and onward with certain things in my life that I cannot accomplish willy-nilly.

I often wonder what I could say and how well I could say it if I spent time writing with the notion that I was actually doing so as a writer vs. a person with too much time on my hands. What if, for giggle sake, I were to plan and research and edit as if I were submitting for publication beyond this blog?

I really do think that. Often actually. Which leads to full and complete melt down and something chocolaty drizzled over my pumpkin pie to be washed down with more coffee.

Thank you, NaBloPoMo for forcing me to dive into these thoughts, sort them out (hopefully) and the need to go shopping for stretchy pants.

Answer me this, if you please:

IF you are a blogger, do you keep an editorial calendar (even if it is just a guide)?

How do you come up with your blogging ideas

(just by waking up or serious contemplation)?

My hope is that by finding my inner organized self that I'll avoid letting opportunities pass me by. Such as: I was recently approached via Twitter to *possibly* have my Super Powers blog post syndicated on a blogging network site. The tweet was 4 days old when I saw it - I had failed to reply in a timely manner and will, very likely, not hear from this person again.

My loss at not being Twitter savvy.

While I am sad that this opportunity *may* have passed, I am flattered beyond blushing that this editor even read my post AND that she took the time to contact me. Indeed a great feeling.

Now that I've spent my entire morning writing, it is time to move on and accomplish other important tasks. {Don't let her fool you, she's just going to stalk people on Facebook}

Among those tasks will be to teach my fingers a lesson on how sarcasm can backfire - time to clean the toilets - With.Out.Gloves. {doh...eww}

Peace Out!

p.s.
Today's post is brought to you by Starbucks French Roast and homemade pumpkin pie.

p.s.s.
I should've probably skipped that last cup of coffee

p.s.s.s.
Did we just have an earthquake? Why is the room spinning?

p.s.s.s.s.
{Cleaning toilets without gloves is like cutting off your nose to spite your face}
Hmmm...true, we'll have the kids clean the toilets and I'll torture my fingers with ugly nail polish.
{Oy, there she goes again}
What?

p.s.s.s.s.s.
What the hell does "p.s." really mean? And is it "p.s.s." or is it "p.p.s" or....?