So I’ve committed to the unimaginable – at least unimaginable for anyone who knows me.  A cheque has been mailed off to pay for a writing workshop.  But that isn’t the big news.

Yes, that’s right folks.  The big news is that I’m going to be partaking in an erotic writing workshop. *snort*

I’ve paid someone 75 big ones to learn how to write erotic fiction.  And I confess that just writing that down has me blushing three shades of crimson, scarlet and  tomato red.

Having decided to claim my stake at the romance writing genre, I knew that I was going to have to do something about my, shall we say, “romantic interludes” within my novels. Because to be quite frank,  its not that I can’t write the lovely-dovey stuff,  but I really suck at writing the sexy-rexy stuff. 

All too often I fail to see in the books that I read how the sex scenes move the story forward. I don’t have an issue with sex scenes if they are in the story for a good reason. But to be honest, most of the time I don’t want to read about quivering flesh, swelling bosoms and throbbing manhood’s.

And contemplating that is when I knew that this workshop would be good for me.

If I’m going to write for the romance genre, then I need to learn to write a sex scene that is believable without mentioning the strange  little oddities that make real life sex so humorous but don’t translate well to the written page (or the silver screen) and it needs to be done well enough that it’s toe curling in a delicious manner rather than a cringe worthy how many pages do I need to skip manner.

So January 30th will see me at the back of a class, dying with shame. That, or I will be discovering my “inner slut” and becoming the newest erotic fiction writer on the block.

I just have to  hope my mother doesn’t discover what I’m doing via this blog.  Yeah, because right there would be a toe curlingly embarrassing moment!

My heart breaks for her and the lonely journey she must take through that which will lead a person through the darkest of places, but I’m so impressed that Marian Keyes has been brave enough to come out and speak openly about the current battle she is having with depression. Although I get the impression that it’s not really bravery in her eyes; it’s just telling it like it is.

I love it when people who have any kind of fame in the world are open and truthful about the real life issues that affect them. Not because it makes them more real in a sappy, badly written romantic fiction kind of manner, but because it normalises real life for real people. Marian Keyes has been honest about her alcoholism before and has said that she struggles with depression, although this round with the Black Dog appears to be knocking her around a fair bit.

There is nothing wrong in getting a mental illness. You don’t need to hide your condition, you don’t need to be ashamed. Admitting to having an illness isn’t (shouldn’t) be seen as a slur on your character or abilities.  That evil beast that we call depression can take a side swipe at even you, leaving you gasping for air, wondering if there is life beyond what you see and feel right now. Hearing from people society says are all that and a bag of chips  suffer as you do makes you feel, well, cliche as it is, not so alone.

I do hope that Marian’s battle will be over sooner rather than later.

I also hope that it is Marian who comes out the victor of the overall war.

Vision boards sound like a wonderful thing; if that’s what floats your boat. But I’m not really one to stare at a piece of cardboard and sigh with longing for all the pretty pictures of things that are supposed to represent my dreams.

 Several years ago, when all my friends from my Life Make Over group started creating vision boards and I wanted in on the action.  But me being me, I wanted something that was uniquely made for my way of thinking; I developed a Dream Book. Oh sure there were the odd photos of my family in there, a map of Europe,  and other key symbols, but for the most part, it really is a book filled with written  lists of things I hope to achieve or experience and descriptions of places I want to go or  things I want to make. But I haven’t ever thought of it formally as a plan. 

But I don’t dream.
                          I usually plan.
                                                       - Joumana Haddad.

Isn’t that the most compelling, inspiring statement?

Dreams are often thought of as unobtainable wisps of fancy that we carry around in our heads to see us through the dark winter days of our lives. But if you have a plan, it becomes real, concrete, something that will be truth. It is the promise of spring after the hard cruel winter.

So  in the spirit of not dreaming, but planning;

Finish typing the manuscript to my first novel, edit and get it to the point of being ready to send out to professionals with the goal of publication.
Write a killer query letter for agents and publishers for my novel.
Plan, develop and write my second novel.
Continue to write here at Kinda Sassy about my growth, failures and more importantly successes in my journey towards publication.
Work hard with my writing group and learn everything I can from four ladies whose writing blows my mind.
Find markets for my work and learn to write for magazines and newspapers.
Attend workshops to learn new skills to improve my writing.
Keep reading. Books, magazines, internet websites, whatever takes my fancy and whatever I can learn from.
Use the Draft in 30 Day’s planning method and apply it to my writing and see what develops.

That plan should keep me going for a year.

I’m really very proud of the fact after years of procrastination and doubt, I got my first rough draft done before my official deadline of December 31st. But that still means that I was working on the draft for a full nine months (talk about it being my baby!) And people like Nora Roberts seem to churn out new books every six months or so, which got me wondering: how?

How does Nora get her ideas, transfer them to paper, write, revise, adjust, and get through the official editing process so quickly?  I’ve read that she is a much disciplined writer, spending eight hours a day in her office writing, which would be helpful.  And I would love to be able to write at such a speed and for such extended periods of time in the day. Of course, I don’t think Nora Roberts wrote so prolifically when she had young children (although I truly have no idea as I haven’t followed her career all that long) and until Bronwen is in school full time and has the ability to understand what “Pleeeeeeease… leave me alone” really means when Mummah is sitting at her writing desk, I’m not going to be getting eight hour writing days anytime soon.

But I do have a book on my bookshelf that suggests it’s possible to pull a first draft together in 30 days. I’m only glancing through the introduction where is fully exposes that really, the first draft is actually a very detailed outline that is about a quarter of the whole books length, but that according to the author, having completed such a detailed outline means that writing the missing bits will be easy.

I like the idea of having such a complete outline in a month. I’ve used an outline for my first novel (that is still –  *STILL* nameless!) and found it really helpful to make sure  correct seasons were described at the right time of the year and that the flow of the story happened over the same passage of time. There is nothing worse than an author who writes about a winter Christmas in Australia for one character and how delightful dying Easter eggs is in what would be August for another! Details people – details. I like the idea of being so clear about what will happen in the story that you can see the strengths and weakness’ at a glance, making revision somewhat easier.

So I’m going to read the book this week and see if I can start learning the art of  the whole ‘outline/draft in a month’ skill set. Because the idea of whipping out books at such a speed sounds like a wonderful thing to impress an agent or publisher with – don’t you think?

First Draft in 30 days; a novel writers system for building a complete and cohesive manuscript.

Karen S. Wiesner, Writers Digest Books, 2005

ISBN: 13: 978-1-58297-296-1

ISBN: 10: 1-58297-296-6

PS.

 There are 137 (!!) copies of Twilight in the Ottawa library. I’m number 30 on the waiting list but the notice says it’s in transit which means I will get it in about two weeks (this Friday is New Years Day, so no library time). Reviews from other readers on the library website either love it or hate it. Wonder what camp I will fall into?

The Harry Potter phenomenon started for me when waaaaay back when I was a teacher in 1997 and every child seemed to have a copy of the book; I simply had to know what all the fuss was about and got hooked. Now, 12 years later and I’m looking forward to my own daughter being old enough to start reading the books to her and sharing the pleasure of the story with her.

So I’m wondering if I’m I the only geek around who was up late last night watching “A Year in the Life of J.K. Rowling” on t.v.  and finding themselves missing the anticipation  of the build up to each new book release like we enjoyed with each of the final four Harry Potter books?

Of course I’ve heard about the Twilight series and seen a kind of excitement it’s generated for each of the movie releases,  but it’s been nothing along the lines of Harry Potter and so far I’ve been able to resist the temptation to hand over a fist full of dollars to buy the books and start reading.  And as I’m not likely to receive a complimentary copy from Little Brown just for mentioning the Twilight series here in this blog, perhaps I should order copies from the library and see what the fuss is all about.  Although I have to admit that without ever really getting into it in the first place, I have been known to utter the words “I’m so over vampires already; move on people, move on!”

And it’s not that I miss Harry Potter as such (although I admit that if I heard that the fabulous Ms. J.K. had written another book in the series about the Potter kids I would be pre-ordering my copy,) but I miss the thrill of knowing I was one of millions around the globe who was waiting through the thrilling agony of the countdown to get my hands on the book and start to read.  I just miss the collective feeling of people around the globe, holding their breath, waiting to know the end of a story…… waiting for a book…..

EDIT  January 3rd 2010:

seems I wasn’t the only person who was thinking about Harry Potter that day….       The Globe and Mail

Everyone and their dog want to be a writer. Being a writer, it would seem to the vast majority of people, is easy enough. Bang out a few thousand words and get paid squillions of dollars and get the story made into a Hollywood movie.  I’m equally sure you’ve heard the saying that in each person there is one good story to tell. So many people say I’m going to write a book but there is a one caveat; they are going to write a book – one day.

That was me for a long time.

I was one of those people. I would read a story and think, “I could do that,” or, “good grief, if that got published, why shouldn’t one of my stories?”

 Because I was the kid whose mother would buy 15 – 20 books for a huge Christmas present parcel and by the end of the six week summer holiday  they would all be read – and some twice over already.  I was the kid who thought going to the public library was the most exciting thing ever; the one who had the torch and read under the covers when I was supposed to be sleeping at night.

But for some reason, the older I got the less I trusted that spark of desire within me that called to me to write. I pushed it away, deeming it childish and completely impossible for the likes of me. Who on earth was I to think that I could actually write something that would be good enough to be published?

Of course, the pull towards writing down the adventures that happened in my head remained constant, and I would spend a quiet hour or two, putting pen to paper over the years. But it wasn’t until this year, several months before my last 30-something  birthday, that I came to the conclusion that if I didn’t do something about this nagging dream to write, that I should shut up telling people I was going to write a book one day and move on with my life.

Cut to February 2009.

I gave myself the challenge of writing the first shitty draft (as Anne Lamott would urge) by the end of the year. I actually finished writing the draft by hand in a couple of notebooks by October and have been typing it into the computer since then.

But seriously. Who am I to dare to think I could be a writer?

Oh yes, I’ve heard the argument “I write therefore I am a writer”; but its being a published author where the distinction is really made. Long before Meryl Streep and Amy Adams had even considered acting in a movie called “Julie and Julia”, Julie Powell understood that being a writer meant being published. It wasn’t enough to have a half written manuscript, an apparently popular blog and a desperate desire to be a writer. You need to be recognised by other people, (people who are regarded as professionals in the publishing field,) for them to agree that the words you have so carefully strung together like a pearl necklace are worthy enough to be printed in some format for other people to read before you can call yourself a writer.

So here it is. My journey towards the end goal of being a published writer. If nothing else keeping a record will keep me accountable to continue learning about my chosen craft. I need to keep pushing my personal boundaries in my efforts to be published; death or publication. I prefer publication.

Working towards a personal goal as a member of a family unit can make you feel selfish at times.  You worry that you’re asking your family to sacrifice much in an effort to honour your own dreams. For as long as I can remember I have wanted to write books.  Earlier this year I came to a decision that if I didn’t have at least a draft completed that was at a stage I could send out enquiries to agents and publishing houses by the time I hit 40, then I should probably shut up about writing, that it wasn’t ever going to happen because I wasn’t passionate enough.

Sometime in February I started writing. Not a lot at first, maybe 500 words a couple of times a week. I would head downstairs to the communal sitting room complete with its fake fire and scratch out a few paragraphs; I didn’t want to jinx myself by aiming too high. I’ve always been able to churn out three or four thousand words to start a story, but the panic of trying to expand and write a whole novel often overwhelms me and I give up.  I set small goals for myself. I started off with the goal to write three times a week.  In April I got more ambitious. I worked out that if I wrote 360 words 25 times in a month I would make a 9,000 word count goal.  In August I worked towards the goal of 12,000 words, missing it by only 800; I achieved it in September.

Spending time writing means that I can’t spend time playing with Bronwen at the park. It means I can’t take her for a bike ride; I can’t sit down and watch a movie with Matthew or cook delicious meals or cakes on the weekend. It means that I must monitor my down time and ensure that I focus on achieving word counts, sometimes working through the night to reach them.  Most of the work has been written by the light of the TV in my bedroom so that I don’t disturb others slumbering and often its only very late at night when everyone was in bed that I finally get the silence I crave to hear the words flow through my head.

When I was struggling with the whole home school or government education for Bronwen over the summer a couple of friends suggested that by sending her to school I would be able to write during  the day.  When Bronwen made the decision that she wanted to go to school, I made a vow to be very strict and spend each 2 ½ hours each school day writing – no internet! In the first full week she was able to attend (after the falling mirror and almost severed toe deal) I wrote 5000 words. It was then I made a decision that I would write 1000 words minimum every day Bronwen was at school as a way of honouring the time she is away from me.  We must make the oddest couple; when I pick her up from the bus I ask her how her day was and she asks me if I got lots of writing done.

Over the weekend Matthew decided to go out and buy me a new mp3 player as the      i-pod that I’ve had for five, possibly six years now has become infuriating in that despite having spend $80 on a new battery just last year, it now can’t carry a charge longer than 20 minutes before it starts flashing an empty battery symbol at me and suggests ever so helpfully that I should shut down the machine or risk losing all my music.  Although it wasn’t part of the plan, Bronwen decided that she wanted to go out with her Daddah. Now I have to share that it is not usual for her to choose shopping with her Dad, but we decided to not make a fuss about it after having warned her that it could be boring; she was insistent.

I viewed the time alone as perfect for housework.  With the dishwasher unloaded, I had one load of laundry in the drier and was about to start the washing machine for another. I had already scrubbed the toilet bowl till it sparkled and was about to get a start on the shower.  It was about 45 minutes later when Matthew called to share what Bronwen had just explained to him. She had decided that she should go with him so that I could have some quiet time; some time to write.  She had gone out with her Daddy so that I would have some uninterrupted time to concentrate on my writing.

After talking to Bronwen and having her explain to me that I should be writing; after getting a little teary that my little girl was so incredibly generous of spirit I gave up on all the other chores I had planned  to do and sat down to write another 1000 words towards my novel.  It was my way of honouring her sacrificial actions. Her belief in me spurs me on for another week.

Let me tell you about my goat.

I bought a goat, but she isn’t a pet in the strictest sense of the word. I don’t actually keep it here in the apartment – I’m thinking she would be kinda messy to clean up after, and I already have a dachshund to clean up after.

Last year I bought a goat because I was so rich.

I lived in my family’s home (with my grandmother, mother and aunt) because I couldn’t afford to pay rent on an apartment of my own. My daughter and I slept in a borrow bed, under borrowed blankets and our heads rested on pillows that were lent to me.  I didn’t buy the latest fashions, rather I went to the warehouse sales that my favourite store had once a season and bought up end of season clothing. My mother often helped me buy clothes for Bronwen.  I didn’t own a car, but my mother let me drive hers around. With no credit card to my name, there was no high speed internet and I shared the cable television with my aunt.   I lived on less than $700 a fortnight and often I had to make do.

And I was rich.

Richer than the mother, who, despite working all day selling oranges cannot afford to send her children to school in Africa.

Richer than the Thai and Cambodian women who allow their husbands to sell girl children to sex traders, because girl children are worthless and a drain on the family budget.

Richer than the young girls caught up in the gang warfare in their local towns in Central America, who are tattooed with the gang emblems on their faces to ‘mark’ them as sexual property of the men (as young as seven years old) in the gang.

I, living a life of what would be considered poverty by many judging by Western standards was rich. And I decided that I should share my wealth, so I bought a goat from World Vision.

She cost me $40, which is a pretty good deal. Depending upon where you are in the world, it will cost you

   Australia $39 ,  Canada $100  ,  USA $75  or UK £18 

 I made a small sacrifice in not buying  a shirt that I would have liked to have owned, but, having concluded that I owned a great deal of clean shirts already, going without another one was a really easy sacrifice.

I don’t know where in the world my goat is right now. I think that she is probably old enough to have had some kids of her own, so I know she is providing milk for the family that are caring for her. I don’t know what they named her, but I call her Courtney the Goat  in my prayers. I pray for her all the time. I pray that the family (and the goat) is in good health, that they can send their children to school; that there is a brighter future for the family that look after her.

What would you have to sacrifice for one month to buy a goat?

How quickly could you get the money together if you gave up your morning cup of coffee from fancy chains like Starbucks or Second Cup? How much faster if you gave up your coffee and donut from Tim Horton’s?

Would you be willing to go without a couple of new books, DVD’s,  CD’s or a computer game to buy a goat?

What about giving up some take away meals – share the fun of small sacrifices with the children in your life and make it part of their learning?

What would you be willing to make a small sacrifice of to gain a better life for someone else?

Are you willing to take on this challenge? I’ve done the price comparisons for you already, and if I might be so very Kinda Sassy, might I say that  if you have a credit card, I highly recommend going to the Australian website and buying your goat – with the $AUS compared to the $CAN, $US or £UK buying a goat there is a real bargain!

Share with me your little sacrifices over the coming month and tell me what you name your goat.

I’ve been complaining (somewhat bitterly at times) that I have not have a space of my own in this ‘new again’ home in Ottawa. Not that I had my own space in Melbourne – far from it in fact, but here I feel I am allowed to crave somewhere for my own peace of mind. To have an area that is mine, a place that my creativity can rest in.

 But there is precious little space in a two bedroom apartment for private space. Having a space to call ones own is a luxury that until now, I have not been allowed. Bronwen takes over the master bedroom because the only working TV is there and heaven help us if we miss an episode of Mr Maker; she will be an artist of some sort one day, of that I’m sure. Matthew is in the second bedroom with his computer, and I have, until now, been relegated to sitting at the kitchen table, spreading out my work and scraping back up everything I deem important in the goal of creativity for every family meal. It has been an issue of frustration and of loneliness for me. I think, I if I am honest with myself, I’ve been yearning for space of my own for years.

The other day Matthew lugged up from the basement and set up a small desk for me in the family room. The desk is made of redwood polished to a high gleam. The top opens up to reveal a green leather writing base that is embossed with beautiful gold filigree work. There are small compartments that can hide any number of notes or books. A single pen drawer has a solid brass button handle to hide away pens and tubes of glue. I find my hand gliding over the top of the desk, feeling the silky wood and the earthy grain of the leather. On the inside of the desk, there are criss-crosses of elastic that have been nailed in with brass tacks, to slide in postcards, or words of wisdom and encouragement. The hardware of the desk is brass, giving it an old world look that stands somewhat formally, but not unpleasantly against the dark stained wooden IKEA bookshelves that groan under the weight of my embroidery book collection.

The view from the other side of the kitchen table was much more pleasant, with the distant hills covered in trees. The only view afforded me here at my new desk is of the freeway in the distance, the other apartment building and the rooftops of homes. I confess that its not so pretty, the smooth geometrical brown roof tiles and the creamy brown bricks with flashes of white balcony edges and a swirling ribbon of black that carries scurrying multi-coloured beetles along the busy journey of their days. But even this view offers its own inspiration in that there is nothing to distract me as I sit and work on my story writing, or type up blog entries. I have more than enough daylight to work comfortably, but nothing to draw my eyes away from the work at hand.

OK. It’s not a room that I can close the door on and be alone. It’s not a place I can pile well read and loved or soon to be loved books around me, with baskets of embroidery materials, skeins of thread and several UFO’s (Un Finished Objects) projects scattered safely around. Buts it’s a desk, with a top that I can close. It’s a place I can put my notebooks on and write without staring at the crumbs left over from Bronwen’s morning breakfast toast. It’s a place that I can learn to love as my small space of serenity, or poetry or manic energy. It’s my small space in this small space of life.

 And I think, when I become better acquainted with this space that hold my small desk, I may well just fall completely and utterly in love with it.

I used to think a story was all about getting from point A to point Z with lots of interesting things in-between. That to write a story you sat down in front of a computer, wrote the first line of the story and wrote in a straight line from the start to the finish. So it comes as no surprise that I really didn’t get anywhere with writing stories and that I failed many times. Writing became something I couldn’t do. It was overwhelming, exhausting and the worst thing; demoralising. I expected the story to reveal itself in an easy to follow flow and when it didn’t, I punished it. To my great shame, I confess that I struck each little story’s fingers with rulers; I spoke to story’s with a cold voice, thinking that I could whip them into shape with strong discipline. It never worked, and I think I may have even scared several story’s away.

So this time when this new Story, still so small, came quietly creeping into the back of my mind, she was, no doubt scared from the repeated warnings to stay away that the other story’s I have lurking there. Story’s who wrongly assumed that they were unloved and unwanted because they were un-worked; who might have tried to tell this new Story to find another mind to be birthed into. But this precious Story is stubborn and strong, she has taken up residence for the last few months in a corner of my creativity, prodding me every now and then to remind me that she does indeed exist but far enough away that I can’t yet call her my own; its self preservation I’m sure.

So I have taken a different tack to try and lure her out of her hiding place. Coxing her with gentleness and proving my worth by having a hand holding a pen, asking Story to reveal her brilliance when ever I can find the time to dedicate to her. She hasn’t started the story at the start, my new friend Story; and instead of reprimanding her, telling her to be sensible and do things in order, I have simply sat and listened, written and smiled. I am to write, even if it is without any kind of order. Higgledy piggledy is good enough for me right now.

 Truth is, I’m not sure how Story really begins at all. There is a general idea of the story arcs for the three main characters that she has shared with me, and there is a loosely based plan of getting them from one situation to the other…. but the details are sketchy. Each day I write, I say to the voice in my head that I now recognise as Story, “OK Story, what are you going to reveal to me today?” And Story seems to like it this way. Who am I’m to argue with her? She holds the glory within her; currently it would be generous to call me her typist.

There are times when Story tells me about the same situation twice, with different twists each time. I like to think that it’s a sign that Story is starting to trust me and that she expects me to sort out the little hiccups and make the flow orderly. I like that she trusts me to use the cut and paste tools on my computer when I transpose the handwritten to the computer screen to smooth out the wrinkles.

Because I’ve discovered that sitting at the computer does not work for Story and me. Maybe it’s the clacking of the computer keys that scares her away. There is the very real possibility that I have to still allow a small chunk of mind to work on the mindlessness of getting the right fingers to the right keys, and Story is jealous and wants all my mind for herself when she is telling me the story, I’m not sure. But when Story is in full flight, she is demanding and wants my full attention. So we have come up with the solution of using the piles of notepads I’ve had stored in my writing bureau for the longest time.

There is something relaxing about holding a pen in my hand, feeling the sweep of the outside of my hand brush along the paper as I weave Story’s words in the ink. I’m particular about the pen I use in our writing sessions. It has to be the ‘right one’ – whatever right means at that particular moment. Story understands this about me; she isn’t the only one who has issues. I enjoy the sound of Story’s voice and the nib scratching over the top of the paper, ink leaving indelible proof that I tried, just one time more with Story to fulfil the gift I think, hope, sometimes believe has been placed in me. I enjoy looking over the number of pages filled with ink at the end of a session of writing, feeling the thrill inside that together we have come so far.

 I’ve learnt, even in this short time with Story, that it’s OK to write in messy patches. That sometimes things don’t have to go from start to finish, and most of the time life isn’t like that anyway and who was I trying to kid? All those books I’ve flipped through teaching me how to write, and never once did I stumble across the idea that it’s OK to write in a mess and piece it together like a puzzle later. But now that I’ve been shown how and have cut myself some slack, I read more and more published authors write in the same manner. I find it comforting, and I don’t mind that Story is gloating at me; so she was right, good for her; good for me!

I’m not ready to share anything that I’ve written with Story. It still feels too new, too raw. In my youth I was eager to show pieces written much too early to people who didn’t truly understand what writing as a medium was like. It was schooled into me that there should be a beginning, middle and end to the writing of a story, which really screwed up my writing for years, and Story has shown me that that’s just not true. But rest assured. Story seems to be gaining in strength. I can’t wait to see her in full flight.