Kate Harrington

Progressing

Writing, for me, is trying new things, and learning what works‚ again and again. I’m on my umpteenth iteration of figuring out how to produce new words for this latest effort.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been claiming a quiet hour midday. That worked fine for revising, but when I put on my writing hat instead of my revision cap, I found myself fumbling through notes, having general organizing thoughts, but no new product coming out.

This week begins a different approach. Sunday night, I set an intention to draft Hallie’s latest journal entry. I set pen and pad by the bed, just in case I woke with an inspiration. I didn’t.

So as soon as I was dressed, I took pen and pad to my quietest work space and scribbled a page (useless words, and I knew it) but it was words. On my dawn walk in the cool, I conceived of a new beginning, and so came home to write a much more satisfying and coherent journal entry.

The Challenge is to be consistent; to not lollygag over newspaper puzzles until Sophie is demanding her walk, and my own walking is delayed, a hot and uninspired experience.

The other challenge (when I’ve already had my walk) is to remember that Sophie needs a walk too! Wayne has had to remind me twice this week, when I’d settled down at my desk to return to work.

Sophie will tell you that all she needs is food and walks and ear rubs and love. That’s a good start for me, too. It’s just a matter of fitting in a little extra over and above that.

Boredom

I want to talk about the virtues of boredom—or what to do while waiting at the dentist’s office for my husband’s teeth cleaning. I do keep mentioning that I want to complete the Pawn Quest trilogy—and I’ve set a deadline to finish the first draft by the end of the year. I brought some notes to work on during my wait, but mostly I let my mind play.

One epiphany struck me—that my timing was off. The event I thought was looming, wasn’t—at least not in the next three chapters. And with that, the shape of two chapters came into view—along with their titles. Whoopee!

Of course, they still have to be written.

How to produce boredom

Leave your normal haunts (and distractions) behind. Dentist offices don’t come every week. Get stuck somewhere. Take a walk. Mop a floor. Lie in bed putting off rising while watching your thoughts flow.

I had the strangest experience this morning. I saw myself arriving in Texas with my first husband (lo, those many years ago). It was a few days after our marriage.I had this internal view of the person I was then: tightly bound nerves, holding in all the uncertainties and fears of a new place. Not an attractive sight.

And then following almost immediately, another picture of me 22 years later, with the man who would become my second husband. We were taking our first out-of-town trip, driving to Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado. The radio was off and I was singing, relaxed and with complete faith in the rightness of this new adventure.

Growth. Maturity. There are no short-cuts. I had to live through those intervening years to arrive at the person I was 22 years later. The stages of Life. And no, I can’t call any of those stages boring.

Play

Alan Alda advises playing at what we’re most serious about. I need more practice. My serious intent is constant. I think about the “book” every day. I need to learn to relax my “serious” muscle so my mind can receive new ideas.

Boredom is not my real goal; the goal is to cut out distractions, by which inspiration eludes me.

Any ideas?

On taking a break

I’ve been on break for the last two weeks. A staycation. Actually, I broke from one thing only: my struggle with a plot that wouldn’t cooperate.

Since I stopped fighting it, I had nothing to run from. That freed my mind and my eyes. I could see what was around me. Piles of paper to be sorted. And a bookcase I’d been avoiding—for months.

Dust

I hate dusting more than any other task around the house. One particular bookcase in my bedroom has been gathering dust for a long time. Why? Because it was going to be a major project.

Having no more excuses, I began emptying it. Admittedly, the dust was thick. But the main issue has always been: These were books I intended to read. Some had been there a long time. Several had to go.

I emptied the shelves and washed them down with Murphy’s oil soap, and polished it with lemon oil. Then I sorted its contents.

With everything back in place, I did the same with the remainder of the bedroom furniture. By then I was more than ready to relax with a good book!

Reading

Sorting out that bookshelf provided me with two of the three books I’m currently reading.

I thought I’d already read Alan Alda’s Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself, but a glance in the middle triggered no memories. I kept reading, before going back to the beginning.

Alda offers me some excellent advice. He says “Be playful about the most serious things in your life; you’ll enjoy them more and have them longer.” Another passage recommends trusting in the darkness; answers will come.

I finally opened the patiently waiting middle grade novel by Caroline Starr Rose, Miraculous, a beautifully written book set in the era of medicine shows.

And book number three is an ebook biography from the public library. The Woman They Could Not Silence, by Kate Moore, has more plot ups and downs than a lot of fiction. The very sane Elizabeth Packard’s husband condemned her to an insane asylum during the Civil War, depriving her of her six children and home. I can hardly put it down.

My break provided needed time for refocus. I’m ready to bring playfulness and a trust in the creative dark to my writing.

Plus, our heat wave has finally subsided. We’ve had rain, clouds, and cooling winds.

I hope you’re happy with your weather, and your lives, wherever you are, dear readers.

Take a break—

This past Monday morning, while hanging out the wash (and waiting for the dryer repair-man), I had an epiphany. It’s time I took a vacation.

**Lucky Sophie’s only commitments are to meals and walks.**

We’ve just dropped into the 90s after many days of 100 degree heat. June always used to be the month when we hit 100. July was cooler but more humid. Not this year.

We have no plans to travel this summer, but many appointments—doctors, tree trimmers, dentists, meetings, and other commitments.

For a vacation, why don’t I take a break at home?

With all that, a break from what?

Writing gives meaning to my life, but lately I’ve been placing—without recognizing it—too much emphasis on that meaning. When writing looms as a burden, it’s a sign my ego has entangled itself in the process.

I am not giving up on my goal to have a completed draft of Quantum Quest by year’s end. But it won’t happen unless I can return to the pleasures and thrills of discovery in my writing.

For too long, my ego has been acting as the boss of me, wanting to know why it’s not finished already? An ego is absolutely the last part of anyone to be in charge of writing.

So it makes perfect sense to take a break. This gives me time to clean house—literally, mentally, and emotionally.

Making this decision, I felt such a lightness! Freed from being the center of a battleground between the boss-ego telling me to do some work, and my creative side obstinately refusing to be bossed around.

First?

Monday, after the dryer was finally, finally (since March!) working again, I embarked on an adventure. One room has been bugging me for months to be rearranged. I got out some graph paper, measured the space and the furniture, and figured out an improved configuration.

On Tuesday, I unloaded shelves and began shifting furniture. What fun. What freedom. What a pleasure to cut off that boss-ego voice.

I confess, I have ignored that voice over and over, by escaping into DVDs and reading fiction old and new—consequently failing to write, but not making it okay to not write. Never once did I actually say NO, be quiet, leave me alone.

This is going to be a staycation adventure.

Lost—

Sophie likes to lie on the patio and let her aging bones soak up heat. A couple evenings ago, we were eating in the kitchen. Sophie was outside. She barked—a polite “I’m ready to come in” bark.

Wayne went to check on her. At some point after our meal, he said, “I can’t find Sophie anywhere.”

“Did you let her in?”

He couldn’t remember.

I looked through the house. No dog. We searched every cranny of the backyard. No dog. With no way to escape the backyard, this was turning into a locked-door mystery. (You know the kind: someone’s murdered but the door is locked from the inside.)

Giving and Receiving

This week has been an interesting one, watching my emotions, especially the uncomfortable ones. They felt very familiar, but I hadn’t experienced them in a long time.

A yoga teacher once mentioned the very large number (maybe a dozen dozen?) of times we have to repeat something before it’s learned.

I picture our lives playing out in spirals, always swinging back around to repeat a lesson in a different form.

One particular discomfort this week revolves around a total stranger helping us, without asking to be paid. Are thanks enough? How do we honor this kindness?

I do need to work on my own giving, but I have done things for people without wanting thanks, or even acknowledgment. Families are like that, be it genetic family, or church family, or neighborhood family . . .

I think it’s harder to receive than to give. Maybe I can learn how to receive with grace by treating it like a family affair. Which means enlarging my concept of family. After all, we are all members of the human race.

Pets make the perfect example of givers and receivers, and they offer us opportunities to play both roles in turn.

—and Found

Since we couldn’t find Sophie anywhere inside or in the backyard, I opened the front door to look out. Of course she wouldn’t be there, either. But Sophie suddenly appeared to see if something was happening outside—

I suspect she had gone under the dining table looking for crumbs, and then got comfy, inside the barricade of chair legs where we didn’t notice her. With a wooden roof overhead, and carpet beneath, what better den could there be?

Writing paradoxes

Time keeps flying past. The days dissolve into weeks, into months, and my deadline gets closer and closer.

The more I worry about not producing prose, the less I produce. This past weekend, I got little done on Saturday and none on Sunday. I went to bed very discouraged.

Looking back at my Sunday, I had done many necessary tasks, on top of a walk, a brief (very brief!) bit of meditation, and some time at the gym.

But the remaining spare time was lost in re-reading Lois McMaster Bujold’s novel, Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance. Before, I had only skimmed through it. This second time, I was much more entrenched in the characters, and envious of Bujold’s skill as a world-builder.

Sunday night I felt every bit of my lack of forward momentum, blaming my frequent escapes into other readings and DVDs, and fearing that I would never live up to the climax of the trilogy that’s lodged in my head.

Monday came as a big surprise. My waking mind teemed with ideas. I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. to scribble notes to amend some sections already written, ideas for minor characters, and more future challenges and solutions for the teens . . .

All very exciting and encouraging.

Tuesday morning, I’m back to square one again: i.e., I need to sit down and develop those ideas. If I don’t, no more will come. My day looms with errands and a dentist appointment, and a to-do list, not to mention this blog to complete.

One good writing reminder popped up on my screen from someone else’s blog:

Write like no one is reading.

We none of us produce a polished novel on a first draft. My first job is to write the story (which is my goal by year’s end). Editing comes later (and for me is the most fun). In her classes, Betsy James always stresses wearing the right hat for the job. I need to put on my writing cap this morning, not my editor’s hat.

Do the work, is the order of the day.

It’s hot here. We usually get our 100+ degree days in June, followed by cooler, but more humid, July and August. Not this year.

With all these heat domes, is anybody not believing in Global Warming?

Y’all stay cool and hydrated.

Playing catch-up

Sophie is well. She did stop eating grass and—aside from being unwilling to take evening walks in this heat—is doing okay. She’s none the worse for the spider (or whatever) bite she suffered, and eager for her morning walks in the coolest part of the day.

The ground squirrel strikes again. My hopeful Armenian cucumber vines have been stripped of leaves. Currently, my only crop are some very thirsty cherry tomatoes, suffering from the heat and lack of consistent watering. Squirrels don’t eat tomato leaves, nor any other night shades that I’m aware of.

Vegetables are heart-breakers. Maybe next year, I’ll only grow flowers. Though I’m sure flowers demand as much water as any vegetables.

And, news flash: the petunias the squirrel ignored on its first pass, got consumed on its second.

Note to self: Discover what flowers squirrels won’t eat. I wonder about marigolds? Cosmos? Anybody have any ideas?

On the writing front

I’ve mentioned several times my intention to have a complete first draft of the last book in my science fiction trilogy by the end of the year. Here’s what I’m doing to re-immerse myself in that neglected world:

In the evening, I identify a problem such as Where do we go from here? Or What are the adult concerns while the teens follow their own tangents?

I’m looking at next steps, not the big solutions. When (not if) I wake in the night, I steer my thoughts into my characters’ heads. This is my way of worming back into this neglected world.

In the morning, I scribble down whatever comes to mind. There’s always some forward momentum. Consistency will win out in the end. Right?

Stay cool, folks!

The Unexpected

Sophie and Wayne took their usual evening walk on Monday. She walked normally until she reached our doorstep, but came into the house with her right rear leg held high, panting, and madly licking at her paw.

I felt her paw, thinking she’d stepped on a goathead—our most wicked, thorny seed that comes with three hard and sharp horns—but found nothing.

Whatever she encountered, the pain was terrific. She couldn’t hold still. Panting, she’d thump down, lick, move, and thump down again. From floor to rug and back to floor. We were helpless to know what to do.

**Fateful mat, filled with desert willow blossoms**

My guess is that Sophie had stepped on a spider. There’s a water barrel by the back door with webs which I occasionally sweep away. Since all spiders have some sort of venom, it makes sense that Sophie had stepped on one hiding in the door mat, and it had bitten her on the tender skin between her toes.

Eventually, Sophie could lie still and rest. We all went to bed.

Dog Self-Healing

At 3:00 a.m., Sophie wanted to go out. Unlike Wayne, I don’t accompany her with a flashlight. I waited at the door, then we went back to bed. (I think she was eating grass.)

In the morning she wouldn’t touch her breakfast, though she came and looked longingly at it. Wayne went off to coffee. While he was gone, Sophie asked to go outside again.

When she barked to be let indoors, I noticed a mess of grasses and stomach fluids where she spit up on the patio. I thought, how considerate. Usually she spits up on one of the indoor rugs.

By the time Wayne came back from coffee, she had cleaned up her breakfast. Hurray!

The Mystery—Solved?

In the evening, we were all three sitting on the sofa. A black spider came dashing across the rug straight at us. I usually treat spiders in the house with a live and let live attitude—at least, when they’re not charging at me. This time, with no other weapons at hand, I dropped my cell phone on it.

So did Sophie bring this particular spider inside?

Was that spider injured by being stepped on, and had it been hiding all day?

What do you think?

(BTW, she’s still eating grass.)

Year half over

How can another month end so soon after it just began?

With the heat of summer finally at hand, I’ve been belatedly spreading pecan shell mulch around our shrubs to hold in moisture. Already the scattered tomato plants look a little happier; and working in early morning coolness has been pleasant exercise.

A friend warned that with pecan shells, I could expect flocks of crows to descend. It’s the wrong time of year for crows to flock (or do you say murder?), but the doves do happily peck around for pecan bits.

Year’s Goals

With the year half over, my goal—to have a complete draft of the Pawn Quest trilogy’s third volume by December 31st—is feeling ever more urgent.

Meanwhile, to get myself well grounded in story and characters, I’m reviewing the beginning chapters. It’s important with so many threads of plot and subplot, to provide the reader with a clear, defined narration, so I’m going over the first half with that in mind. This is contrary to the advice I’ve read that says keep going till the end. My characters have to come with me, after all!

With luck (not to mention necessity), I’ll build up a head of steam and keep charging forward . . .

Where has the time gone?

In recent months, I’ve twice been drawn into a different writing endeavor. It is important to follow one’s enthusiasms.

The verse & vignette novel I call Sky’s Daughter, is based on the The Goose Girl tale. My first beta reader will have a print-out of the entire draft on Thursday.

Two things in particular please me:

It doesn’t have the plot slow-down problem of my other fairy tale retelling, The Hidden Tower, and
Its message speaks across the years to contemporary concerns.

No blog last week—

Since it was an emergency room visit that curtailed the energy needed to upload a blog last week, I feel a need to mention it. I don’t recall (though my memory may be faulty) ever going to the ER for myself; Urgent Care, yes.

An ER visit has to be worst for the one in pain. However, once one’s partner’s pain has been relieved, the onus is on the attending companion to pay attention, and wait, and worry about the unfed, unwalked dog at home, and wait . . . Exhausting and stressful.

All seems resolved now, and so this blog shall re-appear.

Reinventing the Wheel

**Flowering cactus in the neighborhood.**

Every book is different. Every book presents new challenges. At least, that’s been true for me, and other writers have said so as well.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity of discussing the difficulties of pulling all the threads together to complete a trilogy. No doubt many series writers could offer advice.

I thought I had come up with a solution. Okay, it really was a solution. I simply failed to follow through on my part of the deal:

I decided to take each character and write out the roles each one plays in the story. What did they need to do to complete their emotional arcs. If I did that, it would serve as an outline to carry me through the last half of the book.

So I went to work—for three or four days . . .

Juggling Multiple Wheels

You may have noticed I skipped last week’s blog. I got carried away by a new/old enthusiasm: my verse novel project (retelling The Goose Girl tale) that had already consumed the whole month of May.

For our June meeting, I gave the first pages of this verse-and-vignette story to my critique group. I was surprised by their enthusiasm. So then I became consumed by the need to attend to the minor changes they suggested . . .

**Enthusiastic lavender plant down on the corner of our street.**

And voila! I was playing with a wholly different wheel.

Another piece of advice I adhere to is to follow one’s enthusiasm. That’s what I’ve been doing. It makes me happy—when not being dragged away to deal with other responsibilities.

Back to that first wheel

Meanwhile, I’ve realized I have a lot of research to do on the sci-fi trilogy. Some of it, I’ve been doing without realizing, but for the rest, it would be good to put my whole mind to it—when I’m not playing with verse novels, that is.

**Sophie has lots of enthusiasm for supper preparations.**

Everyone out there, enjoy your lives, and address them with enthusiasm!