Now for a Little Something Depressing

Allow me to bring the room down for a second:

My grandmother passed away on October 19^th.  83 years old, she would’ve been 84 on the 22^nd, and she was one of the sweetest, most amazing woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing—the nicest person I’ve ever met.

No, seriously, the nicest.  The worst thing I ever heard her say about anyone was, and I quote, “Hitler was not a nice man.”

Understatement, Grandma.  Serious understatement.

One of the most important people in my life, she influenced me in the best possible way.  Cardinal sin of the family:  upsetting Grandma.  One simply didn’t do so, and if one did upset her, the guilt springing for her disappointment was a far worse punishment than anything handed down by my mother.  She unwittingly acted as a sort of behavioral barometer:  if we didn’t want Grandma to know about it, then we probably shouldn’t do it in the first place.  As we became adults, this general rule was later paired with another:  if said activity was generally acceptable but not actually Grandma-approved, as a family we simply made sure she didn’t know about it.  (Hello, getting shitfaced/having a sex life/taking the Lord’s name in vain/getting in a fight/wearing revealing clothing/indulging one’s road rage/any number of other enjoyable past times!)  My grandmother was a focal point, a sort of lynchpin, the (sometimes uninformed and rose-colored glasses wearing) matriarch.

Hers was not a sudden passing; hospice care started in early September.  I started mourning then as I watched this vibrant woman slowly fade away, and every visit she was a little bit worse, until eventually every visit I found her to be a lot worse.  No surprise when the call came that she was unresponsive and didn’t have long left.

A couple years ago my family faced the sudden death of my father.  I’ve yet to find any experience more jarring than the county sheriff knocking on the door in the wee hours of the morning, and one of the most painful aspects was not being able to say goodbye.   This time, at least, I was blessed with that chance.

And I’m grateful.  The call came around 5 p.m. on Friday, and I was at the nursing home by 7:30.  I stayed roughly three hours, keeping my grandfather company, discussing matters with my uncle, and in general keeping vigil.  We didn’t leave until my mother (who had driven back from a camping trip) and my sister (who had been working) arrived.  When I left, I had the opportunity to do what I hadn’t been able to do before:

I held her hand.  I told her that it was okay for her to go.  I told her I loved her.

I then cried the entire 35 minute drive home, and she passed away early the next morning.

Whether or not she knew I was there, whether or not she heard me, is debatable.  We have no way of knowing, of course, since it’s not like we can tap her on the shoulder and ask.  (Although how interesting would that be?  Tap, tap—hand her a glass of wine.  So Grandma, did you know I was there?  How’s the other side?  Is God as snarky as I’ve always imagined?)  But let’s be honest here:  when someone is that far gone, keeping watch over her is more for us than for her, more to make us feel better than to truly ease her way.  Who it’s for doesn’t really matter, though, because she’s now at peace and, because I had those final few moments, I’m more at peace, too.

Of course I’m sad.  I’m upset and I’m hurting and I miss my Grandma, but I know she lived long, she lived well, and she knew before this that I love her.  She didn’t need me to tell her at the end.

And lo, the Books Did Take Over the World

I own a library.

No, seriously, I own a library.

678 books.

I just counted and the official tally is 678.  Pretty impressive for a personal collection.

Okay, when compared to ‘real’ libraries mine may not be considered large, but I’m willing to bet I have more good books in my one bedroom apartment than my small town’s public library keeps in the entire building.  I will also admit to owning quite a bit of crap, but there’s no shame in that:  sometimes there’s nothing more enjoyable than reading an awful book and being able to say, “Oh my God, that’s such shit!  I could’ve done better in my sleep!”

Note #1: I’m pro-silly brain candy after spells of reading heavy or dark works, and sometimes what you think will be shit turns out to be good, while what you expect to be fantastic turns out to be absolute shit.

And so it goes.

I’m a voracious reader but haven’t entered the Kindle/Nook era, due to my love of the physical aspects of books (and new—or old—book smell!) and the fact that I simply haven’t fancied an eReader.  Will I one day venture into that technological landscape?  Most likely, because while one doesn’t stop buying books just because one runs out of bookshelf space, one does cease buying books when one runs out of living space.  I have not, however, reached that point.  I dislike feeling crowded, and watching one episode of Hoarders is enough to make me pull out some crates, box up as many as I can part with, and sell to Half-Price Books.  I’m not entirely insane, after all.

Note #2:  the last time I took a load down to Half-Price Books, the girl at the counter got downright excited, her eyes lit up and her face glowed.  She practically shouted, “This is amazing!  You have some really awesome stuff and it’s all in great condition!”  My eyes lit up and my face glowed, because that was one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.  She then handed me a rather impressive receipt to redeem for cash at the register.  Almost as good was the peeved look the guy to my left gave me, as he’d just been told the books he’d brought in weren’t worth anything and they didn’t want them.  Not my fault, dude.  Five-year-old medical textbooks are obsolete.  Idiot.

Now, before anyone gets judgmental about my book-love—yes, some might say addiction, but I’m not on Intervention so it’s not a problem, okay!?—keep in mind that my collection is the result of over a decade of buying, reading, and finding shelf space.  I have a number of books from my teen years, but once I turned 18 and landed a halfway decent paycheck, things took off from there.  That was ten years ago.  I rarely ever pay list price for books—used bookstores and used options from Amazon are the way to go when one wants books but also has a pressing need to eat and pay the bills on time.

Note #3:  “But you don’t understand, I needed to buy this new book!” is not an acceptable excuse for why one’s rent is late.  I’ve never tried it, but I’m assuming it wouldn’t fly.

One exception to the above ‘used books are awesome’ rule:  I will pay full price for books from self-published authors.  It’s like buying music from unsigned artists instead of downloading it through, ahem, other means on the internet.  A way to support new writers who otherwise might not have the chance to get their stuff out there by bypassing a business model that’s damn near impossible to access, and a way to encourage a change in the market.  Yes, there’s a high probability that the book will be shit.  And yes, the covers are often awful and, if you buy the physical book instead of the eBook, they’re almost always those cheap-looking Create Space editions.  But none of that matters when you get lucky, when you hit the literary jackpot and turn into a squealing, flailing fangirl over a book that very few people in the world have heard of, let alone read.

Note #4:  I recently found a new book to add my list of favorites this way, one that made me happy sigh at the end.  Sir Thomas the Hesitant and the Table of Less Valued Knights by Liam Perrin.  My review is here.

I love books.  I’m a geek.  But I do have a life:  I have friends I see on a consistent basis, I have a bar or two where I’m a regular and am known by name, I’m halfway decent with a pool stick, I’ll occasionally attend a ballet or theater production, I see my family every so often, and I’m a pretty outgoing person.  I have what one could call a large personality (and some have called obnoxious—to-may-to, to-mah-to).  I enjoy going out.

But I’m also one of those people perfectly content to stay home on a Saturday night, puttering around in my PJs and rearranging my bookshelves simply because I can, because it’s fun.

As booklover and writer, I stand proud.

I am a lit geek.

Note #5:  If you are of the opinion that I’m too much of a lit geek, I say nonsense, there’s no such thing.  If you are of the opinion that I have an addiction, I point out that at least my addiction is books and not, say, heroin or sex.  Or heroin and sex.  Books don’t ruin lives…unless one ends up qualifying to be on Hoarders.  I’m doing my best to avoid that.)

And one day, oh yes, one fine day, my books will join the hundreds of others already on my shelves.  In a sense they’re already there:  once I complete a work, I print it up, put it nicely in a binder, and add it to the special shelf reserved just for them.  But one day there will be nifty covers and my name on the front, titles printed on the cover instead of scrawled on the side in permanent marker, official releases from a publishing house that I can point to and yell, “Look!  I’m an author!”

And when that day finally comes, when I can spend a Saturday rearranging my bookshelves in order to add my very own to the mix, well…

On that day I’ll have 679 books.

–

And now, the grand reveal.  Welcome to my library (aka my living and dining rooms):

 –

My Living Room
these stand side by side against one wall, separated by a desk
cropped out of the photo in the interest of not being able to get them
all in one picture

      

–

My Dining Room
these too stand side by side, separated by only a few inches
but due to a camwhoring hanging lamp, I had to separate them

   

–

And somehow I still have plenty of room in my apartment, no feeling of being overcrowded, no tripping over them or running into them in the middle of the night.  This is where I thank God that in a small town such as this, one can get a good deal of space for a relatively small amount of money.

Dictionary of Cari: Middle Child Syndrome

Middle Child Syndrome (mid-l chahyld sin-drohm]:  noun, a son or daughter displaying a group of symptoms (feelings of unfairness, dramatics, extreme stubbornness, abundant creativity, swings between confidence and self-loathing, humorous, quick on the uptake, occasional crazy eyes) characteristic of the disorder of being born between two or more siblings.  (Note:  while popular opinion associates this disorder with low self-esteem, many with middle child syndrome vehemently disagree.  And if one continues to insist on such connotations, the middle child will show you just how confident he really is.  The author of this entry highly recommends that you duck.  Now.)

            Example #1:  “Yeah, he’s batshit.  He can’t help it; he’s got a wicked case of middle child syndrome.”

            Example #2:  “I’m so proud!  My oldest is a doctor, my youngest just got married, and my other one…well, she’s still alive.”

            Example #3:  “FUCK YOU!  DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF!”

The Dictionary of Cari, created because Webster’s doesn’t always get it quite right.

Brain-Eating Amoeba

There’s nothing worse than a story that just won’t come together.

I’ve got main characters, I’ve got secondary and tertiary characters, I’ve got backstory, I’ve got plot threads, I’ve got dark and gritty, I’ve got humorous and light, I’ve got a beginning and an end, and hell, I’ve even got a theme.  (And clearly I also have a list.)  The spark of inspiration came from a couple pieces of artwork (see below) that I’ve printed up and now have hanging on my wall, and I’m aching to get to work on this novel.

But I can’t.

So what’s the problem?  Am I out of pens?  Out of paper?  Has my keyboard blown up?  Do I have no blood with which to write on the walls like Geoffrey Rush in the movie Quills?

No.  No, no, and no.

The problem is that no matter what I do, the damn thing won’t gel.  The story won’t crystalize into something substantial, something that can be put on the page, something that can be told with any coherency.

Damn it.

I’ve brainstormed.  I’ve scribbled down notes about scenes and put them in order.  I’ve got a massive Evernote ‘notebook’ full of reminders and ideas and notations.  I’ve begged, I’ve pleaded, I’ve kicked things, I’ve taken naps, I’ve banged my head into walls, and I’ve collapsed from frustration.  (And I apparently made another list:  Cari’s Recommended Process for Story Development.)

Because if a piece won’t come together, if it’s refusing to work, then there’s something wrong.

I’ve learned that.  I’m not published or well-known (or known at all, not even a little bit), but I’ve been doing this writing thing long enough to know that if I’m having this much trouble, a fundamental aspect is amiss.  Is it something I can fix, or is it something that will force me to scrap it for parts?

There’s no way at this point of knowing if I can make it right, not until I’ve put the work in to figure out just what element is wrong.  And that’s a lot of work that might be all for naught if I have to send it to the recycle bin.

But I’ll still do the work.  Time and effort and aggravation and tears—I’ll go through all of it, all for the chance of satisfaction at the end.  Disappointment if the story is no good; exhilaration if I’m victorious.

(Somewhere my mother is wishing I’d put even a fraction of this determination into things like ‘homework’ or ‘cleaning the house’ when I was younger.  I’m not sorry.)

Because writing is work.  Writing is hard.  It’s not my job, so I don’t technically have to do it.  But I love it.  That satisfaction when I get an idea to come together.  The pleasure of putting my own words down.  The triumph when I sign and date the finished work.  That’s why I do this.

Assuming, of course, I can manhandle this into some sort of coherent, engaging narrative instead of the murky amoeba it currently is.  If I succeed, then my tale gets told.  If I fail, then the amoeba eats my brain.

Worth the risk.

(Artwork by Zak Smith)

Playlist: The O’Shaughnessy Reputation

In preparation for NaNoWriMo, I’ve put together my official playlist for the novel I’ll be writing:  The O’Shaughnessy Reputation (Put On Your War Paint).  And here I am, sharing it with you for no particular reason.

The O’Shaughnessy Rep (Put on Your War Paint) Playlist

            You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid—The Offspring
                        “Now dance, fucker, dance.”

            The Phoenix—Fall Out Boy
                        “Put on your war paint.”

            Bad Moon Rising—Creedence Clearwater Revival

            Boy Division—My Chemical Romance
                        “I’m not asking, you’re not telling.  He’s not dead, he only looks that way.”

            Burn It to the Ground—Nickelback
                        “No class, no taste, no shirt, and shit-faced.”

            Everybody Loves Me—OneRepublic
                        “Don’t need my health, got my name and got wealth.”

            Foggy Dew—Young Dubliners

            For Boston—Dropkick Murphys

            Get in Line—Simon Curtis
                        “Come on, tear some shit up with me.”

            Give ‘Em Hell, Kid—My Chemical Romance

            I Can’t Decide—Scissor Sisters
                        “I can’t decide whether you should live or die.”

            I Want It All/We Will Rock You Mash-Up—Sucker Punch ST
                        “He couldn’t care less, he’s fearless, he’ll give the reaper hugs.”

            Let’s Hear It for Rock Bottom—The Offspring
                        “Going down in flames, well it’s not that bad.”

            Let’s Kill Tonight—Panic! At the Disco

            Peacemaker—Green Day
                        “You thought I was a write-off, you better think again.”

            Slim Pickens Does the Right Thing—The Offspring
                        “If you’re gonna go to hell, drink it up, you might as well.”

            Take It Easy—Eagles
                        “We may lose and we may win, but we will never be here again.”

            Thank You for the Venom—My Chemical Romance

            O Death—Jen Titus (Supernatural version)
                        “When God is gone and the Devil takes hold, who’ll have mercy on your soul?”

            The Wrong Company—Flogging Molly
                        “Unfortunately, I’m in the wrong prison cell and the wrong company.”

            Road to Ruin—Great Big Sea
                        “We’re on the road to ruin, it’s the only way to go.”

            Remember the Name—Fort Minor
                        “A hundred percent reason to remember the name.”

Dictionary of Cari: Lit Snob

Lit Snob [lit snob]:  noun, one who acts superior in matters of taste regarding written works that are considered to be very good and to have lasting importance.

          Example #1:  “He acts like such a lit snob, but he only carries the book around, he never actually reads it.”

          Example #2:  “He’s such a lit snob, he won’t admit that he never finished Ulysses, either.”

          Example #3:  “If that lit snob makes fun of my books one more time, I’m going to punch him in the face.”

The Dictionary of Cari, created by yours truly because Webster’s doesn’t always get it quite right.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

‘Tis the most wonderful time of the year, my friends!  No, not the full onset of autumn.  And no, not the pumpkin spice everything that’s currently available.  And no, certainly not the upcoming holiday season.  (For isn’t there always that moment of clarity when you’re at Thanksgiving dinner, eating mashed potatoes you don’t even want and listening to people ask yet again when you’re having those kids they know damn well you’re never going to have, that terrible moment when you remember how you swore last year to skip this year and wonder with horror how they managed to suck you back in again?  No?  Just me?  Damn.)  No, my dear readers, I speak of but one magical thing:

NaNoWriMo.

For those who somehow don’t know what NaNoWriMo is, I give you the official explanation from the website:  National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to creative writing.  On November 1, participants begin working towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 on November 30.

That’s 1667 words per day.  You cannot start writing before 12:01 a.m. on November 1^st.  You must verify your word count by 11:59 p.m. on November 30^th.  For four glorious weeks, you must write with the speed of a bat out of hell.

NaNoWriMo, at its heart, is insanity.  Trying to write an entire novel in 30 days is absolutely batshit, and by the end of the month, the writers are just as psychotic.  We’re sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated, lost in chaotic fantasy worlds, mumbling to ourselves about worlds and people that don’t exist outside the page.  Here’s the breakdown of how the month goes:

Week One is pure excitement.  The writer is still fresh, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, fingers flying over the keys and bursting with ideas.

Week Two is when the story grows uncooperative, throwing up blocks and grinding to a crawl, characters wandering off to do anything and everything but contribute to the epic tale promised during Week One.  This is when the writer begins to bang her head against the wall—repeatedly.

Week Three is when the crazy sets in.  The writer’s brain begins to ache, thoughts twisting and going rogue, focus deteriorating both in fiction and in real life.  Sometimes there are tears; other times there are hissy fits and desperate naps.

Week Four is the home stretch, when the crazy turns into something strangely helpful.  The writer is once more bright-eyed due to the mania that enables her ability to power through the final few thousand words.  The end is in sight, assuming the writer doesn’t drop dead of exhaustion first.

November 30, Midnight is when the writer stumbles across the finish line, clicks the ‘Verify Word Count’ button, and collapses.

This will be my fourth NaNoWriMo.  (I’ve also participated—and won—three sessions of Camp NaNoWriMo, sessions held in the spring and summer.)  Out of my previous three attempts at Original Flavor NaNoWriMo, I’ve won two; the very first one was derailed by the real world, a family emergency that told pretty much everything to go fuck itself.  That’s my history, folks, and I’m quite proud of it.

I’m also aware that every year I sign up is yet another year I’ll reach new levels of insanity.  My friends expect me to disappear; my family knows I’ll be mental well before Thanksgiving.

With less than a month left until kickoff, the preparation period has begun in earnest, the planning happening at a fevered pace.  I have a title, I have an outline, I have a synopsis, I have notes scattered around my apartment, and I have Evernote at the ready to keep track of all the revisions I’ll have to make when it’s all over.

Because every story is inevitably shit.  Absolute, utter, undeniable tripe.  Rubbish.  Not fit to even be called writing.  Assuming one doesn’t toss the story completely, there will be extensive revisions, many more hissy fits, and dark moments of hopelessness.  But if one commits, if one keeps pushing through, if one is lucky, that NaNoWriMo project will be revised into something coherent by the time next November arrives.

So I’ve stockpiled coffee, filled my cabinets with bags of Halloween candy, and purchased stock in Aleve for when the arthritis in my hands flares up due to the incessant typing.  (I say again:  I’m already old at 28.)  I’ve already targeted the walls upon which I’ll bang my head when everything goes to hell.  (Hint:  all of them.)  Everything is ready to go.

And I can’t wait.  I cannot freakin’ wait to go insane with the word-making and storytelling.

So wander back here in November to witness my unavoidable mental breakdown.  It’ll be quite the show, I promise.

nanowrimo.org

Quote: Live Actively

[He] went on to say that during all those years he had done nothing at all, that all he had felt had been a need to live, to live actively, violently, noisily, a need to sing, to make music, to roam the woods, to drink a little too much and get involved in a brawl.

Edmond de Goncourt

Pages from the Goncourt Journals

Bragging Rights

Having finally compiled a list of my major writing projects, I’ve posted it to the Writing Projects page.  In the future I won’t post updates like these here in the blog, but this first time, just because I’m a little in love with seeing all my hard work laid out so nicely, I’m giving the list its own post.  (And no, this is certainly not a comprehensive list of everything I’ve ever written and/or completed.  These are my babies, my pride and joy, the stories that have potential and that I proudly claim as mine.)

—————————————————

Just a list of my writing projects:  completed, in progress, and in planning.  I feel good seeing a list of my accomplishments alongside fresh goals, a visual representation of all those hours, days, weeks, months, and years that I’ve spent wrestling with words.

And yeah, I’ll admit this is also about the bragging rights.  None of these works are published, but they’re mine.  They’re proof that I committed myself and succeeded.  My passion produced results.

Haven Series (Urban Fantasy)

            Novels

                        The O’Shaughnessy Reputation (Trilogy)

                                                1)  You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid—Completed—In Edits

                                                2)  Put on Your War Paint—In Progress

                                                3)  Kiss the Ring—Planning Stage

Donovan Boys (Mainstream)

            Novels

                        Boy, You’re Not Quite Right—Completed—Pending Edits

                                                or, The Donovan Boys’ Epic Tale

            Novellas

                        Don’t Touch the Pumpkin Pie or I Will End You—Completed

                                                or, A Donovan Family Holiday as Narrated by Bailey

                        Casey Runs Like Hell—Awaiting Completion

                                                or, The Youngest Leaves Home and Breaks Ma’s Heart

            Novelettes

                        Frankie Continues the Donovan Reign—Completed

                                                or, Frankie’s High School Orientation

                        Sean Becomes a Dad, Learns About Karma the Hard Way—Awaiting Completion

                                                or, Mama Donovan Finally Gets a Baby Girl in the Family

Stand Alone Works

            Novels

                        The Story of How They Met (Mainstream)—Completed—Pending Edits

                                                A Pre-Love Story

                        Charm of the Pavement (Urban Fantasy)—In Planning

                                                or, The Avenging Angel Will Not Come Wearing a Halo

                        The Merry Tale of the Christmas Wench (Mainstream)—Completed—Retired

                                                or, The Jolly Walk of Shame

Dictionary of Cari: Writing Envy

Writing Envy [rahy-ting en-vee]: noun, an acute feeling of covetousness with regard to another writer’s idea, plot, characters, or style.

            Example #1: “Holy shit, why didn’t I think of that!?”

            Example #2: “Damn it, I wish I had come up with that character!”

            Example #3: “I despair, for that writer’s writing puts mine to shame!”

The Dictionary of Cari, created by yours truly because Webster’s doesn’t always get it quite right.