“Luke. I am your dark side. Hug me.”
Tomorrow is the start of another NaNoWriMo. During National Novel Writing Month people from around the globe commit to writing 50,000 words in a brand-new project, in 30 days.
They don’t have to be 50,000 good words. The idea is to just pull the cork and see what spills out.
I wasn’t going to participate this year. I’ve been burnt out, exhausted and very near the dreaded writer’s block that I’ve always claimed doesn’t exist. However, this year’s NaNoWriMo event falls during a Mercury retrograde – in Scorpio. Which means that this year, there might be some pretty powerful stuff pouring onto the page.
Here are a few tidbits from Maria Desimone. Read the full essay here.
What are we hiding from our own consciousness? What are we afraid to admit to ourselves? This Mercury retrograde phase promises to ferret it out of us and deliver a chance to reconcile with darkness in our lives that we either truly don’t see or have tried desperately to sweep under the rug.
I’m a classic rug-sweeper, a deny-er, a smoother-over-of-conflict. And dang it all, there’s no great, nail-biting, stay-up-all-night books without it. You see my problem.
So, what if I use the next few weeks to explore that pulsating darkness within, lance that poisonous mass in a dramatic Alien meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest gesture of literary defiance? (FYI: we in the biz call that previous sentence Purple Prose. Don’t do it.)
Karmically, the universe is screaming at us to open wide and swallow the nasty medicine that will give us a new perspective. The nasty medicine is the uglier part of your life … the part that you might take great pains to hide from others. From yourself.
To up the ante, I’m also at that stage of life where my developmental tasks include taking stock, reviewing and adjusting goals, facing the fact that even coconut oil and psyllium husks can’t turn back time and that yes, that is my ass now. Naturally, I’ve been avoiding this inventory-taking.
Once you call yourself out on it something powerful will happen. You will be unrestricted from the grip that this darkness holds over you in your life.
Best case, I emerge better, stronger, faster. Worse case, I’ve got another lavender-hued pile of schlock on my hard drive.
What the hay. Where do I sign?
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Writers…
- At August 14, 2013
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 2
Why Bon Jovi? First, why NOT Bon Jovi? Second, keep reading, you’ll get it.
Today, I share the story of my journey to publication with Entangled Bliss. I left out the goriest bits, but it still brings back memories of some tough times. It’s on the Entangled in Romance blog, or you can read it here:
Best. Job. Ever.
(Or Why I Haven’t Spent the Last Year Swanning Around as a Famous Author)
First of all, stop laughing. I know I’m not famous. Second, before my editors and publicists have heart attacks, don’t panic, I still aim for fame. (And my friends would probably say I do plenty of swanning.)
This post is about something different.
It’s about reality. Sorry.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to be all dewy-eyed about being a published author. The joy of seeing my name on a cover, having readers tell me they love my book, and of course, the delight that comes with each sweet word that drops onto the page, expressing exactly what blossomed in my soul. Yeah, yeah, I feel all that.
But that stuff is a bit like the thrill of riding a roller coaster. Or that heady I-can-do-anything sensation of falling in love. Or the terror-slash-joy of meeting your baby for the first time.
You need to feel all that stuff, with every cell of your being.
Then you need to stop feeling it, and tuck the memories into a fire-safe box, deep inside your heart, where you can pull it out when reality kicks in.
Because it will.
The fair leaves town. The baby becomes a puke-factory. The honeymoon ends.
For writers, reality comes in bad reviews. Or no reviews. Or a book that disappears into that vast wasteland of the forgettable. Bad numbers. A dropped series. Oh, reality can bite hard for writers.
I’ve been writing for a long time. I know. That stuff hurts. (Not baby puke, that’s painless. And it washes out. Also, 25 years with the same guy, folks. Twen-tee-five.)
Sometimes reality can make you want to curl up in a ball and just… stop… trying.
But writers are made of different stuff. We have to hang in there, despite the hard knocks, because it’s all part of the job. Our job.
So, way back, when my books weren’t selling and the kids were all in “a stage” and I couldn’t remember why I got married in the first place, I opened up that fire-safe box and reminded myself that it’s all part of the deal.
Then I put my head down, donned my big-girl panties and did the work. Mopped the tears, educated the man, paid the bills – and the rough times passed.
And as I kept writing, pages accumulated. Manuscripts got finished. I studied my craft, learned about the industry, followed market changes. And every now and then I’d write something that expressed so perfectly what blossomed in my soul, that I’d be overcome with gratitude. Even dewy-eyed.
Maybe I’d never have a huge audience, but I was doing what I was meant to do.
And then, last year, I got a call from my agent. Entangled Publishing wanted my book.
First I didn’t believe it.
Then I questioned the mental integrity of the editor. I mean, really. She wants me?
Fortunately the wisdom surrounding me prevailed. We signed the contract and I went to work. Revisions. Promo. Drafting the next book. More revisions. More promo. Still more promo.
And gradually, I realized that I’d entered a whole new world, where editors actually edit, where, in fact, a team of editors, copyeditors, proofreaders, publicists and artists are all dedicated to polishing your book and getting it out to the widest audience. And most amazing of all, a world where writers get paid. (Fame and fortune. Did I mention I want both?)
I felt like I was living in a dream. When would I wake up?
I submitted another proposal. They accepted it and right now, I’m celebrating my third release with Entangled Publishing. Fake Fiance, Real Revenge comes exactly one year after that momentous first book, Three River Ranch, was released under the Bliss imprint and there’s two more coming in the next six months.
The fire-safe box in my heart is full to bursting. After all those years of hacking away in silence and solitude, I’ve got people who believe in me. And readers who want my stories. Dewy-eyed? As I write this, tears are pouring down my cheeks.
But enough of that. There’s no time for swanning around. I’ve got a deadline to meet.
I’ve got the Best Job Ever. And it’s time to work.
“Believe in love. Believe in magic. Hell, believe in Santa Claus. Believe in others. Believe in yourself.
Believe in your dreams. If you don’t, who will?”
– Jon Bon Jovi
Tales from the Bedroom…
- At April 03, 2013
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 2
That got your attention, didn’t it? Don’t worry, this isn’t that kind of post. It’s about something I heard on the radio yesterday. Apparently, the concept of a “double” bed, ie: for two people, doesn’t mean the same thing in Germany as it does here.
The clip I heard on the radio was from a woman, I’m guessing young, who was aghast at making this discovery while on vacation. She felt that sleeping under separate duvets totally destroyed the romance.
No snuggling close beneath the covers. No playing footsie. Etc. Etc.
I think, give it a decade or two, honey. You’ll be kicking those hot feet over to their own side, believe me. Having your bed-mate take all the bedding with him when he rolls over, now that damages the romance.
But then, so does insomnia and hot flashes.
If you’re lucky enough to be with someone who matches you annoyance for annoyance, and puts up with you anyway, you’ll probably be happy to sleep side by side in whatever bed you happen to find yourselves. Etc. Etc.