Tag Archives: WIP

The Beast is Back

August 10, 2021

Under the heading “Truly Strange” I offer this:

I have a battery-powered ambiance lamp which I keep on my nightstand. I started the habit after spilling my wine for the 400th time.

Josh and I binge-watch shows on his laptop before going to sleep, so I put the ambient light in red-mode (which allegedly supports melatonin production), and so I don’t try to set my wine on a part of the nightstand that isn’t there. (I know, I know, I probably shouldn’t drink wine in bed, but it’s the only way I can think of to make sure it’s handy when I wake up in the morning 😉 ) Anyway, when it’s time to go to sleep, I pick the lamp up and fumble for the tiny switch on its base to turn it off.

However, this morning at the stroke of 4:00, while I was in the midst of explaining to my dream-mom that gardening IS work and not just a hobby, because it could potentially IMPROVE the value of my home, and that was why I had no free time to see her, because I worked two jobs–both the day job, and my dream-imaginary part-time job, and plus all the mom-things I do, and the job of keeping the house clean and the laundry washed and the pantry stocked…

And that’s when the light came on, which sounds like a metaphor, and a clichĂ© at that–but no. The light came on. The
Taipow LED Night Light, Bedside Table Lamp for Baby Kids Room Bedroom Outdoor, Dimmable Eye Caring Desk Lamp with Color Changing Touch Senor Remote Control which I got at Amazon.

The light that can only come on by picking the damn thing up and feeling around the base for its switch (yes, there’s a remote, but I threw it away in fit of konmarie).

I have no explanation for this. It was in bright-white mode (the default), but my point is that it’s not like I left the damn thing on in a pinot-induced stupor. This was no accident. It was a wake up call, and no I’m not talking metaphorically.

When I was writing HitList I’d find myself waking up at four, completely and unable to get back to sleep. And on more than one occasion it felt (or seemed) like someone, some thing had tugged at my foot, or yanked at the covers. I’d roll out of bed and write for two hours, until it was time to get ready for the moneyjob and see the urchins off to school.

At the time I joked about it–called it The Beast–but I was only half joking. I was filled with fire. I wrote the first draft of HitList in three months, a feat I haven’t been able to duplicate in the three novels since.

I have a new baby now and it’s something different than the four Contemporary YAs I’ve written. It’s a memoir manifesto on life-and-gardening in the age of climate catastrophe. It’s about what it’s like to live in a town gut-punched by two massive natural disasters in less than 15 years, what is like to grow up in the state with the least amount of natural land than any other, and about what happens when an inexperienced gardener goes native.

Today is our Derecho-versary. One year ago today, a category four land hurricane flattened our town. It blew off the top floor of apartment buildings, peeled the roof off of a number of area schools and businesses, and left a 200-year old oak tree in pieces on my yard. We’re still trying to stitch our city together. The woman two doors down from me has been a climate refugee ever since.

Our house, immediately after the derecho. One year ago today.

There’s just so much to say about this–the growing gravity of unprecedented climate events: fires and windstorms and floods (oh my). About everything: from the precious monarch eggs on the milkweed outside, to the deadzone in the Gulf of Mexico larger than Connecticut. And I’ve got plenty to say about it; enough to fill a book, I think.

Not a book filled with grim warnings and dire predictions. Rather, I think it’s a book about hope. It’s about how wonderous the world is, how resilient, and how much we can accomplish if we put our minds to it, if we work together and quit letting change-fearing hate-mongers sway us with cheap manipulations. And about how much we stand to lose if we don’t.

Which is why I’m up at 4:00am and why I’m pretty sure The Beast is back.

If you want to keep up with me, follow The Official Karen© on Medium where I post angry letters to the Governor and will be submitting a series of essays for their Writer’s Challenge. Or, check out Iowa Native Gardener, where I blog about my attempts at native prairie restoration and try to justify the copious amounts of pokeweed in my yard.

Love you, my most dear readers, and if you’ve read this far, well then, thanks.

xo

Karen

I’ve Been Hearing the Voices Again or Thank You Chuck Palahniuk‏

November 15, 2012

I’ve been MIA. I was somewhere between writer’s block, HitList revisions and [The Next Thing], which up until Sunday was nothing but white noise. I wanted, I needed, I swore to finish HitList but instead I found myself shuffling words around the pages of my manuscript, composing imaginary emails to my editor and having mental arguments with the literary agent who gave me a lengthy, encouraging, kind-but-firm rejection letter.

LITERARY AGENT: In your book, I didn’t find the voices of your three narrators sufficiently distinct.

ME: But they are. I can prove it to you. I Write Like says so. Ahem. Well at least two-thirds of the time it does.

YOU: Okay
 Well. Whatever. But what does this have to do with Chuck Palahniuk?

The website—I Write Like. They have an online form that matches your word choice and writing style with famous authors. I clicked-dragged-copied-dropped each and every chapter from HitList into it, to see which author each character sounded like. And for whatever reason, one protagonist continually came up as Chuck Palahniuk.

I’d never read his books and if you’re a fan, I apologize for this shortcoming. Here’s why: I haven’t been reading much lately. Not since I started writing. Well, since I had kids. Okay, okay, I haven’t been reading at all—but it makes me feel terminally insecure and what can I say, I’ve been occupied watching my daughter’s Pocahontas DVD for the past three years.

But Sunday I went out and bought Damned, just to hear Mr. Palahniuk’s voice. And let me say that while I don’t possess the man’s biting wit, delicious timing, full-throttle-rhythm or a fraction of his talent–if you put that aside for a second–I can write exactly like him. Well
 we both write in English.

What I didn’t expect to happen was that reading his book would be mental Drano, creative WD-40, effectively pulling a thumb from the dike of my imagination. They started talking again—my narrators. They had a lot to say and there were more voices, and more stories too, so much so that I can’t possibly keep up. But despite the chaos of all that chatter, I now have the clarity I need: I know what I must do to put the final tweaks and polish on HitList.

I can’t say what it was about the book that did it for me. Damned has little in common with HitList, aside from a rainbow spectrum of messed-up teenagers. Maybe it was the book, or his protagonist, or perhaps it was only the unapologetic sound of Chuck Palahniuk’s voice. So, if you’re face-down in a stagnant pool of creativity, or hopelessly bogged in a mire of revision, there may be other ways to unstick your stuck. Or, you could always try Chuck.

The Next Morning, The Beast Was Still There

March 11, 2012

“I was thinking we could just call it good, I wrote your story,” I said. 1,100 words — a short story. It wasn’t bad… still it was a relief to have it done.

He made a gurgling, phlegmy sound which might have been a laugh. “We haven’t even gotten started, sweetheart,” he said.

I did not have to take this — this was my house, my mind, and I would write what I wanted to — I had to draw the line somewhere. “Look, I don’t write that kind of crap. I’m doing Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows. Get out of my house.”

“No,” he said and narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m not leaving until you write me.”

“But… no one is going to like me.”

“Not my problem. Your job is to write me. We’re wasting time.”

His feet were propped on the coffee table and as I tried to shove them off I saw the pile of glitter. Pink glitter. “What did you do to Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows?” I hadn’t seen my old book since the day he showed up.

“Haven’t seen her,” he said and patted his stomach.

$#!+

This was ten days ago and The Beast has since grown to a timeline, a plot outline, pages and pages of character worksheets and 8,000 words of manuscript. I’m hoping if I do as he says, we can get this over with.

The Beast

March 8, 2012

I have a new WIP – aka Work In Progress. It is not the book I carefully plotted and planned to write.

img_9579.jpgThis book is a beast that shoved my planned book aside … or possibly ate it. I’m not sure.

When I woke up, it was sitting in my family room, smoking a cigarette and tapping ashes on the carpet.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m your new book,” the Beast said.

“We don’t smoke in the house.”

He exhaled a thick cloud at me. I looked him up and down — the bad skin, the folds of flesh, the greasy hair. He burped or maybe farted, I wasn’t sure which.

“You’re hideous,” I said.

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth. “You’re stalling. Get busy. I’ve got alot to say.”

I shook my head. Maybe he would settle for a short story. I sat down and began to take dictation.

To be continued…