Bogging Down in My Writing about Oregon Trail.

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On August 3 I gave you the prologue to my Oregon Trail, work in progress, and on Sept. 12 I shared the first chapter.  I guess I am ready to revisit that trail again, and try to figure out why something that was flowing smoothly has become bogged down.

 I keep avoiding opening the document, finding that blogging, or facebook, or planning an entirely new novel have a lot more appeal at the moment.  I suspect that it was so easy to write at first, and I have the whole thing outlined and finished in my head, and somehow that has translated as "finished" in my motivation too.  Why was it easier to write two Duffy Barkley novels, when the actual writing was harder, than to force myself to finish Della and Kenyon's story?

I find myself re-reading what I have, with pleasure, but when I get to the final chapters, where all I have is a paragraph, planning where the chapter will go, I suddenly find that even sitting down to write out bills has more appeal.

Chapter 2  Kenyon (From 1990s) 

  “Dear Diary,

     Dad is trying to get me to smile like he can just trick me out of a “bad mood.”  Why can’t he see that this isn’t just a mood – it is my life ruined forever!  My Whole Life!  Just now he slowed way down and leaned forward like he was trying to crawl up on the dashboard and I yelled at him, “What are you doing?  Keep you eyes on the road!”  but he was staring up in the sky like he didn’t care if we ended up dead in a ditch.  I should want to end up dead but that convinced me.  I’m not ready to die yet. But I am ready to drive!

     “Girls – Look!  It’s a bald eagle!”  He looked back with this hopeful smile on his lips like some dumb bird could make me forget that my friends were getting farther behind us at every mile.

     Melissa started to twist around to see but I pulled her back down and snapped at Dad, “The only Eagles I care about are in Philadelphia – and that is only if Pittsburgh isn’t playing.  Stay on your side of the road!”

       He looked sad, and angry – I thought maybe I’d gone too far and held my breath but he shut-up and started driving again.  Doesn’t he get that my whole life can go by and I won’t forgive this?  There is no justice in the world when you’re 15.”

     Kenyon snapped her book closed and clipped the pen to the front cover.  Her mind drifted back to the late night Deli where her Grandfather had given her the desk.  They had just come from a Pirate Game and it had been a long standing habit to go to the small, corner deli after a game.

     Kenyon had felt bittersweet.  Happy that her beloved Pirates had won but anxious because she didn’t know if she would ever sit in their stadium beside her Grandpa again.  She bit into her sandwich.  Nothing had as much flavor as a hot pastrami, on rye, with mustard, onions, and sauerkraut.  Did they have sandwich shops in Oregon?  She swallowed the suddenly flavorless mouthful and blinked against the burning in her eyes.

     Grandpa reached out gently, and dabbed a bit of mustard from the corner of her lips with a rough, paper napkin.  “Penny for your thoughts?”  Kenyon shook her head abruptly and forced a small smile.

     Grandpa picked up his own hoagie and made exaggerated signs of enjoyment as he chewed, rubbing his tummy and smacking his lips, eyes rolling and tongue flicking out to lick his lips.  He snatched the dill pickle spear off her plate and dangled it between his thumb and pointer finger, “Ah, Heaven.  The Pirates win and I share Manna with the world’s most beautiful sport fan.”

    Kenyon laughed and found that she could eat again.  He patted her back approvingly and waited until the sandwich disappeared before pulling a large box out from behind his chair.  She had seen him take it from the car, of course, but wasn’t sure she could accept his gift without melting down into puddles of tears.

     She turned sideways on her chair and allowed him to place the package on her lap.  “What is it?”  Smiling right then might have been one of the bravest things she had ever done.

     “Just a little something I found at a garbage sale and thought it would be perfect for keeping you from forgetting your tired, old Grandfather.”

     Garbage sale was his only name for the garage sales he loved to frequent, more for the chance to snoop into peoples lives, and exchange gossip and chatter, than for any real interest in the items being offered.  Pittsburgh had a tradition of visiting with neighbors, family and passers-by on the swings and gliders on the wide front porches.  For Grandpa the yard sales were a happy extension of that tradition.

     At first, Kenyon hadn’t figured out how to open the seemingly, seamless box, but as she explored the stationary and exclaimed over the malachite pen, she found a cellphone with pre-paid minutes and she had been comforted by the evidence that her Grandfather intended to hold tight to the ties that bound them together as both family and friends.

     Now, she reached into the desk and extracted a sheet of writing paper and an envelope.  Instead of her diary, she needed to write a thank you note and up-date to let him know that she felt his love with her every time she set her hand on the silky smooth wood of the desk.  She glared out the window at the landscape, which was so not Pittsburgh.

     She set the tip of her pen to the paper as her Dad swerved to avoid a plastic bag filled with garbage in the center of his lane.  The van swerving made her draw an angry line across the clean paper.  In frustration she balled the paper up and flung it on the floor of the van.  She started to put her pen away, but drew a calming breath, sighed, looked out the window and took out another piece of paper.  Grandpa would still love to hear that she was using his gift.  Melissa looked up from her electronic game and smiled but didn’t try to make any demands for the moment.

 ____________________________________

I do realize that I am not being much more co-operative than my protagonist here.  Kenyon is stubborn but, in refusing to finish her story, so am I.  I told myself, I have to finish this first draft before I can start a new NaNoWriMo novel in November.  I hope to keep that promise.  At lest, I have opened the file and am rereading the words I wrote, and trying to hear the voices of the two girls as they travel the Oregon Trail, 150 years apart.  I just never realized when I first conceived of this book, that even the 1990s girl might be history when I finally put her in front of an audience.

Reading and Writing are Woven Through My Life

When I try to recall the various times and places and people who were important to me, I find that they are often linked in my mind to the books we shared, or the ones that I was reading while I was there.  Even times when I was completely tunes in to the "real world" were often more real in my mind, thanks to being able to compare and contrast them to the stories of other times and places.

My first memories are of sitting on my Mom or Grandma's lap and begging for "Chicken Little" again and again, or reaching out to poke the newspaper while balanced on one of Dad's knees at the breakfast table.

Reading to my guys began when they were born and a dozen years later they still love a good story

 I remember first Grade with books written in the strange phonics of ITA, where my Clifford, The Big Red Dog had Book spelled bwk and school was skwl.
I did not have social skills for dealing with people my own age.  Until I started school, I was surrounded with great grandparents and Great aunts and uncles and could easily talk to people in their 80's and 90's - but 5 or 6!!! No.

So reading became my refuge, hiding behind a book allowed me to escape eye contact and gave me experience and "friends" and practice at the things kids did and thought until I could finally leave Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden on the shelf and talk to flesh and blood friends too.

Hooked my son on Star Wars Novels and his first poem was about Star Wars

This freckle faced "Me" loved books

May be why glasses became essential in 4th grade and by this 10th grade shot no-one could imagine me without them

Even when I came out from behind the book, I used books as a way to connect to people.  I wrote my own stories and gained in confidence as people asked to see what I was writing and actually asked for more.  ARound 8th and 9th grade I discovered the other readers in my school, and we shared our passion for the best books by adding our name to the library waiting list.  I remember some of the most popular books were scary. I was thinking that Hunger Games was too twisted for Jr. High kids until I remembered that, that is when we were devouring, Flowers In the Attic, Carrie, Jaws, and The Exorcist.  Of course we also loved less scary books and The Outsiders and The  Once and Future King were big too.

I think I loved this dress due to Laura Ingalls

Freshman year of college, I really began writing poetry and met my husband.  He loved reading too, and we share a literature book from that year with several favorites, including, "A Rose For Miss Emily" and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"  We wrote a lot that year but looking at my poems I see that they are less poetry and more a journal of the hormonal teenager who has found her "soul mate."

and my husband loved Dr. Doolittle so the animals also came thanks to books

We ended up having a house full of books, two sons, and at one time, a dozen parrots, 2 cats and 2 greyhounds.  The craziness often drove us to taking long road trips, where, instead of reading, we would listen to books on tape, and that is how I shared the first 4 Harry Potter books with boys who were too young to read them themselves.  Later the books were devoured by the boys on their own, but I miss those family drives with the story shared between us.

Going to See Writer, Timothy Zahn was a family Treat

Finally I got brave enough to publish my own fantasy novels, and they have slowly been making their way into the wider world, but not even the thrill of holding my first printed book can equal the feeling of having my family hanging on as I read aloud from 280 typewritten pages, and they were just as involved as when I was reading, "a real book" to them.

Thrilled to hold my first book in proof

Still Thrilled with two novels in print

 Still, I wondered, what leads from reading other peoples stories to needing to create my own?  My first "job" was helping my Grandpa, tan rabbit hides and mount them on fiberglass forms, with glass eyes and deer antlers.  I sold those, "Jack-a-lopes" to the tourists along with richly detailed stories of the life and habits of the critters.  I think that is when I became hooked on having an audience and knowing that my words had the power to make someone wait for the next one, or pull out their money, or laugh, just laugh.

Posing my Anne Geddes Sunflower baby in my Yard

Judy, my first and most faithful best friend

Oh Give Me a Home

Every game I made up for my dolls and my 2 younger brothers, every story I acted out to my classroom or told to my sons, drew me deeper into the part of me that finds reality best felt against the backdrop of creative storytelling.  I can feel pain and sorrow when a friend dies, but survive it a little easier because I've experienced it in a slightly more removed manner first, when reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows.

Back to My Oregon Trail Novel

 Back on August 3rd, I wrote a post about getting into Pottermore as a Beta Tester and about the other activities of the summer, including the challenge to write a novel in a month on CampNaNoWriMo.  I posted the prologue to the book I am working on, tentatively titled, Double Time On the Oregon Trail.  I am aiming the book at the middle grades and it is a time travel story almost, the two 15 year old girls, traveling the Oregon Train 150 years apart, do not actually time travel, but they do both own the same lap desk, and sometimes when they open it, what they find is what the other girl had in it at that location, a journal and other items.

The girls are traveling similar routes. Kenyon is in a Dodge Caravan with her Dad and younger sister, while her pregnant mother sells their house and flies out later to meet them.

Della is in a wagon caravan with her pregnant mother, her dad and a younger brother.  A lot of other people start in the caravan, but several twists of fate leave their numbers less as time passes.

Writing this has been fun and is not as far from completion as when August began, but it didn't finish in the month of camp.  I make no excuses, but do admit that I like reading the research a little more than necessary. 

 

 It is very different from the two novels I have published about Duffy Barkley, which are purely based on fantasy and my own life experiences and so flow, uninterrupted by fact checking except for trying to maintain consistency from one book to the next as far as spelling and place names.

On Aug. 3rd I gave you the prologue about why the lap desk was special.  Today I will share what I wrote for Chapter 1

Chapter One – Kenyon

     “Dear Diary,

     OK, that sounds a bit stupid but how else am I supposed to start off with one of these things.  I’m not going to start naming you like Ann Frank did.  You’re no “Kitty” but I can see the appeal in believing that these words will be written to someone, anyone at all.  No one in my real life seems to be hearing a thing that I have to say.  OK!  That does sound like whining but nobody cares what I want or how I feel.  They are the grown-ups and they get to make all the decisions and I’m supposed to just smile and kiss all my friends good-by without one small word of resentment.”

     The pen dug in so sharply as it underlined the two words that the paper was sliced cleanly right through.

     Fifteen year old Kenyon glanced up from her refuge in the very back seat of the Dodge Caravan.  She was the farthest she could get from her Father in the driver’s seat and still be in the van.  In her lap she cradled a simple box of dark, weathered wood.  Resting on the sloping surface of the box was a blank book with rich, creamy pages.  Snoring gently beside her was a smaller version of herself, a five year old girl with matching, tanned skin and dark brown hair.  Kenyon returned to the words she was writing on the first page of the blank book.

     “I’m not usually such a grouch, but my whole, entire life is being destroyed and I am not only expected to let it happen, I actually have to pitch in and help it happen!  I am supposed to be starting my sophomore year with my friends, not that I’m super popularity girl or anything but I do have friends and they all go to the same school, My School, and it’s going to be a great year except I won’t be there.  I’m here!  I’m driving across the whole, boring country with my dictator Dad and my bratty sister and I have to be responsible for the brat so that Dad can relax after driving all day.  He could at least have let me get my learner’s permit so I could be driving too, but no, he wants to wait for me to have lessons when we don’t have a trailer to pull.  He tells me to grow-up all the time but tries to keep me his little girl at the same time. 

     “Speaking of little girls, what I have to do is babysit her through the evenings at different motel swimming pools and keep her entertained for long, hot, boring days in this old van.  She’s such a baby!  The trouble is that soon she won’t even be the baby of the family!  If Mom wasn’t pregnant she would be driving out with me and ‘lissa instead of staying home to finalize the sale of our house.  Dad could do that, but this way will be easier on her, so Dad and I find the new house in Oregon, and move things in and do all the hard work, then Mom just walks out our old door, flies to Oregon in like, half a day, and walks into the house we’ve gotten ready for her.”

     Kenyon turned the page in the book and twisted her pen between her fingers as she thought about the unfairness of her life.  It was a beautiful pen, expensive because of the squishy soft grip and the polished malachite casing.  The pen and lap desk had been a gift from Grandpa Walt.  She loved the aged wooden desk and the cool gleaming green stone of the pen like the aged brown of his skin and the gleaming green water of the river where he took her to skip stones, watch snapping turtles and gather honeysuckle.  The thought of him made her eyes burn with unshed tears and her throat feel tight.  She probably could guess he’d be at a Pirates game about now – something she might never do again!  She slid off the lid of the desk and idly sifted through contents she already knew by heart; thick creamy paper, rich with the perfume of the dried honeysuckle tucked between the stiff sheets and starting to absorb the scent of cedar from the box, envelopes, a small spiral notebook with black pages, a supply of pale gel pens, a calling card, a small mirror, pens and pencils, a pirate pennant, and a pink Swiss army knife.  There was also postage stamps and a Kennywood address book, the picture of raging rapids on the cover made her smile wistfully.  The entire box was made without a nail anywhere, smoothly joined by an expert craftsman.  Grandpa said it was probably old, maybe even a hundred years or more.  She slid the lid back into place and resumed writing.

     “Grandpa Walt would say I’m pouting.  I guess I am, but missing him is one of the things I’m pouting about.  I know he loves me and I love him so much.  He says he’ll call and talk to me every weekend and fly out to spend a week in Oregon at Christmas, but then he’ll go home to Pittsburgh and I’ll still be missing him!”

     The hot weight of her kid sister sleeping against her became unbearable, “Lissa, Get off me!  You’re sweaty.”

     “Lissa, I mean it – Move.  Wake up brat.”

     “Ung!  Kenny, stop shoving me.  Hey, read your book to me.”

     “No, Go back to sleep, just not on me.”

     “Read to me.”  The demand in her younger sister’s voice took a second to register in Kenyon’s mind.  She turned to see the small girl gazing at her with a sleepy pout.  “Read what you’re writing Kenny.”

     Kenyon snapped hr journal shut.  “No, ouch!  You made me drop my pen.  Now I have to unbuckle my seatbelt and you’re laying on the buckle.  Shove over.”

     “Read or I’ll tell Dad.  You’re supposed to entertain me.”

     Kenyon snatched up her pen and hastily stuffed it back in the lap desk and slid the desk beneath her seat.  “No way, Melissa.  Don’t pull my hair.”

     “I didn’t mean to pull your hair.  I was just sitting up.  You told me to move.  You don’t even love me.  You’d love to be an only child!  Let me see!”

     “Ouch, KENYON!”

   From the front seat, Dad called, “Kenyon, stop picking on your little sister.”

     “Don’t touch my journal, ever!  Wait.  Are you sure you aren’t still sleepy?  We’ll get there faster if you sleep.”

     “Get where?”

     “Dad’s looking for a market so we can get oil for the car and cold drinks for us.”

     “You sleep Kenyon.  Then I’ll get there faster.  NO, Don’t sleep read your journal and we’ll still get there faster.  Did you write about me and how we’ll swim every night?”

      She knew that Melissa would become even more determined if she was flatly refused.  “Really, it’s just boring old stuff I was writing while I was waiting for you to wake up.  I can’t wait to find out if Templeton breaks the egg.  I want to read more about Charlotte.  I’m having a hard time waiting but I didn’t want to peek ahead while you were sleeping.”

    “I’d kill you!  You can’t ever read Charlotte’s Web if I’m asleep!”

     Kenyon forced her eyes to look wide and innocent as she shrugged apologetically,  “I just wrote.”

     “Well, that yucky, boring stuff is OK when I’m asleep but never read ahead without me.  I’m ready now.”  Melissa turned imploring eyes upon her big sister and the journal was forgotten.

Often I just write for myself, because there is a part of me that is most myself when spinning stories, but this time especially I am curios about feedback and your comments would make me smile, even if you hate it, just to know someone cares enough to respond.

Thanks for taking the time to look.


Dixie

Dreaming Up More Story

I love writing, in theory.  In reality, I love coming up with the initial idea, and I love sharing what I have written with someone who might criticize it or love it, but will at least have taken the time to hear my voice and validate that I really do have a purpose in this life, even if it is only to flood an already saturated world with more words and pictures.  That step in between, that actual "writing" step, Love might be a bit strong for that, might in fact be at times actually opposite of my real feeling about the act.

Snag in my yard that reminds me of unicorns

60,000 words into a project I can no longer bear to see, I still know I am only 2/3 of the way to the shortest acceptable end product.  Chaining myself to the keyboard with the promise of chocolate at the end of cranking out another couple thousand words, I still find distractions.  My inner princess is acting about 7 as she finds books to order, people to chat with and games to play, tweets to send about not writing.  My inner parent stands arms akimbo, foot tapping and IGNORED.

Rope swing my kids have outgrown

I push away from the computer and take a walk around my yard.  Except for the woodpecker drilling away on the redwood stumps, it is silent and my thoughts begin to relax.  Relaxation is key for my creativity.  I think of the best storylines in that almost asleep state, usually in bed, just before drifting off, when if I don't get up and take notes, they will have evaporated by morning.  I usually don't get up.  Real life demands I face it with well rested energy, or the students sense my weakness and become weak themselves.

Rocky

My cat follows as I circle the yard, like the obedient dog who raised him, Rocky can heel with the best of them.  His chatter is designed to encourage me to sit and take him on my lap, instead of return to work at that beloved and hated hobby of mine.

WonderStumps

I call my decorating style Saturday Cartoon, Smurf blue, Pikachu yellow

I loved finishing, Duffy Barkley Is Not A Dog.  Writing and being able to say "I have written a novel" felt so wonderful.  But Duffy was not finished with me.  More of his story keeps popping into my head when I am no-where near the keyboard, and flittering away as I sit down and focus.  Now Duffy Barkley:  Seek Well

 It has hit a phase that I had managed to forget in that first novel, the phase where I have told most of the story, but need to go back and expand it, to "Show, not tell."

And there is something else, a boatload of new characters who are insisting on being included, even though their ship floats ghostly and abandoned at sea.

And the drudgery of remembering my original story is amazing, I sweat blood over it, it was part of my lungs and bones, so why now, is it so hard to remember if it was Belle Island or Bell Island - Turtle's Bow or Turtles Bay,  Ah'ee or Ah-ee?

a lot of my stories are dreamed up in the Lovesac

If I could not be a writer, life would be easy.  There would be no guilt when I picked up someone else's novel instead of opening the file with mine.  There would be no blood on my keyboard from chewing my lip in frustration.  I know there is beauty in this confused and angry world.  Why do I have to share that instead of quietly enjoying it?

Anyway, I have found that even now, when I am avoiding writing, I am writing.  Hear me Twitter?  I #amwriting.