the process

You write and you write and you write and you write and you write. Then you delete a bunch of shit and write some more. Then you write and you write and you write. You put your computer away but then you think of something so you sit back down and write and write and write. But you don’t read what you wrote right away because it needs time to marinate. So the next day you read the new stuff and it’s good but it’s bad so you delete some and write some more and make it better. Then you write and you write and you write and you write. You write more because editing sucks and you hate reading your own work. Sometimes you read it and want to cry and delete it all. Sometimes you read it and want to cry because you move yourself to tears. And you write and you write and you write. Occasionally you shower. You panic. You focus. You fold laundry because that’s productive. You take a few days off because you are tormented. You wake up in the middle of the night with a great idea, so fabulous you won’t forget it. In the morning, you can’t remember.

You visualize your book on a table at a bookstore. You see someone walk over to it and pick it up, read the back cover. You imagine this person buying your book (recognizing most people don’t buy books in bookstores but this is more satisfying than picturing someone placing an Amazon order). You cringe at the bad review in your mind. You hear your voice on the Diane Rehm Show. On a good day, you might rehearse your Academy Award acceptance speech for best adapted screenplay. On a bad day, you print out your manuscript and use it for kindling.

You write. You edit. You perfect. You write more. You find mistakes. You drive yourself crazy.

And in the end, you have a book.

Why the Olympics make me cry

I’m a sucker for the Olympics. The first one I recall was 1976 in Montreal when Nadia Comaneci perfected gymnastics. I was only six at the time, and she barely looked older, but I was hooked.

Fast forward to 1984. My dad lived in Los Angeles, and I got to attend the Opening Ceremonies, Track and Field events, and a baseball game. Mary Lou Retton. Carl Lewis. ZOLA BUDD. These are names I’ll never forget.

Remember when the Summer and Winter Games were held in the same year? And you had to wait FOUR ENTIRE YEARS for an Olympiad of any season? I preferred it that way, but much like I feel about interleague baseball, I accept the current reality as something I cannot change.

I don’t just love the Olympics for the sports, though I do love all the sports (especially curling and figure skating and alpine skiing and hockey and luge and bobsled). I eat up the human interest stories too. I want to be emotionally invested in the athletes. They perform these spectacularly inhuman feats, but to know that they eat, breathe, live, love, bruise and sometimes want to give up makes their moment of glory all the more, well, glorious.

I take the Olympics seriously. In August 2008, the cops came a calling at midnight because I was screaming so loud when Michael Phelps won gold by a gazillionth of a second that someone reported a domestic disturbance. I still get depressed when I think about Michelle Kwan never winning gold. And don’t even get me started on the Dan Jansen story. Athletes who come back to win gold after previously failing have a special place in my heart. And moms. Oh, the moms get me every time.

So far, the 2014 games will be marked by Bob Costas and his bout with Russian pink eye; the enthusiasm of the biathlon sports broadcasters; and most beautifully, Meryl Davis and Charlie White winning gold in ice dance. I’ve watched their gold medal performance five times and each viewing brings me to tears. Though why didn’t NBC air their medal ceremony? Oh, because the Russians changed things up so they get a flower ceremony right away and the medals later? Come on, the athletes should get their gold medals immediately upon winning their events. So they can sleep with them. Which is totally what I’d do if I ever won gold (or silver or bronze).

My friend Kate and I have a little joke where she texts me during the broadcasts to ask “are you crying yet” and the answer is always yes. So I started wondering, why am I extra sappy this time around? Why do I hold my breath for every big moment?

It didn’t take me long to figure out the answer. Like these athletes, I’m also in pursuit of a goal. In late September, I started a novel literally overnight and next week, I’m sending a completed manuscript to be edited. I have good days and bad days, but every day I write or edit or think about my story. I’ve discovered that writing is my life’s passion but if I want it to be my purpose, I have to succeed. And I’m driven to make the podium regardless of how many runs I have to take to get there.

the drafting table

Given that I have already crushed my January, February and March writing goals, it’s clear to me now that finding the right words is no longer my problem. In fact, I’m starting to work in the other direction.

It can be hard to edit your own work, at least for me. I typically fall in love with the way I phrased a sentence or set a scene. But I have taken some pleasure the last few days out of deleting words, sentences, paragraphs (okay, I never delete entire paragraphs but I do rework them) and improving the flow of my story.

But I need help.

I contacted the instructor of the writing class that started this whole “I’m going to write a novel” craziness. She is not only a published author but also a professional manuscript editor. So the new goal is to get her my completed work by March 1st. This deadline feels more pressing than my noting the daily word count on a calendar. It means I’m taking the next step toward publishing my work.

But… before I get to that point, I need a few volunteers. Much like I straighten up the house before the cleaning lady comes, I want my draft to be as perfect as can be before placing it in the hands of a professional. I’m looking for readers. The qualifications are: you like to read; you have a good sense of story; you aren’t afraid to tell something doesn’t work; and you have time.

I’ve divided my story into three main parts, so I’m not asking any one person to read the entire story. Each section is between 75-125 pages. I’m hoping to recruit six volunteers. I will need comments/edits by February 15th.

Email me directly if you are interested. (Sorry, strangers, this offer is limited to people I know.) If you live locally, I will reward you with a wine night.

Ready, set, go.

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the drafting table

Sleep begets sleep. That’s what I’ve found when it comes to the boys. I can’t explain it but when they were babies, the better the nap, the easier bedtime was. And now, if I put them to bed early, they sleep later. It even works for me.

I’ve learned the same is true when it comes to writing. Writing begets writing. Words beget words. Plot begets plot. I don’t quite understand this is anymore than I understand it when it comes to sleep, but the phenomenon is rather consistent with my personality. When I find something I like to do (sleep, cook, exercise, drink wine) and it turns out I’m good at it then I want to do it every day. And when I don’t do it, I don’t feel like myself.

Until yesterday, I had written every day since January 1st. You already know I crushed my January goal and I’m close to killing February too. But about 24 hours into a headache last night, I cut myself some slack and gave my brain the night off.

That didn’t come without an internal struggle. What if skipping a day killed my momentum? What if it takes me another six weeks to streak again? What if I return to my story and find it sucks? But in the end, a rest was what I needed. And while I haven’t had a chance to sit down at the computer today, my characters and their lives are never far from my thoughts. And I’m not freaking out at all. Really.

After all, I’ve got 63,000 words and counting.

the drafting table

Okay, now that I’ve found my higher purpose, blah, blah, blah, it’s time to achieve it.

I have become one of those people who measures document length by word count, not pages. It finally makes sense to my brain. I think back to all the college papers where I used a large font size and wide margins in order to meet a certain page-based length requirement. Word counts can’t be manipulated. Well, I guess you could add bunch of superfluous words but that’s not my point.

So while apparently the answer to “how long should a novel be?” is “as long as it needs to be” the research I have done yielded the answer: 80,000-100,000 words for my genre.

It’s hard to measure art in quantitative terms, but I need benchmarks to move me beyond “write another chapter.”

After my intention setting classes, I decided to set a word count goal for my novel. I started New Year’s Day with approximately 40,000 words. The January goal is to get to 53,000. The February goal is to reach 66,000 and by the end of March, 80,000. From there I’ll assess whether the story is complete and then undertake the review and editing process. The point is to get the words out of my head and on paper.

As of tonight, I’ve written 56,500 words. I crushed the January goal. By the time I get to February, I might have to recalibrate the goals. There’s a higher purpose but there’s also a process. I might be making it up along the way but at least I’m on the road.

I am a writer

This week, to bolster my chances of keeping the goals/resolutions I set for myself, I attended two yoga intention setting workshops.

The first workshop was held at Capitol Hill Yoga on New Year’s Day. I had no idea what to expect. I went in thinking, “drink less bottled water, be more outwardly and innerly graceful, finish writing my novel.” I came out with my higher purpose.

CHY owner Stacey DeGrasse initially threw me off-guard by explaining we weren’t there to set resolutions but to determine our sankalpa. What the hell is a sankalpa, I thought. Now that I know, let me explain. While a resolution is a determination to do something, a sankalpa is a vow we make to support our higher purpose. Your sankalpa has to be heartfelt, authentic, easily stated in a simple phrase, and able to be stated in the present as if it is already fulfilled. Stacey recommended to the group, a mix of people who had never made a resolution to those who set numerous ones each year, that we focus on only one sankalpa. But definitely no more than two or three. (I mean, really, one? This is DC after all.)

It didn’t take but a millisecond for me to realize my sankalpa. While the action required to achieve it is the goal I went into the session with (to finish writing my novel) my sankalpa is: I am a writer. Once it was clear, I felt energized. I did an hour of hot yoga to seal the deal and came out eager to get to my computer. I’ve barely left its side since then, clocking about 6,000 words (and hours of editing) over the last few days. Not that they’re all quality words, but in the moment I’m all about quantitative progress.

I almost canceled workshop number two, held at Flow Yoga Center. When you know your higher purpose, you know your higher purpose, right? However, teacher April Puciata’s workshop was also valuable in helping me root my sankalpa. Her session actually felt like a continuation of the first workshop. She walked us through a deep meditation from which I emerged with my sankalpa firmly planted in my core. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

And I got a little nap in too.

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the best of intentions

I’ve called them resolutions. I’ve called them goals. I’ve constructed “goal boards” where I pasted images pulled from magazines of how I want my life to look and feel.

Sometimes I succeed and sometimes I don’t, though I don’t like to use the word fail here. As I wrote in my review of the 13 in ’13, goals can evolve and be replaced by other laudable intentions.

Intentions. A yoga class on intention setting in the new year caught my eye, so now I’m taking it at two different studios. I mean, the reinforcement can’t hurt right? So in advance of all that bendy self reflection, I came up with a few intentions for 2014.

Just say no to jobs that make your face grow numb from stress and relationships that aren’t fulfilling. Drink less bottled water. Play more board games with the kids. Finish writing my novel. Experiment more. Complain less. Be better.

Happy New Year!

making lemonade

It’s a little cold for lemonade, so this afternoon I made cassoulet.

And when I say this afternoon, I mean for the last three and a half weeks, I’ve researched recipes. I plotted approaches. I consulted a chef.

I decided to try cassoulet as prepared by Mark Bittman because while Julia Child can do no food wrong, I preferred a version with duck confit.

The duck. I ordered one from Union Market. I wanted a whole duck but frankly I didn’t want to dismember it myself. Red Apron agreed to deconstruct it for me and give me the entire bird (“except feathers and guts,” the butcher clarified) because I needed the carcass for stock.

I special ordered authentic French beans but ended up buying Goya brand Great Northerns when the fancy bag arrived light on the amount I expected to get for $14.99. I also ordered ventrèche (French pancetta, not as smoky as our usual stateside bacon offering) and garlicky sausage. Hey, I didn’t want lack of the right ingredients to mess with my dish.

On Friday, I marinated the duck legs in garlic, shallots and thyme. On Saturday I roasted the carcass (and all parts not leg or breast) and made a delicious stock that filled my house with a lovely scent. It turns out I should have flipped those tasks but hey, a multi-day recipe takes time to master.

Duck confit. Sausage. Lamb shoulder. Beans. Mind you, this is a dish normally prepared with what the French have in their refrigerators. (Someday maybe I will have extra duck confit laying around.) I took some liberties with Bittman’s recipe. For example, I deglazed the lamb and onions with port before adding the confit.

Cassoulet preparation was supposed to be a cooking date, but sometimes things don’t play out as you envision. Holidays come along, toying with emotions and nostalgia. People get back together with exes. I have no hard feelings. But I knew I’d be angry, at him and myself, if I didn’t follow through with our/my cassoulet plans. And with a fantastic array of aromas filling my house, I’m glad that instead of feeling tragic, I’m left empowered by my kitchen prowess. Not that there haven’t been tears, but I acknowledge my disappointment with grace.

And Pinot Noir.

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mirror, mirror on the yogic wall

Since having a life-balance-happiness epiphany in a yoga class in New York my friend Margaret brought me to in August, I’ve been trying to incorporate more of the practice into my life.

My first thought was to test a few different studios, taking advantage of the “one month unlimited” deals that many offer for new students. While studio hopping made me feel a bit of a yoga slut, it did expose me to some different places for relatively cheap. (They suck you in, make you like them, then triple the price, but it’s all in the name of inner harmony, right?)

My first stop was a small studio-not-to-be-named in Columbia Heights. The commute was awful. Parking was worse. And many who practice there eschew leg shaving. And some, deodorant. I know it sounds shallow, but I like my yoga pretty.

Next I tried Flow in Logan Circle. I like it there. A lot. Except its fiscally challenging location: next to Whole Foods and across the street from Lululemon. Though in a private deal I made with myself when I splurged on a regularly priced full month of unlimited classes, I can only go into Whole Foods if feeding my children is dependent upon it. And no more Lulu visits unless I forget to pack yoga pants. Unintentionally forget, that is.

Capitol Hill Yoga offers a pleasant setting and challenging classes that aren’t over-crowded, but the schedule rarely seems to work with mine. (Though for those who have workplace flexibility, I highly recommend the 4:00 class on Mondays taught by Joan.)

Last week, Nancy and her neighbor Riikka invited me to join them for hot yoga at Mind the Mat. And when I say invited, I mean I crashed on their plans to do yoga and then cook a fabulous holiday dinner. (But I made up for inserting myself by contributing my new favorite dish, Leek, Shiitake and Truffle Risotto.)

And this is where the mirror comes in.

I’d never done yoga in front of a mirror. After four relatively short months of yoga practice, I was feeling pretty good. In my heart, my “Warrior Two” is solid. I gracefully move from “Reverse the Warrior” to “Triangle Pose” with ease. I look strong and determined and lean. But the mirror told a different story… I was like who is this clumsy, uneven person trying to do yoga in front of me? Yeah. Right. That’s me.

But it’s not how you look, it’s how you feel. And I felt great after class. The ultimate and universal beauty advice applies across the board. Did you put on a few extra pounds over the holidays? But enjoy yourself doing it? It’s all good. Maybe you aren’t any closer to becoming a yoga instructor than you are into fitting into the jeans formerly known as your favorite pair. But if you are living honestly and happily, you’ll glow on the outside.

Just remind me never to bring a love interest to yoga class.