Working on my contemporary young adult novel for the first time in years. I started this book in 2006 then abandoned it, even thought I've never stopped thinking about it. I'm in it again and am grateful for all the years between the beginning of working on the project and now. My voice is so much better. Not that I don't love the voice I was writing in in 2006 but now my edges are more refined, honed, practiced. It feels more authentic, Im' not trying to write to a particular feeling, or music. I'm making the music as I go.
I went right in at the hard part yesterday, the ugly, messy moment that I had been dreading writing. I didn't trust myself to know if I could be authentic in the emotion. Silly me, I need to trust myself more often. It wasn't easy but I did it. I set up the emotional landscape for everything that will happen next. My sweet, naive protagonist is going to fuck up with her whole heart, which is truly the only way you can fuck up and grow, no? She has such good intentions, pobrecita. I'm borrowing from the emotional landscape I was in at her age, lost, wanting to create something beautiful but lacking the confidence to do so.
Now that I'm heavy into this book I MISS my fantasy novel, hard. I miss creating worlds, magic, getting into the mystery. Grass greener blah blah. I want my animal.
H is crazy busy with homework these days so we spend a lot of time at home. I have learned that I am a procrasti-cleaner. When I don't want to write I will distract myself with cleaning. Yesterday the apartment was pretty clean but I had to find something to clean to so I took apart the stove. Yeah, crazy. And then I scoured it with oven cleaner, a razor blade and a toothbrush. I even took out the burners, soaked them and scraped off all the char I could. Last night H finally got me to write, he shut off our internet connection, took away my cell phone and poured me a big glass of wine. That may be the way to get to get things done. I got this.