Novelist-Miranda Cardona

Let’s get to the point. I’m not writing, and yes, I miss it. The want to do it aches like a phantom limb, but I’m staying away from any major projects for now. Why? I’m looking for the fun again. The reason I loved writing so much was because it used to be tremendously entertaining for me. Yes, it was a great means of escape, but I really enjoyed doing it. I’ve lost that passion in the last two years pushing so very hard towards publication because I was certain that my very happiness was centered on this one thing. Melodramatic, but true. Come to find out, it’s not. I can be happy reading, dancing, playing video games (Fable II is my vice of choice at the moment), spending time with my husband, surrounding myself with my terrific friends, and running. No one decided that I had to have a job that is beneath me so I could write, except for me. It worked for a while, and while I don’t utterly loathe being a secretary it’s a short term gig. I didn’t mean for it to last forever. I was supposed to get published, get married, write from home. Being at the museum for two years now, I was pushing myself with a panic because the dullness of my job was going to kill me.* The sooner I got published the sooner I could let myself be happy.

This is not how things are supposed to work.

I’ve decided to go back to school and get my post-bac in psychology so I can get my masters in it with the intent on being a therapist to those with eating disorders (specifically focusing on the morbidly obese). This is a job I can love, and I can write for fun again. I’m not saying I don’t want to be published. I do. If the chance ever came for me to make a living off my writing they wouldn’t have to wait long for me to sign up. I’m just not going to henge my entire future happiness on making this happen. It’s how I stopped enjoying the writing in the first place. The tendency to put too much pressure on myself is not something that has suddenly come up. I’m used to this, and am more than a little embarrassed it took me so long to see what I was doing. I keep worrying that this means I’m selling myself short or giving up on a dream, but I don’t think that’s what I’m doing at all. I’m seeking happiness, in all it’s forms. There can’t be anything wrong with that.

If this means I end up writing terrible smut that never sees the light of day, so be it. I want the giddy thrill of writing again, and for the last year or so all I’ve gotten is the relief when I hit a word count I thought was appropriate. I’m going to keep reading, and playing with words. I’m going to seek my bliss.

* Note: I don’t think there is anything wrong with being a secretary, it’s just not for me. Working as one at the museum isn’t terrible, and would be a great gig for someone who wants to do this work. The problem is, I don’t.

My muse has returned.
She has fresh ink and paper.
Back to the writing!

This is the first thing I’ve written in a long time.  There’s been a word drought, and I find myself void of ideas.  I’m using this time to read and fall back in love with the written word.  Imagine my surprise when this popped out.

I can’t seem to let you go
Sweet memory,
Walking from across the field.
How lost we are.
I miss you.
Come home and back in time.
Let me go.
I can’t go on.
You’re not what I remember.

I don’t know if I’ll do anything with it, but the imagery it creates for me makes me want to keep it regardless.

(Inspired by a conversation with Travis Fischer and in honor of my husband, the lover of zombies)

You never really notice when life returns to normal after an apocalypse.  In the movies the shift is always quick and easily perceptible.  The army comes in and you know, from that point on, you’re safe.  That’s not how it really happens; especially not when the zombies started at Fort Hood and spread from there.  If you’ve never seen a zombie in a tank, I don’t recommend it–they have no sense of direction.
With roughly two thirds of the population devoured or undead (the politically correct term was “those involuntarily embracing an alternative lifestyle” or “alternative lifestylers” for short) there was no one to tell us how long we were going to be camped out just off of I-10.  We’d done our share of beheading, but were incredibly surprised when we realized that there was only one lone zombie in the IKEA parking lot.   With his tattered blue vest flapping in the wind he slowly tried to collect all of the flatbeds and carts.  We waited a few days to see if this situation would change, but he still remained there alone.  Bets were made on how long it would take him to get things in a straight line or wander off in search of food.
Realization came as a trickle.  After four days we’d decided to leave when the static on the television and radios finally cleared simultaneously.  Once we’d gotten over the loudness we finally heard the message.  We could return home, but to make sure we had weapons just in case.  Given that they’d told us there was no problem in the first place we decided to wait it out for another week.  We had plenty of food, water, and Swedish design to keep us going for another month or two.
A week later we ventured out into the world, blinking in the sunlight.  Once they started running around the clock re-runs of Seinfield and Friends we figured it was safe to leave.  If that’s not  things going back to normal, I don’t know what is.
After a few months with no one else to talk to we were glad to split up to go to our own homes.  Other than a few broken windows and the odd tank wedged through a wall the city appeared mostly unscathed.  We camped out and watched TV for a while, enjoying the banality.  On Fox News there was a constant debate going about the moral implications of killing an alternative lifestyler.  The Vatican noted that all life is precious and that perhaps God had a great plan for the infected.  At night you’d still occasionally hear someone trying to get into your house, but there was no way of telling if it was one of the zombies or someone who’d been out drinking in celebration of being alive.
While most things returned to normal some never would.  My pre-zombie job was now filled by one.  Come to find out most zombies can type at a hundred words a minute if not distracted.  I’d been moved into publications, since I was one of the few people still around who’d read Strunk and White.  Seems most of my literary brethren hadn’t gotten around to reading the Zombie Survival Guide and were too weak to defend themselves.  I wasn’t the only one working with zombies.  They’d filled the work force with zeal, and since they worked for so little the economy was booming.  As productive members of society we were no longer allowed to destroy any of them.  In order to protect us all they had to constantly wear mask that looked like they had been designed by the costumers from Silence of the Lambs.
If you’ve never had a zombie gardener you’re missing out.  They’re so thorough, and only cost a container of bloody ground chuck when they’ve finished their work.  Some of our best art these days is coming from zombie painters.  Their work is so expressive, so id driven.  We’re calling it “a return to the primal” at the museum.  “Getting in Touch with Your Inner Zombie” hit the recent best seller list, and both the author and his undead companion are on a world promotion tour. My favorite change involved the Mormon Boys’ Tabernacle Choir.  You can’t really understand the words they’re singing, but until you’ve heard moaning in perfect pitch and harmony you haven’t lived.  They’re coming to town in four months.  We’ve already bought our tickets.

Now that the wedding debacle is over I’m back at home and back to work.  Sitting back down to Triptych was harder than I thought it would be.  I’m definitely out of my minimum 2,000 words a day habit, and it was incredibly difficult to get back into the story.  This was mostly due to the fact that I hated it.

I hated everything the story had become.  The main characters felt self absorbed and whiny in a way that even turned me off.  I didn’t like how she was interacting with the man that she was supposed to be in love with.  NaNo was great for helping me get the story started, but I don’t think it was the right thing to do for *this* story. 

Thus, I’ve started over.  I’ve changed the beginning plot a great deal.  I’ve eliminated characters and revamped the setting.  What I’m hoping to end up with is a tigher, faster story with a lot more conflict and a lot lest angst.

To ease me back into writing I’m setting a 1,000 word a day goal (with weekends off if I’d like) that I plan on accomplishing while at work.  This means 1,000 good words, not just pushed out.  The goal is not to have to rewrite this completely when I finish the first draft as I had to do with TEL.

Today I went to Barnes and Nobel to pick up a book I’d been meaning to get for some time, but also found myself browsing through “Fiction and Literature” once I’d picked up my guilty pleasure.  The last few years it seems that all chick lit and thinly veiled erotica is being stuck in this section.  Next to Tender is the Night was one of the many Darcy knockoffs that have become so popular.  On the same shelf I found a tale of redemption, a memoir of addiction, and a story about a woman shopping for the perfect pair of shoes and a man.  Now, it’s not that I don’t believe these books shouldn’t be published.  Obviously they’re being read, and widely, but I just don’t think they should be catagorized with the Fiction and Literature.  Yes, they’re fiction, but this is generally where one goes to find a different kind of book, and it’s made finding those books harder.  I could not find a copy of Yakuza Moon or An Obedient Father at all.  This is a minor annoyance, but as these forms of fiction grow more and more popular I think it’s time they had their own shelf.  They already have their own catagory in querying, so I don’t see why it can’t trickle all the way down.

I know that everyone with any connection to the publishing industry has been up in arms and freaking out, writing their own blog posts about the layoffs going on at Random House.  Like every other author (aspiring or actualized) I’ve been reading everything I can to make my own conclusions before freaking out.  After a few hours, I decided not to freak for several reasons. 

Yes, layoffs happen, and they’re awful when they do, but we’re in the middle of a horrible recession.  I’m surprised that more people didn’t see this coming.  The thought of having just acquired an editor only to find that they were no longer with the company fills me with a sick dread.  The poor authors who found themselves back at the starting line have my sympathy.  After I processed that, I realized that this could be a way to make some needed changes.

I believe Allison Winn Scotch put it best with her blog entry The Glass is Half Full.  I couldn’t agree more.  Advances need to be dropped.  Economically they make little sense.  As an aspiring author, I would prefer not to have to constantly worry about selling enough to pay out my advance.  It makes better sense to give the author their percentage as the book sells.  I don’t want my entire career ending over me not selling enough copies to meet the four grand they gave me.  This could be an opportunity to switch, thus insuring that the publishing company isn’t losing more money than it’s making.  It could also mean bigger budgets for publicity.  What author couldn’t use a bit more publicity?

Like the rest of you, I’m just going to wait out and see what good can come out of this unsteady time.  Eventually the market will turn back up.  Perhaps this is the urging everyone needs to make sure they’re concentrating on putting out the best book they can.  I know I’m going to take this time to get Triptych ready so that when the market goes back up I’ll have nothing to worry about.

(A bit of a warning.  I hope this post made sense.  I’m a bit under the weather, and when I am I tend to think something sounds great when it doesn’t.)

Very sad tidings
NaNo crashed and burned
wedding is looming.

words dragging today
am still ahead of the game
hope it stays that way

Have decided all
writing progress will be in
clever haiku form.

Finally happy
that I am writing something.
NaNo amazing?

Ten thousand words.
Aiming for thirteen tonight.
Bliss is creating!