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So I realized that my original intention for this blog was so that I could chronicle the creative process of writing my novel.  Of which I have not been doing at all.  Instead, for the most part, I’ve been writing about anything and everything except about my novel.  But then it occurred to me, that I actually am chronicling my creative process, because this is pretty much how my creative process goes.

I’ll glance at my computer, and then go make some coffee.  Then do the dishes, or go walk the dogs.  Then I’ll turn on the computer, and start thinking about something else entirely.  Maybe write about that, or whatever it is I’m thinking about will lead me to start pondering life in general.  Then I’ll take a shower, play with the dogs.  Go do some grocery shopping.  And as I’m choosing produce it will occur to me:

 

Yes!  Because of what Henry does to Emma, she’s driven to the edge, which leads her to meet the guy in that place where she does the thing.

 

Then I finish my grocery shopping, go home.  Make some food, do some dishes, watch some Criminal Minds.  Go to bed.  Wake up.  Go to work.  Then I’ll be doing some filing in the file room and:

 

Oh!  Because of the thing that Emma does in the place with that guy, she winds up invited to the party where she meets Kady.  And because she meets Kady, she figures out her revenge.

 

Which gets me to thinking about something else, so I write about it, and go about my business, all the while these little epiphanies that I have kick around in my head building off of each other, growing and connecting to form one cohesive storyline.  I get the structure and it’s pieced together slowly in my head.  You see, I don’t write in chronological order.  I tried, I tried really hard.  My type A personality really loathed the idea of writing any other way, but I couldn’t do it.  I have to write whatever is at the forefront of my brain.  I have to write whatever is in the queue first; so that it isn’t lost as I work on whatever is second and third in line.  So I surrendered to doing it out of order and it seems to be working for me.  I wrote my last chapter long before I’d ever written my first.  I know where my characters are going. I know what happens to them.  It’s their journey that is being revealed to me piece by piece and like the movie “Memento” it all fits together . . . eventually.

But sometimes I have to write the other things first, because those are important too.  So I guess that’s what this blog has become.  A place for the immediate thoughts crowding my headspace that so desperately need an outlet so that everything else can move up in the queue.  My repository for everything that cut in line and wound up in front of my characters.

Oh, and my epiphanies are much more detailed than that, but the thing that Emma does to the guy in the place is pretty good, and I don’t want to ruin the surprise.

It is a very recent development that I claim the title of writer.  Despite the fact that it has always been something that I did, I never really identified with it as part of who I was.  However, when I stumble upon things like the one I am about to share, it makes me shake my head that I didn’t figure out that writing really is a deeply ingrained part of who I am.  So for your father’s day enjoyment I present an oldie – judging from the handwriting I’m going to guess that this was presented to my father when I was about ten.  I do hope you will forgive the liberties that ten-year-old me took with the rhyming scheme, 31-year-old me resisted the urge to edit.

 

Twas the Night Before Father’s Day

 

Twas the night before father’s day and all through the world

The mothers were stirring cause the baby just hurled.

The children weren’t nestled all snug in their beds

Cause my sister just kicked me square in the head

Mom was in her curlers and pop in his cap

Finally settled us down before I kicked her right back

Revenge isn’t sweet said pop with a sigh

That wasn’t very nice to kick her in the eye

When out in the den there arose such a clatter

Pop sprang from the room to see what was the matter.

When what with his wondering eyes did he see?

But a miniature pond cause I broke the window accidentally.

The rain was pouring in so lively and free

Dad knew in a moment new carpeting it would be.

He was fuming and red from his head to his toe

But calmed down again cause he knew I felt low.

And then in the attic we heard with a beat

The prancing and pawing of little bird’s feet

Faster than bullets towards us they came

Their leader whistled and shouted and called them by name

Come on Ollie, now Stanley, now Larry and Moe,

On Wally, on Beaver, on Shemp and Groucho.

They shouted as they fled off into the night

Happy father’s day to all, and the kids won’t even fight!