Addendum, homesickness
Hmm. Three different people zeroed in on three different ideas in my last post.
To clarify, I'm not really all that worried about whether or not it will get published, except that I don't write just because I have to--that imagination can be put to use in lots of ways, and I am always conscious that my end goal, even though I cannot worry about it yet, is to publish. That informs how I think about the story, because frankly I wouldn't worry so much about story problems if I was just writing it for fun.
That said, what REALLY worries me is that lately I just can't seem to get the damned thing written. I thought I'd be done with Ch. 2 last week; I've made only about 300 words' progress since then. I just don't feel as though I have the time to really sit and think and work on it. And I think that the actual solution is that I need to stop worrying about it and just work to the best of my ability. Authors are all different--Jim Butcher puts out a book a year; Melanie Rawn says it takes her anywhere from 3 to 5 years to write one book (which is why we're STILL waiting for the fucking Captal's Tower, which we'll probably never see, goddamn it. And don't even get me
started on how an author can have FORGOTTEN how she planned to resolve the plot?!?!?! Grrrrr!)
*Ahem*
Anyway, I guess the key is that I need to just accept that until summer, I'm going to move slowly if at all, and concentrate on working on it when I can and making it as good as I can now, and edit later.
There. I feel better now.
I'm homesick. I want to walk among the oaks of my home, in the May/June/July summer heat. More than that, I want to walk the rows of wine grapes, sampling the things as I go. I want to feel Sage flexing his powerful legs beneath me and surging forward when I click my tongue just so. I want to sit atop the rocks of Silverado trail, looking down at all the houses far below, and watch the hawk's soar around me. I want to ride my bike down Hagen Road. I want to walk along Jefferson street and stop at the Buttercream Bakery for breakfast, then have lunch at the Depot. I want to walk along third street and have a cherry coke at Partrich's.
Of course, I can't do a lot of that, anymore. Most of the businesses I miss are gone; downtown Napa looks very little like it did when I lived there. And I will never be able to afford to live in the neighborhood I cherish in my memories, with its huge rocks and towering oaks. The dry weed grass and stately old oaks of my home belong to someone else, now.
It's interesting, that a home in which I suffered so much abuse and terror is also the home I most wish I still had. I don't miss the people who lived in it, but the home itself looms large in my mind as a place of safety--because the abuse was always from one person, and my mind will not blame the environment I lived in on anything but that woman. If I owned that property now it would become my haven. Alas, this will never be possible.
So instead, I will drive to Napa. I will explore my hometown and remark on how different it is, and yet how similar, too. I will drive by places that loom large in my memory and remember the times I played there with Pablo Delgado and Mike Mitchell, the day I sat on that patch of grass and kissed Lorraine Bartley for hours, that spot on the river where I played with Andrea Van Der Heyden. Actually, scratch that; to get to that spot on the river I'd have to walk through Van Der Heyden Winery, and that's unlikely to happen.
Anyway. I miss home.
This Summer: The Great Graveside Tour
To clarify, I'm not really all that worried about whether or not it will get published, except that I don't write just because I have to--that imagination can be put to use in lots of ways, and I am always conscious that my end goal, even though I cannot worry about it yet, is to publish. That informs how I think about the story, because frankly I wouldn't worry so much about story problems if I was just writing it for fun.
That said, what REALLY worries me is that lately I just can't seem to get the damned thing written. I thought I'd be done with Ch. 2 last week; I've made only about 300 words' progress since then. I just don't feel as though I have the time to really sit and think and work on it. And I think that the actual solution is that I need to stop worrying about it and just work to the best of my ability. Authors are all different--Jim Butcher puts out a book a year; Melanie Rawn says it takes her anywhere from 3 to 5 years to write one book (which is why we're STILL waiting for the fucking Captal's Tower, which we'll probably never see, goddamn it. And don't even get me
started on how an author can have FORGOTTEN how she planned to resolve the plot?!?!?! Grrrrr!)
*Ahem*
Anyway, I guess the key is that I need to just accept that until summer, I'm going to move slowly if at all, and concentrate on working on it when I can and making it as good as I can now, and edit later.
There. I feel better now.
I'm homesick. I want to walk among the oaks of my home, in the May/June/July summer heat. More than that, I want to walk the rows of wine grapes, sampling the things as I go. I want to feel Sage flexing his powerful legs beneath me and surging forward when I click my tongue just so. I want to sit atop the rocks of Silverado trail, looking down at all the houses far below, and watch the hawk's soar around me. I want to ride my bike down Hagen Road. I want to walk along Jefferson street and stop at the Buttercream Bakery for breakfast, then have lunch at the Depot. I want to walk along third street and have a cherry coke at Partrich's.
Of course, I can't do a lot of that, anymore. Most of the businesses I miss are gone; downtown Napa looks very little like it did when I lived there. And I will never be able to afford to live in the neighborhood I cherish in my memories, with its huge rocks and towering oaks. The dry weed grass and stately old oaks of my home belong to someone else, now.
It's interesting, that a home in which I suffered so much abuse and terror is also the home I most wish I still had. I don't miss the people who lived in it, but the home itself looms large in my mind as a place of safety--because the abuse was always from one person, and my mind will not blame the environment I lived in on anything but that woman. If I owned that property now it would become my haven. Alas, this will never be possible.
So instead, I will drive to Napa. I will explore my hometown and remark on how different it is, and yet how similar, too. I will drive by places that loom large in my memory and remember the times I played there with Pablo Delgado and Mike Mitchell, the day I sat on that patch of grass and kissed Lorraine Bartley for hours, that spot on the river where I played with Andrea Van Der Heyden. Actually, scratch that; to get to that spot on the river I'd have to walk through Van Der Heyden Winery, and that's unlikely to happen.
Anyway. I miss home.
This Summer: The Great Graveside Tour