(drum roll please) My first cohesive synopisis!!! (I think)

I have tried over and over to simply describe this story in as few words as possible.

I end up with a rambling, scramble mess of weak storylines and trite characters.

I stumbled on a thread on the Script Frenzy Forum titled "Your Plot". People where just sort of dumping their plots on there- I'm sure they were just gabbing. I couldn't let myself butcher the sound of my story, so I took about 20 minutes and hammered out a little synopsis.

Ok, it may be too long for a synopsis, but its the most accurate abridged description I could come up with in 20 minutes. I think I like it.

"Nina is obsessed. She thinks she's in love with John, an 11 year boy and has been since the last time she saw him. She was 7, and now, she's 21.
She thinks she's seeing ghosts, too. Everyone told her she was making it up, but now, she's an adult and she isn't making anything up.

She can't even make a life for herself.

When the house she grew up in becomes vacant, she convinces her father to lease it too her and she moves back to the east coast to find some answers about her life.

And, she secretly hopes to find John.

When she gets back home, the details of her childhood become crystal clear- she never made any of it up- all the people she talked to to are still there. And theres one more- Jeremy.

The last time Nina saw John was the day Jeremy shot himself. It was also the only time she ever really talked to him, as she dragged John away from the scene and into her house while her mother called 911. And now Jeremy is in her house, trying to talk to her, trying to tell her to find John before he dies, too.

So, Nina gets a little help from her crew at her new job as a police dispatcher.

An affair with one of the officers makes Nina wonder if she should give up on John, but she can't- she's obsessed. Especially when she finds out John's obsessed as well."

Being sick sucks the soul out of my writing

I usually "write" in the car. In my head at least. I talk my characters through scenes, trying to feel out what one would say to another in certain situations. I works through how they got to that scene, what they want to do next, etc. It's really quite amazing I get anywhere safely at all.

I also "write" at night, laying in bed. Again, not actually typing. My actually typing happens at odd times throughout the day.

None of this has been happening this week.

Since Sunday night, though, I've been sick with some sort of cold/flu garbage. My brain has been reduced to a swirling grey sludge focused on breathing and getting my next dose of Advil.

It's Tuesday, and I'm trying to get back in gear. But I'm still achy and dull. I want my brain back so I can get back into the story.

Iwas just starting to gain some real ground and now I'm too lame to get it down. (of course, I'm well enough to write this boring post)

Sick sucks. Do I look like I'm capable of creativity?

Scripting my story

I'm stoked for Script Frenzy this year! I did it last year for the first time, and it was so much fun. I was really worried about how to format a script, but learned that a computer program does it for you. Thats awesome!

Script Frenzy has been dubbed "the Worst Screenwriting Contest" because there is no prize except for the actual finishing of your very own screenplay. No one has to read it, you don't have to stress, you just have fun and do it. The goal is to write a 100 page script, which can be a movie, a play, even a tv-show.

This comes along at a time when I am feeling like I'm just no good at writing, yet this story will not go away. Since I tend to come up with stories visually, Script writing could a good fit for me. I still really, really want to write novels, though.

But anyway, last year was great, I wrote a love story (surprised?) about two people who found each other again in a chance meeting at the airport, then spend a week together. I know, SOOO played, but I loved it! I got to 100 pages five minutes before midnight on the last day of April.

I'm working on some plot variations, since writing a screen play means a story has to be more succinct, more driven than in a novel. I'm hoping what I come up with could shape the novel for the better.

Some good criticism and a knock in the right direction- I think.

In addition to starting this blog, I also got active on Mothering.com's Mothers Writing Club forum. The forum is great, with lots of other moms doing the same thing I am (but with more experience, it seems).

I threw myself out there and posted a chapter in a thread, hoping someone, ANYONE would read it and tell me what sucks and what I can do about it.

I posted the section I posted on here (except I selected the entire chapter), and got some great feedback.

This re-write for me was about keeping some info back while throwing out the things I'd hoped would hook someone. It sort of worked.

It seems I created some elements of allure, but left people in dark with others. Good to know!

The worst part is my use of the English language. My grammar is terrible, my dialogue choppy and probably annoying (though no one actually said that).

I think I'll spend some quality time with the book Elements of Style, as per my college English teacher.

I'm doing Script Frenzy this year again, as it was awesome last year. I'm converting this very story to a screenplay, since I'm obsessed with it and wouldn't be able to get into any new characters right now. This has caused me to really solidify the structure of this story- it has to have some of the elements I wanted to cut out.

The orignal draft included a subplot of a depressed, disturbed ex-boyfriend who at the end tries to kill Nina. (cat's out of the bag, now, I guess) (but I'm not saying what happens...)

I took it out because it seemed like there was too much going on. Nina, seeing ghosts, obsessed over John, having an affair with a co-worker, then she also has this crazy person threatening her?

Well, I think, for the screenplay version at least, the action stays- since, frankly, it's the only real action in the story.

Supposedly I am an artist, and have a project that HAS to get done, so I have to force myself NOT to write today. Ugh. So, I'm on my porch drawing. I swear. I'm a responsible person getting my work done and not obsessing over fictional people. I took a picture to prove it.

Translation from my head to the keyboard

I love this freaking story. (even my big 'ole chunk of a first draft that my 2 year old scribbled all over.)

I'm finding this so hard. I have this story all laid out in my head visually. I know every facial expression, every smell and scene as though it happened to me yesterday. The problem is...I'm just not that good at writing!

So, I'm learning sentence by sentence. I've written and re-written this story in so many forms over the last 6 years. The first version was very, very cheesy. It lacked reality and didn't include the paranormal aspects that I now find to be at the heart of the story. The next version was the huge chunk I wrote for NaNoWriMo last November. Like I said before, I felt so confident that I was tempted to print it and pass it out to friends. (I get all swept up in my own delusions)

Luckily, I held off- distracted by the holidays. Then I picked up a red pen and began reading it.

I was painfully aware of the boring back-story, the unlikely events, and the horrible sentence structure that I'm always hoping will be chocked up as my "style". I was pretty discouraged.

Then I re-wrote a beginning and had Matt (my husband) read it.

I thought it was strong, but I started it a a totally random place, thinking it could propel the story better than a logical place to start. It was not good.

That's when I read a book about strong beginnings that inspired me to find that inciting event that sets the pace, and the scope of the story. It was a big risk, I thought, introducing someone into the story in the first paragraph that I hadn't planned to show until much, much later.

I'm glad I did, though. Now I just need to figure out how to use words in a way that doesn't bury these characters in a pile of language that does nothing for them.

I'm not sure if I should just be writing or reading to get better at this. I hope to re-write the section I posted below or to continue on in the story and just get the words down. For the 4th time.

This is all on top of the fact that I have 3 children, work at a preschool co-op and have a huge drawing project to complete for a client. I hate to admit it, but my obsession with this story has got to take a back seat- at least until today's to-do list is complete. Then I can thrust myself back into Nina's head and try to figure out what she would say is going on.

A new beginning to my current novel

Sheesh that sounds presumptious. It assumes I'm a writer.

Just because I've completed National Novel Writing Month's 50,000 word challenge twice (shameless bragging), doens't make me an AUTHOR.

Does it? Eh...I'm not going to worry about that right now.

This year I wrote a novel called Blood Freckles. It is a compilation of several stories I have written before or wanted to write, which suddenly came together for me last November.

The synopsis is this: Nina Frey grows up with an obsessive crush on a boy. They both witness the suicide of Jeremy, Nina's neighbor. This only makes Nina more fixated on this boy, who's name she doens't even know. As Nina becomes an adult, she never grows out of the obsession, and realizes there is more to it. She returns to her childhood home, where she realizes her love of "Adam" is not her only oddity. She see's through time, and Jeremy never really left.

(that synopsis is a work in progress)

At around 65,000 words, I thought it was perfect. Then I re-read it in January. It was much, much less than perfect.

Now, I re-write it. In first person, a point of view I don't think I understand.

Here is my very first publicly exposed excerpt: (be gentle, please)

It must be an old bar, because I can see people all over the place that aren’t here now, which usually happens in establishments that are old. These are the things my brain strays towards- which has helped keep me out of normal situations all my life. I can always retreat to the secret knowledge of what has been in a place over whats happening now.
I’m trying to live in that “now”. It’s sort of awful.

The thing about rum is that your fingers go numb before your mind does and then you just look like a fool, trying to open your purse or pick up a napkin. This is what he’s seeing, from across the bar- my clumsy fingers fidgeting while pretending to listen to a friends story. He looks inebriated also, but not in the embarrassing way I do. I keep thinking I’ll look up and he will have looked away, or worse, started talking to someone else. He is alone, doesn’t interact with anyone around him, drinking something brown over ice and smoking a cigarette every few minutes. He scares me to death.

I can’t look away from him because the fact is, I’m overwhelmingly attracted to him.
I have no understanding of what it means to be a woman in a bar, talking to a man. Until now, I’ve never been in a bar. I’ve only been with one man. (Man is questionable, I think boy, or maybe guy is a better label) I’ve only had alcohol a few times, and in very small amounts in the privacy of my own residence. This is all too adult for me, I’m sure. I’m just waiting for someone to walk up to me and revoke my license to adulthood or something. Surely I’m not old enough to be considering what would happen if this man comes and talks to me.

Erica is chattering on about something hilarious because both of my other friends are in stitches over it. I can’t really hear them. They are used to going to bars, they are used to reality in way that will never happen for me, I’m quite sure. For some reason, they either like me or tolerate me and my weirdness.

“Nina, just go talk to him.” Erica stops her own story short and poked my arm.

“No, I think he’s just drunk.” I shrug and pretend to sip my rum and Coke. I can’t bear to lose anymore function than I have already, but I feel stupid just sitting here.

“So? He’s fine, and he’s looking at you like you’re edible.” Erica says, swigging the rest of her beer. My other friends were eyeing me, waiting for me to act.

I’m numb from rum, but I get up. I grab my coat from the stool and make my way around the u-shaped bar. There is no crowd to negotiate, as least, not in everyone else’s eyes.

I don’t even look where I’m going, I just set myself down on the stool next to him and stare at the woodgrain of the bar top. Immobility seems to set in, perhaps for both of us. Maybe he wasn’t looking at me at all? Maybe we were all way off base? Maybe he thinks I’m dressed weird- which, is totally understandable if you know me.
He speaks.

“I was going to buy you a drink.”

His voice is close enough to my ear, I can feel the rush of air around the words. I manage to look at him, now at close range. His eyes aren’t dark, like I thought they were- they are grey.

“I don’t think I could take another drink.” I smirk.

“Me neither.” He says, setting his glass down and snuffing his cigarette. I notice he is wearing a Who t-shirt and jeans. I, in contrast am wearing a vintage black dress from the 40’s thats lined with red, with fishnet stockings and suede t-straps. I set my red hair in rollers and smoothed it into perfect waves, completing what now feels like a costume. I wish I could melt into the floor.

I watch him pull something out of his pocket, then turn my head away. I have no idea what to do or say. My friends moved to a small table in the corner where they are pretending not to watch me. They are laughing there asses off.

“I need to get out of here before I drink myself unconscious.” I hear him say in slurred speech. He is standing now, assisted by the wall behind him. His eyes are centered on me and filled with a look I recognize.

“Where are you going to go? Home?” I ask,innocent.

“Home is NY. I’m staying across the street.” He says, face unchanging.

“I drove myself here. I could…walk you there, I guess.” I say, tilting my head. I know better. I should be afraid. I should assume he’s going to kill me, but I can’t help it. I’m drawn in, and the bastard probably knows it.

He smiles and gestures to the door. I look back at my friends one more time, and Erica spits out her drink across Shelbys lap.

He steps outside and lights another cigarette. “Does this bother you?”

I clear my throat. “No, I mean, it’s cool, I just…I don’t know, maybe I’m assuming too much, I really just got out of a relationship, and it was my first relationship. I don’t really have much experience with these kinds of-”

“I meant the smoke.” He smiles, then inhales deeply.

“Oh.” I am such a loser. “No, it’s fine. I smoke sometimes.” I am the bumbling idiot I think I am.

He smiles, but winces and smooshes his forehead with his hand like his head hurts.
He takes me by the arm, loops his through mine and leads me across the street- a strangely familiar action for someone I’ve only known for 3 minutes. He smells good, not entirely like booze, but his brown hair is mussed in back like he hasn’t washed it or brushed it in a day or so. He’s wearing worn Converse sneakers that are barely tied.

The sun went down an hour ago, but light still remains. I breath in the city air and try to feel normal. There’s nothing about this that is normal for me. I’m a Pastors kid, for God’s sake. When we reach the hotel entrance, he opens the door for me. It’s an older hotel, privately owned, and well maintained. The lobby smells like old wood and carpet cleaner.

He leads me to a hallway while he rummages in his pocket for a room key. It is an actual key, in a time when most hotels are switching to cards.

He tries to get the key in the lock and drops it. I laugh a bit, thinking of plenty of bad omens I could tease him about if I knew him better. “Can I help you? I can still use my fingers.” I pick up the key and unlock the door myself. When I return the key to his hand, he leans in a plants his face on my neck, pushing me against the doorway. For a moment I can’t tell whether he intends to kiss my neck, or if he’s passed out. I put my arms around him and I’m relieved that he has not passed out.

Before the tomato-throwing commences, let explain that this goes on, but I'm not ready to post the rest of this scene. Mostly for reasons of embarrassment that my mom might read it and be made that I wrote something where two people had sex. For the record, mom, dad...people have sex. Even me. At least three times (I have the proof in my living room, watching Harry Potter and eating cookies).

I'm trying to write a beginning that hooks the reader by introducing the love interest immediately in a situation that, well, drives the reader onward.

I am the first to admit my writing is rough. I welcome your thoughts. I think. (I do, really)

Why another blog?

Because I need a place to dump my dreams.

"What are talking about now, Carolyn? Why can't you just be a normal adult and do some laundry like everyone else?"

Fine! I'll tell you. I've been trying the whole normal adult mom thing for a while, and I can't stop at that. I'm more than that!

"Oh, please!"

I'm serious...my brain can't handle regular life. I can't go through an entire day just thinking about getting gas in the van, making phone calls, cooking lunch or dealing with why my 2 year old keeps calling me a jerk.

My mind is elsewhere...

I have always had imaginary friends. I've always drawn pictures, usually of the same imaginary people and places. This was the product of having no other kids in the house, and perhaps some sort of chemical imbalance, the jury's still out on that one.

I've never been able to completely focus on the practical, though motherhood brought it all into focus at times. I'm simply too busy with visions of places and colors and conversations in my daydreams.

"You're such a weirdo."

I know! I think I'm done trying to pretend I'm some sort of productive adult. I love my kids. Though they may not always have socks on, or be able to boast of achievements for the PTA or my cooking- they know I adore them.

I have a great husband who's supportive of my never ending flighty tendencies.

I'm 31. I'm ready to tell the world I write, I paint, I draw and I love it all.

And I'm ready for criticism. (takes deep breath) I think.

I have a cruel inner critic. My art work is held under scrutiny at every stage, and my crippling fear of being lame sometimes prevents me from finishing anything at all.

As far as my writing, my inner critic is clueless. I'm fairly sure my writing sucks (for lack of a better word). I love my stories, and I can't stop thinking through the minds and eyes of my characters (who have become part of my brain for life). I have to keep writing, but I'm ready to (gulp) show people.

So, thats what this is. A loose dumping of my writing.

"Why would I want to read that?"

Alright, I'm not sure who let you in here. The answer is, I don't really care who reads it. But if you want to make a comment, do so because you think you can help me, or because you think I'm on to something cool. Don't be a jerk for jerks-sake.

Ok? So, here we go. You've been warned.