From November 'till Now

 Nanowrimo went alright. I didn't finish but I did get a good start on a novel I'm not sure I want to finish. #win

I've been struggling a lot with working up the courage to just turn in my final edits. Of course that would mean I'd have to do my final edits, but I'm working on that this weekend. Which, yes, it is Sunday but I also have Monday off.

I never thought this would be the hardest most terrifying part of self/indie publishing. I just don't wan to let go. Is it really only just a fear of failure? I think it's more than that. The good news is, if I can manage to let go of this book, I can visit that world again when I write book two and three.

By the way, I'm on the fence about that as well. Much more of this fence riding and I won't be able to sit. I'm torn between combining book 2 and 3 into just one solid piece? Or splitting it up like the outlines are currently written.

I'm pro-combining it because I think it would have some real weight. I tend to write smaller novels. TPD is weighing it about about 47k, if I combine those two stories I could have solid writing, minimal fluff (not that I fluff o.O) and a maybe 70k novel?

The outlines I have are going to be amazing to write, and I'm so excited about how I've stepped up the intensity, wrapped up all my loose ends, and developed all the characters. Maybe I should stop trying to just make decisions about everything and just write it out?

BUT!

Before I can write anything, I have to finish these edits and turn them into Pierre....

Have I mentioned Pierre?

He's the closest thing to have someone to answer to when you self-publish. He runs Schuler's espresso book machine.

He says that he writes reviews of books printed with Schuler's Cafe Press, only if he likes them.

I wonder if he'll read TPD...

-N

NANOWRIMO TIME!

I've decided to actually do Nanowrimo this year and not just dream about it. Last year I was working on The Persian Door, so I felt like I'd be cheating if I used that for my nanowrimo project. Technically you're not suppose to be working on something you've already worked on before.

I also thought it might be fun to blog about my progress, or lack there of, having to confess to the might interwebs might keep me on track. At least for a little while. ;)

Add me on nanowrimo.org !! I'd love to check out what you're up to this November. My name is NeWiilson (not case sensitive).

Bye for now!

P.S.
My progress so far has been rocky. I was behind but I got my shit together and I'm back on track. It's hard to go from writing a mysterious/adventurous young adult novel to writing something for an audience that appreciates dark humor. The good news is, I like it a lot better than I thought I would. Although, I have just started.

-N

Mrs. Wilson, where you been?

Around the world, now I'm back again!

Ok, not really. That's a Lil' Wayne quote...
 
But here's the dealio: Finished my novel in Febuary,  graduated from college in July, got married in August, landed a sweet freelance job in September with hyperinkpress.com, then got a second job at a music store in Ocotber. That's what I've been up to in a nutshell.

Also, I decided to revamp Pens Without Ink. It was getting stale and people seemed disinterested. So I shook it all up like a snow globe and now we have a years schedule for the writing club with lots of fun/no stressful stuff.

I almost forgot, I got a guinea pig, whom I ADORE, nammed Fitzgerald Darcy.
He humbly goes by Darcy, Darcy-Pants, or Guin-Guin san which is his Japanese name...

-N

Midnight Breeze

The deep roar
of thunder,
the clash of white
doesn't bother me
as I gaze out my
window, breathing
in the rich smells
of rain hitting
leaves of grass.

I still catch
my breath
when i see
the the lightning
shimmer like
handfuls of thrown
diamonds, then
vanish like the wake
of a dream.



-N (June 28, 1999; age thirteen)

Landfill Poem

I'm in a geology class. We had a landfill field trip today. For extra credit I pimped out my skills as a writer and wrote the dreaded "extra-credit" poem. (and yes I did include what I 'learned' in the class in my poem, it's all true fact, I swear! No really clovers to apparently grow on landfills after their capped off full). Even more alarming, I actually like it so much I thought I'd share it with you, #twitterverse. :) Please comment and tell me I'm not a loser or you can re: with your own impromptu landfill poem. Either way it's win-win.

Ottawa County Landfill

Up the graveled dirt we trudged,

us would be geologists; past

metal fridges and tire halves

while the turkey-vultures swoop

in circles way above.

I saw the tall cattails sway

in mucky brown slush; and

heard the horn of a

tall truck pass, filled to

the brim with methane muck;

and the landfills worth will

mostly never be known

above the grass caped trash

where sweet green clovers

grow.

Try for Me, by N.E.Avery

Try for Me

This is the voice you’ve given me: yes sir. right away sir.

This is the face you’ve given me: black.

This is the lie you’ve told about me: abortion is my number one killer.

This is how you’ve broken a race: turned us against ourselves.

Now, my eyes are open.

You pin me down and scrap me clean of ambitions

if I fight back you lapel me “viscous”;

Truth be told, it is my fault; 

I’ve allowed myself in your web to be caught

Now, my thoughts must be spoken.

I’ve gotta try

try

try

try for me.

To My Child (as i die), by N.E. Avery

To my Child (as i die)

"the flower in
the garden knows
of death
as it dies slowly
each autumn.

but does the sun
mourn the dew
drops in the
afternoon?

nor should you
mourn the flower.

Let it go, it will come back again.
Let me go, I will begin again."

Too Much Revision?

Am, I dreaming? I had to ask myself that question a couple times when I saw this article. Of course, I found it on twitter (amazing writer community on that social media!)and it brings a very interesting discussion topic to the writer table. Is it possible to revise your manuscript to much? I've always thought that over-thinking something does more harm than good but then I wasn't sure if there was truth to that or it I'm just innately lazy. I like to think it's a possible truth. :) Read the article from the Paris Review for your self and let me know what you think.

What do you like to read?

Pens Without Ink is taking suggestions for their writing club event called Pick-A-Book. Even if you're not a member of the club, follower of the blog, or a even a prolific writer, you're opinion still counts. Click the link below and post a comment suggesting what book you think Pens Without Ink should tear to shreds first!

Suggest a book NOW!

Carnival Ride, by N.E.Avery

Carnival Ride, In Our Own Words, 2010 (Print)

“Hi—My name is Martha” my cousin said
so sweetly southern-like to a carnie-boy running The Scrambler.
“Would you mind letting me and my cousins ride this ride
even though we’ve run out of tickets?”
Martha’s almost grown lean over the ride’s iron gate,
the soft breeze from her fluttering lashes and
the gently lulling country drawl worked on him.
So charmed was he—he didn’t reply. We walked past
the gate like three green-blue peacocks and climbed into
the red-white benched seat smallest to large. Laughing; feeling so fine.
He walked by—click click clank, click click clank—pushing
the bars down tight on our thighs. Our bench swayed
as the ride begun and we lurched like blown bluebonnets.
I closed my eyes; letting the wind peel them back open.

"Dominoes In July", N.E. Avery

Dominoes in July, In Our own Words, 2010 (print)

“God gave me lemons and ain’t nothin’ sweeter
than this iced lemonade in my glass here!”
“Are you going to play, May’jo, before the good
Lord our savior comes back?”
“You better hush now Merl West Sims,” she said but laughed.
I listened to them talk as I rocked back on my heels
keeping score beneath the cool
shadowed shade of the porch stoop.
The hot hard heat beat on my granny and her sister.
They lifted their glasses—sucking the cold ice dry
when their lemonade was gone and
talked to each other while they played—“Ten stitches in your britches!”
“Put down twenty for the weak side, gran’ baby!”—
I scratched it down with an old pencil.

Madam and the Rent man

Madam and the Rent Man
from The Selected Poems of
Langston Hughes

The rent man knocked.
He said, Howdy-do?
I said, What
Can I do for you?
He said, You know
Your rent is due.

I said, Listen,
Before I'd pay
I'd go to Hades
And rot away!

The sink is broke,
The water don't run,
And you ain't done a thing
You promised to've done.

Back window's cracked,
Kitchen floor squeaks,
There's rats in the cellar,
And the attic leaks.

He said, Madam,
It's not up to me.
I'm just the agent,
Don't you see?

I said, Naturally,
You pass the buck.
If it's money you want
You're out of luck.

He said, Madam,
I ain't pleased!
I said, Neither am I.

So we agrees!

Madam's Past History

Madam's Past History
from The Selected Poems of
Langston Hughes

My name is Johnson--
Madam Alberta K.
The Madam stands for business.
I'm smart that way.

I had a
HAIR-DRESSING PARLOR
Before
The depression put
The prices lower.

Then I had a
BARBECUE STAND
Till I got mixed up
With a no-good man.

Cause I had a insurance
The WPA
Said, We can't use you
Wealthy that way.

I said,
DON'T WORRY 'BOUT ME!
Just like the song,
You WPA folks take care of yourself--
And I'll get along.

I do cooking,
Day's work, too!
Alberta K. Johnson--
Madam to you.

Interview with Writing Whiz Kelsey Ronan

Kelsey Ronan

-N

Trump, Rebecca Black, and Friday Oh my!

My birthday was this weekend and besides having too much tequila,  which resulted in a heartburn that had me popping tums like I was pregnant,  there were some interesting things going on this weekend on CNN and Twitter.

First, this whole Trump running for presented thing seems to be irritating both Republicans and Democrats and frankly I don't think he'll make it very far. Trump would run this country like a mob boss and even though I am immensely liberal I would much rather see one of the previous republican runners take the presidential throne than Donald Grump.

Think about it, he's so nasty to Obama. He goes to places no republican has ever gone before in their hate for the president. You didn't hear Bush talking badly about Obama, you know why? It's called respect. President respect other presidents because you know that they have a lot to deal with and being the president turns your hair white and makes you age.

Now, I do remember Obama criticizing the Bush Administration for the policies, but that's just politics. Trump is walking around  NY like a rooster in a hen house. He brags about his success in getting Obama to release his birth certificate, when really he just another corporate bully. Now, he says he wants to see Obama's high-school transcripts because he doesn't believe he had good enough grades to get into Harvard....

Enough Donald Grump talk, (yes I'm doing that on purpose). His tactics are tactless and abrasive he better be careful he's acting  very nouveau riche and that's not a title any businessman wants.

I've wasted a lot of space on D.T. so I'll quickly talk singing sensation Rebecca Black

There was a link posted to an article interview of Rebecca Black where she shares her realization that her debut song "Friday" will be "on the internet for forever". Yes. Yes it will. Black also tried to shrug off the whole single as being just a fun expensive gift from her parents that she though no one would ever see. Right. That's why you posted it on the worlds largest internet video website, right? No one ever goes to YouTube to troll on confident people with no talent...


-N

"The Russian": Robert Bly

THE RUSSIAN

“The Russians had few doctors on the front line.
My father's job was this: after the battle
Was over, he'd walk among the men hit,
Sit down and ask: 'Would you like to die on your
Own in a few hours, or should I finish it?'
Most said, 'Don't leave me.' The two would have
A cigarette. He'd take out his small notebook—
We had no dogtags, you know— and write the man's
Name down, his wife's, his children, his address, and what
He wanted to say. When the the cigarette was done,
The soldier would turn his head to the side. My father
Finished off four hundred men that way during the war.
He never went crazy. They were his people.

He came to Toronto. My father in the summers
Would stand on the lawn with a hose, watering
The grass that way. It took a long time. He'd talk
To the moon, to the wind. 'I can hear you growing'—
He'd say to the grass. 'We come and go.
We're no different from each other. We are all
Part of something. We have a home.' When I was thirteen,
I said, 'Dad, do you know they've invented sprinklers
Now?' He went on watering the grass.
'This is my life. Just shut up if you don't understand it.'”

15 Facts About Me!

15 Facts:

1. I like divisible numbers. (24; 48; 36)
2. Optimis Prime is my hero.
3. Had a childhood dog named Spoc and a guinea pig named Pixie.
4. I read Jane Austen novels over again every spring and summer.
5. I'm really good at crocheting.
6. I don't trust salty foods that claim to be sweet; like cheesecake.
7. I have never eaten shrimp.
8. I like shoes because no matter how fat you are you can always find a pair.
9. My favorite kind of cheese is extra sharp cheddar.
10. I'm left handed.
11. I can play I can 6 different instruments.
12. I took three years of ballet.
13. I'm afraid to die and I'm afraid of death.
14. I love pina-colatas and getting caught in the rain.
15. I like men who look like they could throw me over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes
-N

Emily Dickinson: "Wild Nights"

Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile--the Winds--
To a Heart in port--
Done with the Compass--
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden
 

Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor--Tonight--
In Thee!

Philip Larkin: "Talking in Bed"

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds in the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.

W.B. Yeats: "Lake Isle of Innisfree"

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.