the affair.

When I'm not playing mommy to an overly expectant princess of a pooch (which is never, by the way), you can find me lost in my own world behind the screen of my laptop or between the pages of one of my many Moleskin journals. I'm a writer by nature, and I'm sure that if my head was not buzzing with some new concept or a scene for something in progress that I'd surely be crazy. Or normal, because sometimes I do believe that I am crazy. But that's a different blog post entirely. However, my craziness over the past few months has inspired me to look at a few of my characters in a new light in an attempt to give them new depth. It is with new inspiration and old encouragement that I continue to fight the good fight for self, for creativity, for novel. *raises fist*

Writing also makes me late from my breaks at work.

I am currently working on a novel I started Sunday, May 2, 2010. Holy shit, that was a long time ago. In fact, I had to look at the properties of the file to tell you when I created it, and I'm honestly surprised that I've been working on it for this long. You see, typically, I am very good at coming up with story concepts. I absolutely love beginning a story, searching through fonts to continue it in, typing away merrily as though I have it all figured out, becoming irritated with the look and then changing the font several times all before creating a new concept, deserting the old one to use up space on my laptop all to start the cycle again. This novel, though, this one is a bit different. You see, the reason I fail at literary (I wish) completion is due to the fact that I have no accountability about writing. I don't have an agent or an editor; there is no one official to tell me, "hey, Cass, you really need to stop slacking and start writing!" Well, it was like that until Liz Strohm decided to change the game up.

Liz and I went to high school together. She graduated a year before me because, well, you know, she was a year older than me. We had spent dance classes and theatre classes together; while we didn't necessarily spend our break time hanging out together within the same group of friends (though both sects of our friends knew each other), we did find time to hang out after school. From early on, Liz knew of my passion for writing. She always encouraged it, and even after we lost contact for a couple of years after I graduated, Liz and I eventually found each other again, created our own weekly dates and revisited the topic of my love of writing. I would let her read current work and every week the stories would change. I'd start one and drop it, begin another and then forget about it, until I told her about the novel I am currently bound to. Liz loved the concept so much, as well as the idea that being a writer was my only option as future revenue, that she forced me into a contract about the progress of my story.

Okay, okay, perhaps I wasn't necessarily forced, but the idea was entirely hers. I just went along with it, ready to sign my life away to her with the quick swipe of a messy signature across a piece of paper she found at the bottom of her purse. It was with that signature that everything in my writing universe would change. 

Liz. She means business. With a smile.

As you can tell from the date I posted above, my novel has taken me a long time to construct, and I'm not even done with it yet. I update Liz weekly, albeit late at times, but she always gets her update. Even my move from L.A. to Vegas has not upset the flow of emails she receives regularly, as hard as it is to write at times. And it is hard. If there is anyone out there who thinks writing a novel is easy, boy, are you mistaken. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have the passion to write. I really believe I wouldn't have a purpose. But with all of the love and enjoyment I get from my craft, it is a lot of work. I've come to many walls writing this novel, moments of agonizing writer's block; I've let those tiny whispers of "what are you wasting your time writing this for?" and "do you really think this is going to amount to anything?" get to me. And it's easy with the content I'm working with in regards to my storyline. Reading my friends' work and the work of some amazing authors out there often intimidates me. The fact that deciding to "be a writer" as an occupation often merits a stable income resource alongside it because not everyone is a Stephen King or J.K. Rowling also teeters me towards the side of pessimism. But then I recall all of the lovely emails of praise and constructive criticism from Liz, and others with whom I've shared my novel, and the fact that people actually do want to know what will happen moves me forward, because after all, writing really isn't about being a Stephen King or a wealthy billionaire J.K. Rowling ... (oh, how nice that would be -__-); it's about affecting that one person out there, making them feel something, relate to something, learn from something that came from my own head. I learned that the day I was messaged from a counselor from a summer camp I worked with once upon a time. She and I were merely acquaintances, friendly, but nothing more. It had been several months since I'd seen her. I'd posted a poem I'd written on my poetry blog and then linked it to my Facebook not really expecting much of anything to happen from it. But then I got that message from her; she said the poem was exactly what she'd been feeling lately, and that she loved it because of that. I don't think I've ever been prouder of something I've written. I made someone feel something that day, all because I shared a piece of myself in the form of written word. Whenever I am feeling like I'm hitting my head against the wall, struggling at a lost cause of a novel, I remember that girl and that poem, and I wipe the dust off my shoulders and continue to press on against that wall. The world I've created won't write itself without me, though I often end up watching everything unfold in surprise. 

Through all of the hardships of writing, these things keep my fingers tapping away at the keys. They keep me creative and receptive of the recipes life inspires to stimulate my own fantasy worlds. And so, I press on with my novel because I want nothing more than to finish it and touch somebody in the world with it ... and because legally I'm bound to finishing it.

I am also environmentally friendly, acting as my own notepad.

166,384 words currently. 254 pages currently. I don't know what the counts will be tomorrow, nor do I have an estimate of where those counts will be at its completion. All I know is that this work in progress is going to take me somewhere; maybe not fame-wise or money-wise or even to wizard rock band status. But it is going to take me to an end of hard, loving labor, fueling proof that even someone as scatter brained as I can actually finish something of substance. And there is substance to it in some way, to somebody. To me. But until then I will hold up my end of the contract and continue to fuel this fire that's ready to blaze out of my hard drive. 

I hope you all continue to follow me throughout my journey to see its completion. I hope my passion makes you proud.

Thanks, Liz. I love you.

Staying creative,
Rae. 

P.S. I've changed the font to this blog post three times.