My outside voices: Lily, right, and Jovie.
For years the characters of my novel have been tromping around my brain, telling me their stories and insisting I write them down. And for years I've been telling them to stop yelling and be patient. Half a book and two sweet (but somewhat bossy) little girls later, my characters are stuck in story purgatory, I now plead with actual people to stop yelling and be patient and I'm struggling to overcome a tremendous case of writer's guilt.
This blog will be all about my inside voices -- those characters whose tapping feet are full of impatience, those well-meaning nags who tell me there's not enough room in my brain for motherhood and writerhood and the loudest of the bunch -- the "why bothers"?
Oh yeah - and my inner Stewies:
Fast forward to 2015 ...
It's done. Against all odds (or maybe it should be in spite of all whining) I finished my novel. Technically I finished the first draft in August 2014, then I foisted it upon various friends and family to make sense of it, then I tried to ignore its existence because it was such a different piece than the one I had originally envisioned (I imagine Dr. Frankenstein can relate), then I revised and reworked and whined some more and trimmed and drank some wine. And now that it's more or less what it probably always needed to be, I'm looking for an agent. Commence obsessing, anxiety and low-grade nausea.
Of course the inside voices haven't stopped. That's the problem with them. You let a few hang out for some coffee and then they invite a few more friends and then all the sudden everyone wants to tell their story and then you resume the anxiety and procrastination and feverish writing that you did the first time around. I might be insane. It's all relative.
My outside voices have grown as well:
|Here Lily and Jovie re-enact their favorite scene from "Lady and the Tramp."|