I decided to make a list of the writing projects I have on deck for this year.

• Finish my rewrite of my first ever novel.
• Write the second novel in that series.
• Finish the Macbeth novel. Especially before Rob kills me. Because frankly that would suck.
• Finish the superhero novel.
• Finish that one project I’m working on under a pseudonym that already has many fans! Which is totally cool.
• Send out one play to at least five contests.
• Do this with at least three plays.
• Write several more 10-minute plays.
• Write a one-act play.
• Write a full-length play.
• Send these out.
• Work on a list of possible ideas for a screenplay.

You know, for someone who complains she doesn’t have enough ideas, I certainly do have plenty of projects to work on.

And seeing it laid out like that reinforces my desire to have serious writing time!

Woot, I won:

Scarily enough, I realized the first time I did NaNoWriMo was in 2004. (Yes! I was ahead of the curve! I’m TRENDY!) And one big difference between this year and that one, I realized, was not that I finished on the last day (you tell me to do 50,000 words in 30 days, apparently I get it into my head that finishing on day 30 is A-OK). No, the big difference is that I much more of a novelist now.

In 2004, on the last day, I was trying desperately to finish the novel. It was a murder mystery, and I had no damn idea whodunnit, so that last day was spent furiously trying to come up with a villain and write out the conclusion, etc, etc. I rewrote that book completely (it’s the book that got me an agent and went out to publishing houses), and while broad story strokes survived from that first draft, not much of the actual writing did. However, on Nov. 30, 2004, I had a complete book. It was fifty thousand words, and I was exhausted. I couldn’t believe I’d written so much on one story before (let alone in thirty days).

On Nov. 30, 2010, after fifty thousand words, I was within seven thousand to ten thousand words of getting to the end of Act I. I wasn’t quite there yet, but I knew the path I was going to take to get there.

That’s quite a difference in writing style.

Admittedly, at least fifteen thousand of the words of this year’s book were spent on scenes that could be politely described as “figuring out my character.” One day I started at the beginning and read all the way through. I ended up completely depressed (because it was clear so much of it was simply figuring my story and my characters out and would have to be thrown out wholesale)…which is why you’re not supposed to read your draft in progress. If I decide to rewrite this story, I know the setup much better now and I would probably try to get to the end of Act I by 40,000 words instead of the 60,000 word point.

I was surprised that the idea of taking 40,000 words just to set everything in motion feels much more comfortable now.

In case anyone else is too.

And wants to be buddies.

My handle (as it has been for some number of years running) is “dianeofnka”.

Happy writing!

While waiting to pick up the kids today, I had an unusual conversation. More accurately, I was on the receiving end of a monologue about the state of this person’s marriage, their net worth, court orders in their possession concerning child custody, what type of person they like to date, and did I mention net worth? Repeatedly?

I didn’t say anything and I guess I didn’t need to. But should I have? I wonder which response would have worked for me:

1) “You really need someone better qualified than me to help you work through this traumatic situation”; or

2) “Just so you know right off the bat, I’m a writer, and wow am I using this.”

You can read a little bit about my hunt for an agent and my thoughts on the process in this interview at QueryTracker (which is totally the greatest website if you’re looking for an agent and trying to manage the process).

Today I sent off the manuscript with my agent’s comments incorporated.

Tomorrow…the world! Muahahahahaha… okay, maybe I’m a little punchy from this edit…

There’s the famous Zen koan about the Zen master, his student, and the cup of tea — rather than repeat it, I’ll point you to this retelling of it — I often think about. Particularly during writing workshops. People often come in with their work and they don’t want feedback, they want praise. And they tell you that your criticisms of the work are wrong — who are you going to believe, the writer or your lying eyes?

I’ve seen a couple examples of this recently. In playwriting class we do a cold reading/basic acting out of someone’s script, the writer speaks about what they think of how it turned out, and then the class critiques what they’ve just seen. There’s always one writer — maybe one or two per quarter, thank goodness, not every week — who starts to argue back. And it goes on. And on. Until people (finally) realize it’s a lost cause and stop commenting.

All of the feedback you get might, in fact, be wrong. This can absolutely be the case. But you have to consider it first. Empty your damn teacup and look at the tea. Not the right tea for you? Great: toss it out. But taste it first before you decide. (In fact, I should tell the playwriting teacher we need a new rule: as now, the writer gets to speak first, and then they shut the hell up.)

Now, I have been guilty of the teacup full of hubris myself: I think I know it all, only to discover, Eh, whoops, not so much. In fact, thinking I know it all and finding out I’m dead wrong seem to go hand in hand. So whenever I’m completely certain I’m right and they’re wrong, I take a moment to consider various ways to look at it.

This doesn’t mean I accept any and all criticism as valid. I’m still the one in charge of my writing, and I have to decide if what they’re saying is true or not.

There are several levels of criticism:

1. “You are a bozo and ugly and you write like crap.” This is criticism it is safe to disregard because it’s non-specific as to where the problems in the story lie.

2. “I dunno. I just kinda didn’t like it.” This is tough, because you then have to work with your critic to pick out what they didn’t like. When did they stop? Were they just bored? Was there anything they did like?

3. “I didn’t like your main character. He should be a ninja!” Aha. Here we get to the Problem and the Fix. It is always safe to disregard the Fix. Your critiquer’s Fix may turn out to be exactly what you need, but more likely it’s not. It is a pointer to where a problem in your story might be.

4. “He should be a ninja!” Either your critiquer thinks every story should have a ninja, or they’ve leaped right to the Fix stage, wanting to help get your story into the best shape ever. It’s incredibly tough to hear this and not think, “Yeah, tweedy insurance adjuster…not fun. He should be a ninja.” When what you’ve got to think is, “Okay, there’s a problem with my main character being too boring, too passive, or not wearing enough black.”

   This stage requires you to know your critiquer. Is this how they generally express their feedback? Or are they trying to write your story for you? Also, your main character may be completely fine as is and your critiquer is out to lunch.

5. “I thought the middle section, where they string up the witches and beat them with cream pies, was kind of slow and I lost interest there.” They know where the problem is, but they’re not diagnosing it for you. Excellent. Even better, you know the problem always comes before the point where they lost interest. You can analyze that section and move backward.

I’m sure there are several other types too. (Feel free to post in comments.)

Yes, there can be all kinds of misguided feedback in workshops or writing groups. A certain amount of groupthink does go on and you have to decide, Is this feedback about my play, or do they tell everyone that every play needs a fool character?

So pick your commenters wisely, listen to them, and then consciously decide which parts of the feedback are valuable for you and how.

Otherwise, you’re just wasting all of our time.