I don’t know about y’all, but I need A LOT of words this weekend. I need ass in the chair, fingers on keys, and words pouring out of my eyeballs onto the screen.
It’s week 5 of 10K Weekends For Writers and week 4 was a pathetic effort on my part. I got less words last weekend than I’ve gotten all year long and we’re only in February! (Can you believe that, btw? I mean FEBRUARY!)
So, bring your manuscript, your determination, your motivation, your terrible for you snacks (or if you’re one of those who can eat healthy writing having a writing binge, go on and bring your carrot sticks and water)… But it’s time to get down to it and write.
Author, bloggers, college students with a paper to write… Let’s get it on!
Add your name to the Linky below and keep track of your word count. The social media hashtag is #10KWeekendsForWriters. Grab the little badge if you want, but join in! Challenge yourself. Can you write 10,000 words between 7pm tonight (Thursday) and Noon on Sunday? Why noon? Because it’s Super Bowl Sunday. I didn’t forget. Hell, I’ll be watching and pulling for Peyton! And for those who won’t be watching, you can have until 10pm as usual. But for those watching the Super Bowl? It means is that YOU and I have to get the most words in BEFORE kickoff, before you start the party, before the beer is cold enough…
The title of this post was the first line of an email I received and while Shirley likely didn’t and doesn’t expect an answer, I’m going to give one anyway.
It came from me. It came from deep down inside me. Claire is me and I am Claire. At least, parts of me are. At least parts of her are. And she needed to come out. She needed to breathe. She needed to talk. I needed to let her. I needed to shut off all the shit inside my head and let HER out, let HER talk to me, to you, to whoever wanted to read about her.
It’s not a long book. It could have had more added to it. Thousands of additional words, but you know what? No. It’s good right at the length it is. Too many more words and would have been the same extraneous crap that fills most books, the superficial shit that doesn’t need to be there.
But it’s good where it is. It ends as it should. It begins as it should. It follows a personal journey. It follows a timetable. It follows a thought process, though at a deeper level. Facts have been changed, but the pain remained the same. Healing happened and the catalyst was real.
Those initials in the dedication? They’re all real people. Three Dominants and a male submissive. All real. All I know. All who helped this journey at one stage or another. It’s personal and you don’t get to tell me that it’s not true to the lifestyle this time. You don’t get to tell me it’s not BDSM enough, or BDSM at all. You don’t get to tell me ‘Oh but you don’t write that.’ You don’t get to tell me to change the blurb, change the cover, change how I promote it. You don’t get to tell me the characters aren’t damaged enough. You don’t get to tell me that it’s really vanilla wrapped in kink. You don’t get to tell me it’s not important, that it happened to quick, that it needed more, that it isn’t real. You don’t get to tell me shit because there are parts of this that you haven’t lived, that you haven’t touched, that you haven’t known. Until now.
Some books take off. Some don’t. Some have a short shelf life. Some don’t. Some names, some stories have finite existence. Some don’t. I’ve been told enough that I couldn’t, shouldn’t write certain things. I’ve had, and let, myself be told how and when and what. And let’s be clear… i LET myself…
I wasn’t strong enough. I was a newbie. I listened to others tell me how to tell my stories, what visions I should have, what I needed to do to if I was going to make it… I listened. And I was MISERABLE! As a writer, as an artist, as a storyteller, I WAS MISERABLE! Add in some personal trials, some heartache, some emotional challenges, and I was THIS. CLOSE.
But, then… I met someone who let me talk. Who liked words the professional world of writing has never read from me. Raw, unpolished, from deep in my soul words. Words of desire, passion, forgiveness, and growth… And that was when I knew. It was time….
All the negative, undermining, should’s and shouldn’ts, need to’s and don’t need to’s… All the voices I kept hearing in my head, all the words I kept seeing from emails and reviews and memories too hurtful to keep inside anymore… All the caution and safety and hiding behind walls, both personal and professional, came down. And you know what it came down to? It came down to Fuck you. Fuck. You. It’s not your book to write, not your story to tell, not your business to make or break, not your life to live. Fuck. You.
I turned to a friend who told me it was okay. Who said You Got This.
One turned to me looking for advice and help, but who, in the end, helped me.
Four active in BDSM, who all taught me many things about myself and the lifestyle.
And then, I wrote. I said fuck you to everything and everyone who ever said You Shoudn’t Do That, and I wrote. I poured my heart out, my soul out. For 27, 000 words, I cried. I hurt. I gave it my all. And I sent it out into the world.
Then, I got scared. I texted my friends. I was scared. The voices came back. The doubt, the fear, the anxiety. It all came back. What had I done? What was I doing? I don’t write this. I don’t put myself out there like this anymore. I don’t get personal anymore. What had I done?
When Shirley’s email came in last night, it was like a balm to my bruised and battered being. I told a story that made someone else cry. I told a story that made someone else FEEL! Do you understand what that’s like? To make someone FEEL? To make someone else’s eyes tear up while they’re reading my words? MY WORDS?
Break Me is a new voice. I’ve been telling y’all it was coming. It’s different for me. It’s new for me. And I love it. Do you understand that, too? I love this voice, this vulnerability in my writing because it’s fucking real. It’s painful, it’s beautiful, and it’s MINE. It’s ME. It’s been locked up behind doubt, both self and from outside sources, you know, those successful, know all the things people. This one story, this voice… This is who I dreamed about becoming, who I dreamed about being when I began writing. This is who my college English professor saw through the words I wrote in class. This is who the catalyst saw through the words none of you have ever seen.
I have said Fuck You more times in the last 4 weeks, than I have said in my entire life. Every piece of self sabotage or self doubt has received a hearty helping of Fuck You. Every bit of anyone telling me what I MUST do, what I MUST write, has received a helping of Fuck You, too.
I want authentic. I want real. I want ugly crying. I want joy. I want the stories I want to tell to be what comes from me. Not what is safe and sound and that fits perfectly into this category or that slot in promotion. Will I be successful in the business of writing/publishing/selling my soul to the Facebook Gods? Probably not. More than likely not. It doesn’t work that way. You have to conform. You have to do what everyone else is doing even though we’re all sick to death of it all.
One of my favorite lines in one of my favorite movies, Wonder Boys, is “He respects us enough to forget us, and that takes courage.” He is the writer. Us are the readers.
And my happiness is worth more than fitting in to a writing cookie cutter. I want the books I want to write. It’s reckless and it’s daring. It’s scary and it’s brave. It’s my fucking story to tell and it came from deep down inside me.
Thank you to T for breaking me. For helping to shatter my ability to trust myself and others. Same goes for J and L and S (female)…
Thank you to JR, the blue collar atypical Dom, for helping to put me back together again and for making me laugh through it all.
Thank you to another S (male) for letting me open up, for letting me share, for letting me explore my own emotions, and for reading each and every word of Break Me without judgment.
Thank you to m for showing me another side of selflessness, of selfishness, of devotion to self.
Thank you to Shirley for the email Friday night… For asking where this book came from. It came from me.
And thank you to Scarlett Dawn and the bringing together of so many wonderful authors and the many different voices to tell stories from The Club.
It’s that time again and y’all I’ve got a crapton of words to get down this weekend. 10K minimum! Who’s with me?
If you’re new to this, all you need to do is sign up with the Linky at the bottom of the post, then start writing! That’s it! Oh, and we talk on social media, encouraging each other through the weekend with the hashtag #10KWeekendsForWriters
Blogger, or author… Come on down! Keep track of your word count and let us know at the end of the weekend!
One of our participants last weekend, author Amy Ruttan, logged 14K! How awesome, right!
Snag the button from the side bar. Tell your friends. Invite people to join in! The more the merrier. This is about building community, getting words down, and having fun challenging ourselves!
It’s that time of the week again! It’s time to get your write on! Meet those deadlines. Get started on that new WIP. Get beyond that scene that’s had you deadlocked. Or get those reviews written that you’re behind on.
10K Weekends For Writers is open to writers and bloggers alike!
With the impending Winter storm headed into the East Coast for the weekend, if you have power and can write, it’s the perfect time to do so. Get something warm to drink, bundle up, and get writing!
Sign in below to let us know you’re playing along and leave a comment at the end of the weekend with where your word count started and where you ended up!
This is what I’ve been doing all week. I’m up at Four In The Morning. I’m actually up before four, but by four I’m usually writing and well into a cup of coffee. The second cup comes in at about six, but four is when I’ve been pretty much hitting my stride.
I’ve had to make some time management decisions lately and let me tell you, it sucks. I like early mornings/late nights, or maybe it’s late nights/early mornings. Hell, I’m so tired I don’t know anymore. But, in order to get anything done and done the way I need it done, and that’s the key right there, ya know… the way I NEED it done, I had to make a few changes. One was that I go to bed a little earlier and get up no later than three in the morning.
When I writing more, I was doing so in the middle of the night. The house is asleep. No one can bother me and I can’t make a whole hell of a lot of noise cleaning or cooking or do the laundry. I could put in my earbuds, turn on the music, and write for several hours. There were a few people on Twitter and we would converse every so often, but set a timer, some tunes, and I was good to go until around five or six…
Then public school dreams for my son crept into his brain and shot all that to shit. With that, I was getting up at five-thirty, to bed at ten, homework until nine, and empty nest syndrome that left me with so many hours on my hands, I didn’t know what to do. I tried for weeks, months to write during the day, I mean, I had all these empty hours, right? It should be easy to get things done, but… Nope. I would stare at the screen, walk around, stare at the screen some more, walk around… I wasn’t getting words in and I wasn’t walking off the pounds. It was miserable.
I got the idea to try this getting up at two and three from another author. She does it when she’s on deadline and I can tell you I’m on two so… But then, deadlines are when I do my best work. These books should’ve been done long ago, but that’s a story for another day.
Suffice it to say, I’ve gotten more writing done in the last four days than I have in the last month. I know where the stories are going and know that they’ll be done in time for publication. Sometimes I have to be pushed to my limits in order to find a solution. Sometimes I have to have no other options before I’ll find something that might actually work. Either way, while I’m still exhausted, some changes have been made the household schedule that’s allowing me the chance to try out this insane way of working. I get up, write for a while, get my son up, the spouse gets up, I get food, throw in a load of laundry, get more coffee, make the bed, say bye to them, work a little more, and around eight am I crash for a couple of hours. I do housework, walk, shower, work, get dinner started, get my son from school, nap again cause I’m beat, homework, family, a few oh shit moments when I realize I forgot to do something, and then, bed to do it all over again. I don’t know how sustainable it is, but we’re about to find out… I’ll keep you posted…