"Andy"

Thanks to my online writing family, I've been pushing forward on a "summer butt-kicking goal" to finish the current draft of my WIP in order to share with the group by the end of August. It's getting down to the wire and I have two chapters left to hammer out, but I will persevere!

As much as I love my WIP, it is starting to feel a little stale. After all, I've been working on it pretty much non-stop for a few years now. I'm feeling the itch to start something new, but I'm afraid I won't be able to give the attention necessary to a new piece while I'm still fussing over my current WIP. Besides that, I think subconsciously I have myself convinced that I'll never be able to write another story anyway. Surely it was pure luck that got the last 34,000 words down, right??

The thing is, I've had another character and story in my head for a couple years. His name is Andy, and he's autistic as well as non-verbal. Andy grew out of my experience working with a non-verbal autistic child in my kindergarten classroom a few years ago. That was a challenging year for me and the student as we tried to negotiate meaning. That created lots of frustration for my "Andy" which lead to episodes of flight from the room and sometimes violent behavior.

But "Andy" intrigued me. How many words did he have bottled up inside? How many stories could he tell? What could we learn from him? I decided to try writing from his perspective one day. It was difficult for me to give him an authentic voice - one that I knew was deep inside him aching to come out. Below was my first attempt. Let me know your thoughts on the authenticity of his voice. I think it's time to explore his story again.

“… went to the zoo on Saturday…”

“Are you going to…”

“…tried all those things but nothing has worked so far…”

“…basketball practice…”

“…new book…”

There. That’s something to focus on. I turn my head to find the source of the voice as the others buzz inside my ears. Books. That’s something worth listening to. I fight off the droning noise, trying to ignore the smells of cinnamon rolls, mint Chap Stick, wet carpet – bright lights from above humming almost as loudly as the air conditioner, and making me squint. Finally, I zero in as sights, sounds and smells continuing to bombard me. Those girls by the library door – they’re the ones talking about a book.  The library is my favorite place! I break free from Mom’s hand to run to the library.

The girls in front of me fill my vision more and more until I’m within steps of them. They see me, and their faces change. Their conversation stops. The girl with the book jumps away from me, but I want to see the new book she’s talking about. I grab at the book in her hand. She surrenders it to me immediately and I open the cover, flipping wildly through the pages. Words flood my vision, but calm suffuses my head. The noises subside and the words on the page are all I can hear. I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Andy, you can’t take books from people. Give it back to her,” Mom says.

I continue flipping through the pages as fast as I can, feeling more than reading the words. Then Mom’s hand is on the book. She pulls it from me before I can reach the end. Keening bubbles up from my belly and escapes from my throat to fill the hallway. My empty hand slaps her arm, but I barely feel the contact. Mom quickly gives the book back to the girl and turns to grab my hands, both of them slapping at her now.

“Andy, gentle hands. That hurts me,” she says with a calm voice, but her body is tense and ready for my next blows. 

A loud ringing noise fills my head and I fall to my knees covering my ears in a useless attempt to keep the noise out. My hands itch to strike at something, but the noise is everywhere and I need my hands to protect my ears. Finally the noise stops. Slowly I pull my hands from my ears, unclench my jaw and open my eyes to the school hallway. It’s empty now, the bell signaling the start of class. Now all I hear are the fluorescent lights, murmuring voices from the library and my own breathing.  Footsteps advance, and I turn to see my teacher.

“Andy, looks like you’re having a rough start today.” Mrs. Morgan holds out her hand. “Come on; let’s go do your morning check in.” 

I lay there on my back patting my feet on the floor in a rhythm - patPAT, patPAT, patPAT – one foot hitting the floor a little harder than the other one.

Mrs. Morgan bends down next to me. “Let’s go, Andy. I’ve got some new books for you to look at in the sensory room.”

That gets my attention. I roll over onto my knees and jump up, sprinting down the hall to the sensory room, almost running into another student that’s coming around the corner at the end of the hall. But then, WAIT. I stop short in front of the boy and peer at his shirt. It has minions on it. I tug the shirt this way and that trying to see the picture better. I touch the word “BANANA” on the shirt.

“Banana!” I yell, and then grunt. Grunting feels good. Minions make me feel good. Words feel good. I poke the shirt and yell again, “Banana!” The boy starts to back away from me, but I want to look at his shirt a little longer.

Then Mrs. Morgan is standing between the minion shirt and me. I slap at her big stomach. “Banana!” I yell, trying to make her understand.

She grabs my hands. “Gentle hands, Andy. Let’s go to the sensory room now.”

 I slap her again in protest, but then she takes my hand and pulls me toward the sensory room door. My free hand slaps at her all the way into the room where she finally releases me.

“Banana!” I yell and run to my safe spot, hiding under a table and pulling my minion blanket over my head. Darkness covers me but I can still hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above. I grab the earmuffs from the corner of my safe place and pull them firmly over my ears. Finally, quiet ensues.

Laying like this in the dark, with the sound of the other world blocked out, I can hear the world in my head. My mind repeats the words to me from the new book that I took from the girl in the hall. My body begins to relax and I feel calm again.

Soon, I feel calm enough again to come out of my safe place into the outside world, leaving the world in my head behind for a while. It’s hard to exist in two worlds, but I’m slowly learning how to do it.

For a long time, there was only the world in my head. Then, one day Mom brought me to this place she calls “school”. I’ve read about school, but this place doesn’t match what I imagined. Since I’ve been to “school”, I haven’t learned anything, I don’t sit at desks, I don’t eat in the cafeteria with the other students. Although, I’m glad for that because the noise interrupts my concentration. I’ve been on the playground, but there are too many things happening at once – colors, voices, moving people. I’ve decided that “school” is for the outside world while school is the idea in my head.

Diary Dilemma

I still remember the day I got my own diary - the kind with the key and lock. I was at my grandma's house and couldn't wait to get started writing in it. I still have that diary tucked away in a box of mementos.

I suppose that's why I'm incorporating diary entries for my character, Savannah, in the MG story I'm writing. The problem is, she's writing about much deeper things than I ever would have. In her defense, she's an Army kid whose dad is deployed to Iraq. Kids nowadays deal with trauma with much more frequency than my generation did. So, my question is, can my MG character use her diary a bit more maturely than characters might have in books published before now? 

I'm in a really wonderful online critique group. Those ladies help me see and think about things in my book that I wouldn't have. But one thing they mention a lot is that Savannah's diary entries are too long and formal. If you have a minute, take a read of a couple of her entries I haven't been able to use (but would love to incorporate somehow) and give me your opinion.

Diary, 

I'm starting to realize that my life is very different from other people. That should be obvious, but it wasn't to me. I've never known anything different than a dad in fatigues that's gone sometimes. But mostly he's just gone for training, not war. Kids with two parents that have normal jobs and don't have to move every couple years don't even know how good they have it. Sometimes I'm afraid to have friends over because they'll finally see what a weirdo my family is from planet Army. Maybe it's this move that's made me see the differences now. It's like my family is my favorite, most comfortable sweater that suddenly becomes itchy, hot and the ugliest shade of orange when I show it to others. But Trudy is different. She and I have matching sweaters!

Diary,

Is it weird that I'm never upset to move? All my friends cry when I leave but I don't feel like crying at all. Maybe I like moving. Or maybe I never get attached enough to friends to cry over leaving. For me, going to a new place is like starting in a fresh journal. There are no mistakes and endless possibilities.

Opinions? I would like to point out that Savannah sounds much more informal and "kid-like" in her dialogue with other characters. But writing is prone to be more formal than speech, so I think that's why she comes off more mature in her diary entries. Granted, Savannah's grown up a little faster than other kids her age because of her life circumstances. In the end, I want kids to connect with her the same as any author. Which brings me to another dilemma - should Savannah be blogging these entries instead of writing them in a journal? Aaargh! The endless challenges!!

Writing Family

This year, I've had the fabulous fortune of being part of an email writing accountability group with 18 other women from across the US and Canada. While you may think it unlikely that emailing could create accountability, let alone camaraderie or family, you're wrong.

These wonderful and talented women have been there to encourage in so many more ways than writing since the end of November. We call our project the "366 Goal". We made a commitment to each other way back in November to meet a daily mini-goal, which we would check in with through email to be held accountable.

All of us chose writing goals - journaling, working on a MS, exploring a fun writing project we've always wanted to do. The mini-goals were just that - mini. Some of us have a goal to write one word a day. Only one word! But the beauty of the mini-goal is that once you've got that one word down on paper, more words struggle to be let out and written down.

I've gone between two goals: write 20 words on my current MS, or revise/edit the same MS for five minutes. These simple goals have helped me keep momentum on a MS I've been working on for years. In fact, since last November, I finished the novel and have now edited/revised 50% of it with another critique group I have online.

Many days I struggle to edit or write, but when I remember it's only for five minutes or 20 words, I manage to complete the goal every time - except once. I have to admit that I missed one day of writing earlier this month when I was in the throes of packing a house and moving across country. I was so disappointed when I woke up and realized I'd forgotten to write!

But instead of beating myself up over breaking my longstanding writing streak, I patted myself on the back for only missing one day. After all, if it hadn't been for those 18 ladies showing up in my email everyday, reminding me that THEY had written, I never would have accomplished the writing habit that I have now.

It has, in fact, become a habit. There isn't a day that I don't think about my writing, and that's a wonderful change from where I was before when I was lucky to write "if I had time". As everyone has heard before, there isn't time. You either make it, or you don't have any.

There are a little over five months left in 2016. Make a mini-goal for yourself to take you to the end of the year. It could be a writing goal or something else you've always wanted to do. Find just one other person to help keep you accountable, and start building a habit!

For more on mini goals, check out Stephen Guise's book "Mini Habits - Smaller Habits, Bigger Results"

Me with SuZan, one of the ladies in our accountability group that I had the good fortune to meet.

NaNoWriMo 2015

Okay, I'm really going to participate in NaNoWriMo this year so that I can finally finish my book about Savannah! Not an easy feat since I will need to write at least 500 words DAILY. That may not sound like much, but when those words actually have to make sense and move a story forward, it's a bit daunting. To help my motivation, I'm saving this image I found on another writer's blog. Maybe it will help someone else too!

Courtesy of: stopprocrastinatingapp.com

Chapter 4

It's been almost two years since I worked on the book I was writing for my class. My new goal is to have the whole thing finished by the end of the year (Wow! I just came up with that! What am I thinking??). Yesterday I spent the day revising and editing the first three chapters based on comments from the instructor (from two years ago!!). Today I wrote chapter 4. Hope you enjoy it.

The next morning Savannah’s mom offered to give her a ride to school since she would have to stay home with her brother for the day of suspension. It wasn’t until Savannah walked through the school doors, the first bell ringing in her ears, that she remembered she had promised to meet Trudy early to work on homework together. Oh well, she mused. At least I won’t have to worry about keeping to myself. No way Trudy will talk to me now. She adjusted her heavy backpack higher on her shoulder and headed straight for her classroom. No time to stop at her locker since the first bell had already rung.

            Savannah walked into the classroom, head down and lost in thought when she ran right into Eileen.

            “Excuse you!” Eileen huffed, picking up the books that had fallen in the collision.

            “Oh, sorry,” stammered Savannah. “I didn’t see you.”

            “Well, obviously! Maybe you should come out of your little dream world and join the rest of us here in reality!” Eileen emphasized her last words with an elbow in Savannah’s side as she pushed past.

            Savannah’s shoulders slumped and she stared at her feet as she continued to her desk. This mistake almost ran her right into another student. This time she swerved quickly and looked up to see Trudy.

            “Hi.” Trudy smiled at her. Savannah was confused. She was certain Trudy would be mad at her for not meeting up to do homework together. But here was Trudy, smiling at her.

            “Hi.” Savannah moved past her to set her backpack next to her desk. “Sorry about this morning,” she said without looking at Trudy.

            “Oh, it’s OK,” Trudy said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Mrs. Hale was able to help me with my math since I was here early.” She paused before asking hesitantly, “Is everything OK at your house?”

            Just then the second bell rang signaling that class had begun. Savannah made a face and whispered, “I tell you later,” as she sat down.

            Savannah’s mind was far from Mrs. Hale’s math lesson that morning as she imagined Josh at home hauling rocks from one side of the yard to the other, her mother keeping stern watch. Instead of working out the problems for the assignment they had been given, she tried to work out in her mind how she was going to help her brother sneak a rat into the house for the weekend. No great ideas came to Savannah during the social studies lesson either, and she found herself wishing she hadn’t promised her brother she would help.

            After lunch outside on the blacktop, she shared her concerns with Trudy who was shooting baskets while Savannah sat on a nearby bench, arms wrapped around her legs and chin resting lightly on her knees.

            “If it were a hamster, I’d suggest you could keep it at my house,” Trudy offered. “But my mom would freak out if she knew I brought a rat home.”

            “That’s my problem exactly,” said Savannah, brows creased in thought. The hollow slapping of Trudy’s ball bouncing on the asphalt and occasional ringing vibration of it hitting the backboard and hoop made Savannah think of her dad. She and Josh had often gone to the park with him to play HORSE or Around the World. She remembered the last time they had played just before he left for Iraq. When they returned home and stowed the basketball in the shed in their backyard, she had wondered how long it would be before they would play with it together again.

            Savannah lifted her head off her knees and caught Trudy’s rebounding ball as it flew towards her. “I’ve got it!” she said.

            “I know! Great catch!” said Trudy as she jogged over to take the ball from her.

            Savannah smiled. “No, I mean I know what to do with the rat! There’s a shed in our backyard that has a bunch of old sports stuff and gardening tools. We can keep it in there! My mom hardly ever goes in there; she hates gardening and sports.” Savannah laughed for the first time she could remember since before her dad left. “It will be a perfect hiding place for the weekend! Thanks for the idea,” she said to Trudy as she tossed the ball back to her.

            Trudy caught it and smiled, looking a little confused. “Glad I could help,” she said.

            The bell marking the end of lunch break had the two girls hurrying back into the school. Both stopped at their lockers to get the books they would need for the afternoon. Savannah grabbed her science book but after a quick search realized her English book wasn’t in her locker. Then she remembered coming in to class that morning as the bell rang with no time to leave her backpack in her locker.

            Savannah headed for the classroom door and saw two-thirds of the Brat Pack – Jonetta and Shelly – standing just inside the doorway giggling. Shelly noticed Savannah coming their way and leaned over to Jonetta, hissing in her ear and pushing her back inside the classroom. Savannah immediately got a bad feeling from the scene. Once inside the classroom, she knew what was wrong. Her backpack, which she had left right next to her desk, was gone. With a growing sense of dread, she walked around the classroom, looking in corners and under tables to see if maybe it had only been moved out of the way by someone. With no sign of the backpack, she returned to her desk and plunked down into the seat with her science book. The bell rang for the start of class and Eileen hurried in the door looking out of breath.

            “Eileen, you’re late. The bell already rang,” Mrs. Hale said.

            “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hale. I was just packing something up.” Her voice didn’t carry a hint of sarcasm, but Savannah caught the emphasis on her words, as well as the pointed look Eileen threw her direction.

            “Alright, well take a seat so we can get started,” Mrs. Hale told her.

            “Yes, ma’am,” mumbled Eileen.

            Mrs. Hale turned to the board to write the objectives for the science lesson and Eileen passed Savannah on her way to her desk, elbowing her in the arm on the way by.

            Hot tears stung the back of Savannah’s eyes. She could hear the Brat Pack whisper and giggle, but she refused to look at them. Instead she looked at Trudy who was staring down the three girls, eyes narrowed and mouth set. Trudy looked at Savannah and shot her a quick smile, mouthing the words ‘ignore them’ before she turned to follow the science lesson.

            Savannah wanted nothing more than for the day to end, so when the final bell rang it was with relief that she headed for the classroom door. Trudy quickly caught up to her.

            “What happened? I saw Eileen bump you when she came in after lunch. Did she say something to you?”

            “I think she took my backpack,” said Savannah, the tears threatening to come back.

            “What? Why?” Trudy made a noise of frustration and grabbed Savannah’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go find it.”

            The girls searched the inside of the school first: cafeteria, gym, bathrooms, even the trash cans. Next they searched outside around the perimeter of the building.

            Trudy pointed, “There it is.”

            The backpack was between the wall and a garbage can that was chained in place, one strap hanging out to reveal its hiding place.

            Savannah ran over and pulled her backpack out from behind the can. The tears she had held back all afternoon instantly fell. Underneath the Army logo in black Sharpie was the word “BRAT” written in big, block letters.

            “I think she was referring to herself,” Trudy said taking the backpack from Savannah. “Here, I’ll carry it home for you. We’ll have to walk since the bus already left.”

            Savannah only nodded, wiping the tears angrily from her eyes. The two started walking home, neither of them talking.

            Finally Trudy broke the silence. “Look, Savannah, you have to stand up to her! You can’t just let her bully you like that.”

            Savannah snorted, “What am I going to do? Tell the teacher? I don’t have any proof she did it. No, I’ll just pretend it didn’t happen. I have another backpack at home. Maybe if I just ignore her she’ll leave me alone.”

            “No, Savannah! That’s not how to handle this. I’ll help you, OK? Eileen and her bratty friends have it out for me too. We’ll deal with this together.”

            Savannah looked into Trudy’s eager face. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to think that she had a friend that would stick by her. But the old nagging thought came back – “You’ll just end up moving, or she will. You always end up leaving friends.” But as much as she wanted to stick to her plan of not making friends and being invisible, she knew that right now she needed a friend more than anything.

Exodus, complete

Here's the whole Exodus story. Made a few changes in the original half. Very close to my dream, with a few enhancements.

The end was near.  I could feel it more every day.  Everyone could.  My skin felt thinner, breathing was a little more difficult, and the sky – even the air – had an unearthly orange tint.  I could see it in everyone’s eyes; fear, despair and barely tamped down hysteria.  It was as though humanity, or what was left of it, had managed to reconnect through that ancient link. We all knew everything through this link somehow, as if the coming obliteration of humankind had turned on some sensor in our brains that had previously lay dormant. Now every nerve ending could pick up the message from the universe pulsing around us like the beat of a broken conveyor belt, slapping ever slower as the machine loses speed.  It was as if the Milky Way itself were coming unwound and spinning erratically off kilter through the stars coming to rest unspooled in some forgotten corner of the universe.

            Many had already died, and those of us who were left walked aimlessly as though in a trance; butterflies with broken wings fluttering along at the whim of the wind, vainly trying to stay airborne. But even as it appeared we were going nowhere, there was a pattern to our paths; an unseen force pushing us towards the same destination. As dry leaves rattle and scrape against each other when borne on a chill fall wind, we were piling up inexorably into a forgotten corner of Earth, rustling and restless.  We were slow trails of human ants. But even as I moved forward I had the uneasy feeling that something was out of place, missing. My brain was numb to sorting out the confusion in my mind. All thought was instead focused on our destination.

            It soon became clear. Strangely, through that ancient link we had all realized it at precisely the same moment. When the massive alien craft came into view and hovered near our location, we moved as one accord, knowing that this would be the ticket off our dying planet – a Noah’s Ark of humankind. And tickets we did receive.  Officials handed them out at a gate, and I wondered offhandedly how they came about their task. Where had they turned their resume into? Who had hired them? But more importantly, how could they decide who was a deserving ticket holder?

            Like waiting for some perverse Disney ride, we queued up and clicked through the turnstile one by one, receiving tickets from scrutinizing gatekeepers. All the while the massive disc hung suspended in the air, humming and flashing. An expectant hum of human noise added to the vibrating undercurrent. As I inched closer to the turnstile entrance, I began to notice another line next to our own, this one filled with weeping, hysterical people that were being held back by the officials and the uneasiness at the back of my mind flared anew. Who were these people undeserving of a ticket? A moment of panic ensued when I wondered if I would be deserving; if the gatekeepers would even let me through the turnstile, or decide that I was in the wrong line.

            At last it was my turn. I stepped up to the official, my stomach in knots as I wondered if he would let me through or relocate me to the line of hungry eyed non-ticket holders. A quick glance at my face and he handed me a ticket, allowing me to pass. I moved quickly in case he decided to change his mind and call me back. I joined the lines of human ants, five wide, as they moved to the double wide gangplank that led to the gaping maw that was the opening of the craft. Slowly, shuffling feet inched forward. But there was no hurry now, no sense of impatience. We were the chosen ones after all; our tickets were in hand. A strange hush was over us as we prepared to board the ship; each person inside his own thoughts.

            Even as I moved forward to board the alien craft, the niggling on the edges of my consciousness continued. I strained to remember, casting about in the dark corners of my mind for the missing piece. A sound from the turnstiles below dragged my thoughts back into focus. Looking down, the missing piece I had strained to find fell with a loud and heavy clunk into my brain. There below me, struggling to fight past the officials was a girl with no ticket in her hand – my daughter. A strangled cry escaped me, and I turned back, shoving and pushing the masses of people coming toward me. There was no more fear, no more questions for me about where I was going and what my fate would be. Pushing and struggling through the people who were planning to leave this Earth I wondered if they also had loved ones they had forgotten about? Was the line with no exit those forgotten? Stumbling the last few feet back to the turnstiles, I climbed over the one that had only a few moments ago let me through to what I thought was freedom. Falling into an embrace with my daughter, I felt the universe speed up again. 

Exodus

Here's another sci-fi piece I've been working on. Yes, another one from a dream I had. Still not finished with it, but will post the second half soon.

 The end was near.  I could feel it more every day.  Everyone could.  My skin felt thinner, breathing was a little more difficult, and the sky – even the air – had an unearthly orange tint.  I could see it in everyone’s eyes; fear, despair and barely tamped down hysteria.  It was as though humanity, or what was left of it, had managed to reconnect through that ancient link. We all knew everything through this link somehow, as if the coming obliteration of humankind had turned on some sensor in our brains that had previously lay dormant. Now every nerve ending could pick up the message from the universe pulsing around us like the beat of a broken conveyor belt, slapping ever slower as the broken machine loses speed.  It was as if the Milky Way itself were slowly coming unwound and spinning erratically off kilter through the stars slowly coming to rest unspooled in some forgotten corner of the universe.

            Many had already died, and those of us who were left walked aimlessly as though in a trance; butterflies with broken wings fluttering along at the whim of the wind, vainly trying to stay airborne. But even as it appeared we were going nowhere, there was a pattern to our paths; an unseen force pushing us towards the same destination. As dry leaves rattle and scrape against each other when borne on a chill fall wind, we were piling up inexorably into a forgotten corner of Earth, rustling and restless.  We were slow trails of human ants, and even as I moved forward, I wondered at our destination.

            It soon became clear. Strangely, through that ancient link we had all realized at precisely the same moment what our destination was. When the massive alien craft came into view and hovered near our location, we moved as one accord, knowing that this would be the ticket off our dying planet – a Noah’s Ark of humankind. And tickets we did receive.  Officials handed them out at a gate, and I wondered offhandedly how they came about their task. Where had they turned their resume into? Who had hired them? But more importantly, how could they decide who was a deserving ticket holder?