Friday Feedback: First delirious sentences before the brick wall...

Hello, brick wall, my old nemesis. . . 

Friends, campers, writermen, lend me your ears,

I come to burrow in words, not to flail in the haze of them. . .

Hmmm. Yeah, no. Sorry about that. Don't mind me.

Hey, so long time no see!

But I know that for many of you, it's Nanowrimo month and you're nearly half way through...

I have been, uh, writing, if not exactly Nano'ing...

I wrote a mess of a 3,500+ word short story (adult, not YA) which was a huge accomplishment for me as I am terrified of them (been reading some Cheever and Carver and trying to unravel the mystery of what a short story is -- and is not). It was a cool exercise. The opening looks like this:

I hope to go back to it one day soon and reorganize, revise and flesh out. There were things I really liked about it.

Then, I started a new YA novel. . . the opening few paragraphs/pages were sheer writerly glory - writing with abandon, lost in the moment of a mood and image I wanted to convey . . and then I hit the brick wall. Way sooner than I had hoped. The brick wall that looks sort of like this:

WHAT AM I WRITING AND WHY DID I EVER THINK I COULD WRITE ANOTHER BOOK EVER AGAIN????

It's a wall of shrieking loud words and self-doubt and confusion and frustration that I'm all too familiar with, and yet it shakes me to my knees every time.

How about you? You been Nano'ing? How's it going? Are you happy or pulling out your hair?

At any rate, it's a bonus off-the-cuff Friday Feedback (and if you're a teacher with students who are Nano'ing, I invite them -- and you -- to post in the comments both this Friday and NEXT Friday (November 21st). I will be away both Saturdays following this post, but will be back on each Sunday (plus throughout the day Friday) to comment. 

You know THE RULES:

What works for you?

What doesn't? (and why...?)

If it's an opening, does it hook your or compel you to keep reading?

And, remember: Regardless of how much *I* post (it's my blog, you know?)  please do not post more than THREE paragraphs if long, and FIVE if short. If lots of dialogue, use your discretion. And, if you're here from a particular teacher's class, please say so! 

Meep sticker designed by David Lanham.

Oh, and one more thing (as much a reminder to me as to you...): don't waste too much time editing or making beginnings of vomit drafts pretty. More often than not, they're not really you're beginning anyway, which means editing or revising them is only wasting time and stopping you from forward momentum.

So, without further ado, here's the ridiculously rough vomited opening to a thingy I am working on that will most definitely change over time:

The girl

The girl arrived in the middle of the night, and for days no one even knew she existed here.

The house where she was brought was three doors down from ours on the cul de sac, high up on a hill, and belonged to Dr. Betsy Mikkleson. It used to belong to Dr. Mikkleson and her husband, also a doctor, but the male Dr. Mikkelson had left in a great public flourish of animosity the winter before.

The Mickkelson property was pristine, the house itself a brick colonial with white, ionic columns offsetting an ornate, mahogany front door, the upper floor bedroom windows replete with added faux balconies, not that you could tell that much from the street.

The house was set far back on the hillside and a long circular driveway led up to it. Back in the days when old Mr. Andersen lived there with his emphysemic wife, Joan, all us neighborhood kids used to go up there, or at the very least, used to ride our bikes around and around that driveway, huffing and puffing at the top before flying precariously down and around again, using the pendulum momentum to get us back up the first half of the incline. 

The Andersens were a warm and friendly couple who would invite you in for tea with honey and Social Tea Biscuits, which, of course, no kid in their right mind actually enjoyed. The house was cluttered and dark, full of chintz curtains, old shag rugs, and broken and reglued tchotchkes on every counter and shelf. I remember when old Mrs. Andersen died in the middle of the night – and I was only about ten back then – how the sirens woke us and brought us all out to our lawns, but you couldn’t see the ambulance up there at the top of their hill, only watch its glowing red lights bouncing through the tree leaves like spooky red specters in dark.

She had lived there all my life, and then she was gone. Old Mr. Andersen went soon after, and the house stood empty for a year or two (infighting among their grown children, I think) before the property was sold to the Mikkelsons. 

***
See you all in the comments!

xox gae

p.s. for those of you who are new to this blog, my first novel for young adults, THE PULL OF GRAVITY, was a PSLA Top 40, a Bank Street College Best of 2012 and a Nerdy Book Club Winner for YA, and my second novel THE SUMMER OF LETTING GO has received glowing reviews from VOYA, SLJ and Kirkus as well as The New York Times, and is a Scholastic Book Order selection for teens. It is also available in audiobook. If you like what you see here, please check out my books, and, when possible, notwithstanding the Amazon links, buy from independent booksellers.  If you carry a select number of copies of my book(s) in your classroom or school library, I will Skype visit for free, and if you use my book(s) in your bookclub of five or more members, I will also Skype for free. Please feel free to email me for more information at g.polisner@gmail.com 

Friday Feedback: Being Unsuccessful at NANO'ing Like I am Wont to Do

I blame the dog. Seriously. He's cute, but I blame him.

I'm in the middle of a YA manuscript right now called THE MEMORY OF THINGS and I was at 30K when November started. So I thought, hey, what the heck, I'll unofficially try to Nanowrimo (yes, I'm using it as a verb) the second 30K with the slew of other writers Nano'ing along. What better incentive to get the thing D-O-N-E, DONE, right?

Yeah, right.

It's November 15 and I've written another 7K in two weeks.

Repeat after me: I, Gae Polisner, am LAME.

Hmmm. Sub out the *I* for "you" when repeating.

So, here's the thing.

I blame the dog (doesn't everyone blame the dog?)

Second pass pages = going thru with a fine toothed comb.

I blame the Second Pass Pages that came in on THE SUMMER OF LETTING GO,

and a bunch of Skype visits (though those were rewarding and fun!).

I blame facebook.

Oh, dear lord, how you ruin me, facebook.

Fine, fine. In short, I blame me.

At any rate, if you are Nano'ing or even fake-trying to Nano like me, and haven't been comforted, buoyed or otherwise entertained by Chuck Wendig's posts on Nanowrimo'ing, you don't know what you are missing.

I happen to be stuck RIGHT IN THE MUDDY MIDDLE, so this one HIT THE SPOT more than you know.

I worship the Nano ground that man walks on.

So, since it's Friday, and since I've been trying to put up at least one Friday Feedback per month, especially for those Teachers Write! campers who are still plugging away and looking for a place to connect (oooh, I get to see a bunch of you NEXT WEEK at NCTE!!), I figured today was as good a Friday as any. You know, you're all welcome, TW campers or not. Just remember THE RULES. (if you don't know the rules, they're there on that link I just gave you. Please read them!)

So, without further ado, since I'm in the muddy middle, here's a bit from the middle of THE MEMORY OF THINGS. The MC is a 16-yr old boy named Kyle. It takes place in New York City (well, Brooklyn), shortly after 9/11.

Have at it. Have fun! And feel free to post your BRIEF excerpt for feedback.

xox gae

FRIDAY – 9/14

Uncle Paul calls early

            I wake to the phone ringing.

It’s bright out. Morning. I sit up and wait, but no one is answering. 

I run to the extension in the kitchen and pick it up, looking for signs of Dad. The coffee pot is cold and empty. Did he leave for work without coffee? Did I miss some new emergency?

“Hello?”I glance at the clock. It’s freaking eight-thirty. Dad must be long gone by now.

“Kyle?” 

“Yeah?” I rub my eyes. It’s Uncle Paul, which should make me worried, but just makes me sorry I answered. I know that’s wrong, but I never felt about Uncle Paul the way I do about Uncle Matty. He’s strict and humorless, and besides, he’s barely come to see Uncle Matty since he’s been here.

“Hey, kid, how you doing? Everything okay there?” He sounds concerned. I wonder why he’s calling so early, why he isn’t calling Dad at the precinct.

“Yeah, fine. Why?” My mind tries to sort out about Dad, about no signs of coffee or his breakfast, or the New York Post retrieved from outside the front door. Uncle Paul laughs, sort of. Snorts maybe. Or huffs. Maybe because I’m half asleep and not doing a good job of talking. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah?”

“Is everything okay across the river?” 

“Yeah, why? Did you want to call Dad at the precinct?”

He hesitates. “I did, Kyle. He’s not in yet.” 

My stomach drops. I turn and glance at where the monitor is usually re-situated from Dad’s room to the kitchen counter in the mornings, but it’s not there. 

“Hang on a sec.”

I walk down the hall, past Kerri’s room and the angel girl. Does Uncle Paul know that she’s still here? At Dad's bedroom, I stop. The door is shut. Not open, bed-made like it usually is. I turn the knob and push. Dad’s face-down, under blankets.

For a second, I panic. What if he’s had a heart attack? What if he’s dead in there? But after a second, the sound of his snoring drifts loud and clear. 

I’ve never seen Dad sleep past seven. Ever, in my sixteen years. He must be exhausted. He must have finally caved to it all. 

I back out quietly, shut the door, and head back down the hall.

“Uh, Uncle Paul?”

“Yeah?” 

I pause, wondering if I’ll get Dad in trouble. If I need to cover for him. I mean, the city is a mess out there. But fuck it. It’s Uncle Paul. It’s his brother. “He’s still sleeping,” I say. “I’ll wake him up. Have him call you back in five minutes.”

Uncle Paul laughs, but this time it’s not a funny laugh or a mad one. It’s a laugh of relief. He’s relieved. He was worried that something happened to Dad. I can hear it. The relief in the sound. 

“Kyle – ” 

“Yeah?”

“Don’t wake him. Really. Let him sleep. We’re all exhausted. I’m sure he’ll be up soon. Have him call me then.” 

“Oh-kay,” I say, because this is Uncle Paul. No nonsense, no horseplay Uncle Paul.

And then I know. I understand. 

            Tuesday? Those planes?

They’ve changed everything. 

And everyone.