One part of this new balance is I am starting to work on smaller goals, and then rewards. Here is how the reward and balance system is working. I start with the thing I want to do least. Currently that is reading NY Bar Prep outlines. Once I have finished a section of that, I get to write. Once I have finished writing my 1666 words, I get to check out inked voice write a review and read other peoples reviews. After I am finished with this I get to watch a TV show. I am trying to repeat this sequence at least twice a day. This has helped my get more reading, writing and critiquing done this last five days than in the last two weeks. Woot for a balanced plan.
The second thing I have noticed this week is that people critique differently. To me this is beneficial. There seems to be two main types of critiques: The line editor who look at word usage, grammar, and taste, or the big picture critique that focuses on plot, character, pacing. However, I have also found that some people are use critiquing to point out errors, which might not be errors; but are merely artistic and stylistic differences. Additionally, I have come to discover that some people believe that the rules of writing are not meant to be broken. If you are breaking them, then you are doing it wrong. Well, I have never been one for towing the line. I have always been the person that saw the line, and just had to cross it. It is just in my nature.
Additionally, I have found that when people critique, even if they say they are not looking at the genre this is not true. I have found this even with myself, that my writing styles in some ways dictates what I like and what I don't. I have also found in selections that are not my person tasted that I tend to find more problems The question is are there really more problems or is it just my own personal preferences. More than likely, it more about my preferences than real errors. But seeing this play out in my critiques, it makes me want to push myself to write in those areas.
One member and I, in particular are at odds with each other. I have read and critiqued a piece by this author, the piece is so outside my own voice range that it took me a while, and a couple times reading, it to find that I liked it. The section is a larger part of her book, and is beautifully violent, sad and broken story of life. Of what people are willing and able to do, when they feel the world is set against them. After reading the piece I did a critique which focused on the one skill I have which is laying out scenes and weaving in story. I am not sure how she took what I said. But when she critiqued one of my pieces, she focused solely on structure and line editing. I wonder is this because my selection is so out side her own voice, she could not see the potential of the piece. Or is it what she said in the feed back section: that there was nothing that makes a reader to want to turn the page. Why should any one care about a delusional girl who is receiving treatment. Part of me wants to believe that she just can not see past her one style of realism. It makes me wonder, is my writing so unclear or voice specific that it is enjoyable only to me. To Answer that question I am going to post the same piece here: if it utterly sucks, please tell me. So I can tear it a part. If any of it is salvageable.
excerpt the veil:
Chapter 1 The White Room
The drug induced haze is her bubble creating a space for
her mind to leave the white room. Even now, she is not there, she is sitting on
a bench in a park; she can taste the salt in the air and the smell of pine
trees fills her nose. Leaning into the
old wooden bench turned silver from years in the sea air, sea gulls soaring
overhead. The thin white cotton pants and tee shirt do not protect her from the
cold. Her toes curl in the dew covered grass;
as she longs to be one of those birds. The longing brings the pain, in a sudden
flash it is cutting through her dream world.
The pain rips her from the peacefulness of the lulling sea. The smell of
salt air is replaced with burning hair.
A silent scream fills the space between here and there, and once again,
she is in the white room.
Her mind and body are on fire, Amelia blinks the dream and
pain from her eyes, forcing her white world to come back into focus: white
walls, white clothes, white skin, and worse of them all, the blinding white
light. She wonders if there is any color but white in this world. Amelia looks up at the man above her; she
sees the fine lines etching his face. Amy
where were you, a moment ago? She looks up from the floor, he is standing
there, white jacket flapping about his legs like wings. Is he an angel or a
devil?
Her lips crack as she licks the taste of the sea off them,
nowhere doctor. I was just dreaming.
Amelia looks up at Dr. White, he is as white as the world
he has created for her. Amy, I thought
you had come to terms with your diagnosis.
Schizophrenia is a chronic and severe brain disorder, and these
hallucinations are merely one of the positive symptoms that you are suffering. If
you continue to hide these symptoms from me, I will be unable to provide you
with the correct course of treatment. I thought you wanted to get better.
Amelia looks up at her doctor, wondering if she will ever
get the chance to leave this white room. The world outside the hospital: that
is what seems like a delusion. Doctor White, I want to get better and go back
to my life. But I do not know how.
Of course you do not know how. That is why I am here to
help you. Now follow me, it is clear
that the anti-psychotics are not going to be enough today. The doctor spins on
his heel, the white coat flapping out around him. Amelia thinks briefly maybe
he is an angel.
Amelia pushes to her feet, stumbling a couple of steps;
her hand reaches out for support. Stepping from the padded floor of her room, a
shiver runs like electricity through her body. She knows it is caused by more
than the coldness of the white granite floor.
The halls of the hospital are a maze that her mind has begun to
memorize, but still unknown to her is what is behind all of the doors that dot
the facility. She is only allowed into
three rooms: her room, the treatment room, and the doctor’s office. She has heard screams of others, and the
rustling behind closed doors as she walks the halls. She wonders who else is
here.
Amelia pauses to stare at one of the doors. Her mind
drifts past the door, and Amelia could swear she glimpses a person beyond. Her
thought is broken as Doctors stares at her like a bug under a microscope. Amy,
what are you thinking about right now?
Drawn back into the white hall, Amelia falls into step
behind the doctor. I am wondering who else is here, and if I can talk to
them.
Amy, you cannot worry about others. You have to focus on
yourself.
Sighing, Amy responds, Yes doctor. As they turn the corner, she realizes they are
heading toward the medical suites. Doctor, do I have to do this? Every time I do these treatments, I feel like
I am dying.
The Doctor just looks at her intently. She bows her head,
and he turns, rounding the corner. Amy, I would never let you die. I am just trying to find the best course
of treatment for your condition. You knew that this was a highly experimental
program when you signed on. The treatment and test are the best way to fine-tune
your medications. Or do you want to go
back to the way you used to be?
Amelia nods in agreement, the way she
used to be, lost between her realities never knowing if the person she spoke to
was real or not: no, she did not want that. But Amelia slows her pace trying to give
herself some time. Maybe she can get out
of it, just for today. She knows better,
the treatment room is always inevitable on the days when she dreams of her
other worlds. Sighing, she resigns
herself to the treatment.
As the door swings open, she wonders
what he would do, if she ran back to her room. Amelia pushes the idea away,
knowing that punishment for such a transgression would be worse than the
treatment. As they enter the room, it is
filled with the usual people, all dressed in white. Oh, how she hates the
color. In the center of the room is her
chair. Taking her seat, the only woman in the room walks over and straps her
wrists and ankles in place, then insert the IV into her hand catheter. As the substance from the IV, hanging overhead,
hits her blood stream, the room spins, and she begins to forget what is
coming. A man, one of the other doctors,
comes and places small electrodes on her forehead; a set of censors take their
place on her chest, arms, and legs.
Dr. White silences the room. The
lights dim. Now Amy, I want you to the
go back to the bench, in the park, overlooking the ocean. Remember the smell of the pine trees, and the
taste of the salt on your tongue. Are
you there?
Amelia tries to do what the doctor
asks, but she is still in the room; its cold whiteness is all she can see. Her voice quakes as she responds to the
doctor. That world does not exist. It is just my imagination. I am still here.
Dr. White takes a calming breath. Now
Amy, you need to do what I tell you. This
is the only way to measure the depth of your delusions, and map the location of
the brain from which they originate. If
I can figure out exactly what part of the brain is active during your
hallucinatory state then I can target your treatment more precisely. Also by
volunteering to enter your delusions you can prove to yourself they are not
real, allowing you the ability to better differentiate between delusion and
reality.
Confused but wanting this over with, she
begins to let her mind wander to the bench, but she did not want to let them
into that world. She had let them into so many of her worlds, exposing them to
their probing and intrusions. It was the one place she could escape, from
them, from her mother, even from herself when need arose. No, she would take them to a different
world. As she makes up her mind, her
vision begins to blurs, like a veil pulled over her eyes.
Past the veil, there is nothing. Doctor, I am not at my beach. I cannot find
it. Then she sees the shadow of one of her best known worlds a place she has
gone since childhood. I am at the forest
again. The Cabin has to be close. The
sun is setting here, making the sky burn.
She feels the electricity course through her body, punishment for her
failure.
Amy, I said for you to take us to the
beach. We have been to the cabin in the
woods. You know it is in your imagination.
Anger tinges his voice like a razor cutting across the space between
Amelia and the Doctor. Amy, you are not
really there, are you, dear?
Amy knows better than to lie, but she
does not want to push through the veil. Considering
her own desires, she pauses for a second floating in the space between this
world and the next. The veil is in view, but that is normal. She always sees
it. But this space where she is between her worlds, she feels warm, like she
has been wrapped in a down comforter. She wonders why she always does what the
Doctor asks of her. Thinking of life
outside these white walls, and the space between her worlds, she realizes she
wants to live in that world again, and for that to happen, she must do what Dr.
White asks. She must push through. The
tips of her fingers touch the veil. Instantly they feel a flame. Without
another pause, she steps into the veil, and in that, instant she is like a
witch on a pyre engulfed in flames; death, a heartbeat away, but just before
she bursts into flame, she is in the forests.
In the medical suites, the diagnostic
equipment attached to Amelia wails its concern. As Dr. White and his staff
watch as Amy fades, her form becomes incorporeal. In a flash of light she vanishes.
As this happens the EKG and EEG go off the chart. Her heart rate is above any
acceptable limits. Dr. White calls out
to Amy, trying to maintain a connection to her, and his reality. The air in the
medical suite is filled with static electricity, like that instance before lightning
strikes. The staff shuffle their feet,
busying themselves with the task of monitoring Amy.
Again, Dr. White calls out, Amy are
you in the woods? The silence fills the
room, the time delay is palatable finally the answer comes, Amy’s response
sounds like she is talking on a string phone, rising out of the space where her
body should be. Yes, Doctor I am
here.
The staff let out a collective sigh of
relief. The connection has not been broken.
Straightening, Dr. White begins his inquisition of Amy; his voice is
tinted in anger at the lost opportunity this experiment has become.
Why couldn't Amy just do what she is
told? But all of the subjects seem to
have one trait in common, stubbornness. Unnerved by her continued refusal to do
the simplest of things he proceeded with the treatment. Making note of her
continued defiance. The third thing I have learned this week is how useful it is to critique other peoples writing, and to read the critique's of others.I look at this feed back and see if, or how I can apply it to my own writing. As I try to push my skill level from amateur to something more. I see all the other people working on their craft as well and I rejoice. I am not alone in this mad pursuit, I am one in an army of writers, and if we work together we will succeed. So here is to work, more work and still more work, that is what I am finding good writing takes. However, I love the work, it is actually like play, but that is why I have focused this year on writing.
So this is how I am doing so far sit 6436 words behind but it is better than 10K behind.
| 30-Nov | Writen | Total | |
| Red Book Expose | 52454 | 8167 | 60621 |
| The Veil | 16071 | 27107 | 43178 |
| Close Corp (edit) | 22143 | 0 | 22143 |
| Cave City (edit) | 3372 | 0 | 3372 |
| Ex Nilhio | 13015 | 0 | 13015 |
| Gutter Punk | 6373 | 0 | 6373 |
| Total | 35274 | 148702 |
